OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Shâh Noshirwân, king of Persia

Contributor unknown.
SHÂH NOSHIRWÂN, KING OF PERSIA.
In Persia, in olden time, lived a great king, Whose name was Shâh Noshirwân: ’Twas his custom, whenever he heard a good thing To say “Zeh!” and his treasurer then would fling
A purse to the fortunate man.
This king, when out hunting on one fine day; Saw an aged man planting trees: He rode up, and said, “With your hair so grey, Don’t you think you are throwing your time away? You’ll never eat food from these?”
“For three-score years I have eaten sweet food From trees that I did not sow; And would it not be base ingratitude If I took no thought of posterity’s good, And paid not the debt I owe?”
“Zeh, zeh!” said the king; and the treasurer straight To the old man a purse hath thrown. “See, see! for good works it is never too late; God hath given me fruit without needing to wait, Before all my trees are sown.”
“Zeh, zeh!” once again: ere the word was said,
Another purse flew on its way. “Till God placed the crown on your Majesty’s head, Was such a strange thing ever heard of, or read, As to reap two crops in one day!”
“Zeh, zeh!” yet again, and a third full purse To the old man’s hand falls nigh; But the king in his horse’s flank drives his spurs, Nor waits for more answer in prose or in verse,— Lest the wit of that old man, so prompt, so terse, Should drain his full treasury dry.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Shady valley

SHADY VALLEY.
The time was toward the heats of June, And all the mellow afternoon With my ripe heart was just in tune,
As I lay a-dreaming.
For yes, my heart was ripe with love;
The very airs that stirr’d the grove
Blew kisses o’er me from above, As I lay a-dreaming.
The river glided smoothly by— The blue bright bird shot silently
Between my covert and the sky
As I lay a-dreaming.
By drooping alders doubly bound,
The water slid without a sound
Until, below the rooted ground
Where I lay a-dreaming.
It smote a bank of ruddy loam,
Where, underneath, a secret dome
Of pebbles fretted it in foam
As I lay a-dreaming.
But further, where the stream was wide,
The kine were standing side by side
Cooling their knees against the tide, As I lay a-dreaming.
And still beyond, were orchards green, Red cottage roofs, and in between Bright meadows, where the scythe had been
While I lay a-dreaming.
And over all, the hollow hills, Fill’d with that purple light, which fills
Our hearts too with such regal thrills,
As we lie a-dreaming.
But my low nest was shut within To such a leafy calm, wherein My thoughts went freely out and in
As I lay a-dreaming.   The squirrel on his branch at play— The blossom falling from the may— No creatures moved but such as they, Where I lay a-dreaming.
So sweet a spot, so soft a breeze— Such beauty of enfolding trees!
Ah! what could mar my luscious ease
As I lay a-dreaming?
A country wench came by, to see
Whereas her missing kine should be;
And this is what she said to me
As I lay a-dreaming:
“Git up, ye dawdlin’ gaspin’ loon!
Ah’d liever gang mah waas to t’ toon
An’ fettle t’ sheep this efternoon
Nor lig theer a-dreamin’!”
I look’d at her in strange surprise:
I could not think in anywise
She was an angel from the skies,
Though I lay a-dreaming.   For oh, too deep was the disguise:
The hand with which she veil’d her eyes
Seem’d like a Titan’s hand in size, As I lay a-dreaming.
She was a woman though, and young— The very creature I had sung
In fancy, with a poet’s tongue,
As I lay a-dreaming.
Therefore I spake and answer’d her:
“Maiden, you do but come to stir
My soul, and make it joyfuller
To lie here a-dreaming.
“For you too, gracious as a fawn,
By ferny glade and mossy lawn
Full oft have loved, at eve or dawn
To lie thus a-dreaming.
“And all the interwoven grace
Of sound and hue that fill’d the place
Has doubtless ‘passed into your face,’
As you lay a-dreaming.
“Oh, you then, nursed in summer woods,
And lull’d by rolling waterfloods,
Will give me leave, in these high moods,
To lie here a-dreaming.”
The maiden stared, but answered not:
Yet, striding slowly from the spot,
I heard her say—I know not what— As I lay a-dreaming.
“Yon chap’s a snivellin’ tiv hissell,
An’ wat he meeans Ah canna tell;
He’s daft, Ah doot, or drunk wi’ yell
Te lig theer a-dreamin’.”
Arthur J. Munby.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/The seasons

THE SEASONS.
Spring—and her heart is singing A song full of joyous cheer; For each brightening day seems bringing The hope of her life more near.
Summer—her heart is waiting; Its dream is yet unfulfilled: But her trust knows no abating, Though the Spring’s glad song is stilled.
Autumn—her heart is burning With the fever of restless fears; And the darkened days returning Bring her no relief save tears.
Winter—her heart is broken: The struggles of Hope are o’er; But the love that was here unspoken Will be hers where hearts bleed no more.
Evelyn Forest.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Autumn even-song

AUTUMN EVEN-SONG.
The long cloud edged with streaming gray, Soars from the west; The red leaf mounts with it away, Showing the nest A blot among the branches bare: There is a cry of outcasts in the air.
Swift little breezes, darting chill, Pant down the lake; A crow files from the yellow hill, And in its wake A baffled line of labouring rooks: A purple bow the shadowless river looks.
Pale on the panes of the old hall Gleams the lone space Between the sunset and the squall; And on its face Mournfully glimmers to the last: Great oaks grow mighty minstrels in the blast.
Pale the rain-rutted roadways shine In the green light Behind the cedar and the pine: Come, thundering night! Blacken broad earth with hoards of storm: For me you valley-cottage beckons warm.
George Meredith.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/The crown of love

Inspired by the lai "The Two Lovers" by Marie de France.
THE CROWN OF LOVE.
O, might I load my arms with thee, Like that young lover of Romance, Who loved and gain’d so gloriously The fair Princess of France!
Because he dared to love so high, He, bearing her dear weight, must speed To where the mountain touch’d the sky: So the proud king decreed.
Unhalting he must bear her on,
Nor pause a space to gather breath, And on the height she would be won;— And she was won in death!
Red the far summit flames with morn, While in the plain a glistening Court Surrounds the king who practised scorn Thro’ such a mask of sport.
She leans into his arms; she lets Her lovely shape be clasp’d: he fares.
God speed him whole! The knights make bets: The ladies lift soft prayers.
O have you seen the deer at chase? O have you seen the wounded kite? So boundingly he runs the race, So wavering grows his flight.
“My lover! linger here, and slake Thy thirst, or me thou wilt not win.” “See’st thou the tumbled heavens? they break!
They beckon us up, and in.”
“Ah, hero-love! unloose thy hold: O drop me like a cursed thing.” “See’st thou the crowded swards of gold? They wave to us Rose and Ring.”
“O death-white mouth! O cast me down! Thou diest? Then with thee I die.” “See’st thou the angels with a Crown? We twain have reach’d the sky.”
George Meredith.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/The song of courtesy

THE SONG OF COURTESY.
I.
When Sir Gawain was led to his bridal bed, By Arthur’s knights in scorn God-sped:— How, think you, he felt? O the bride within Was yellow and dry as a snake’s old skin; Loathly as sin! Scarcely faceable, Quite unembraceable; With a hog’s bristle on a hag’s chin!— Gentle Gawain felt as should we, Little of Love’s soft fire knew he: But he was the Knight of Courtesy.
II.
When that evil lady he lay beside Bade him turn to welcome his bride, What, think you, he did? O, to spare her pain, And let not his loathing her loathliness vain Mirror too plain, Sadly, sighingly, Almost dyingly, Turned he and kissed her once and again. Like Sir Gawain, gentles, should we? Silent, all! But for pattern agree There’s none like the Knight of Courtesy.
III.
Sir Gawain sprang up amid laces and curls: Kisses are not wasted pearls:— What clung in his arms? O, a maiden flower, Burning with blushes the sweet bride-bower, Beauty her dower! Breathing perfumingly, “Shall I live bloomingly,” Said she, “by day, or the bridal hour?” Thereat he clasp’d her, and whisper’d he, “Thine, rare bride, the choice shall be.” Said she, “Twice blest is Courtesy!”
IV.
Of gentle Sir Gawain they had no sport, When it was morning in Arthur’s court; What, think you, they cried? “Now, life and eyes! This bride is the very Saint’s dream of a prize, Fresh from the skies! See ye not, Courtesy Is the true Alchemy, Turning to gold all it touches and tries? Like the true knight, may we Make the basest that be Beautiful ever by Courtesy!”
George Meredith.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"The Sirens"

“THE SIRENS.”
Sweet evil of the sea! fair-wingèd girls
Who dwell by Scylla’s wide insatiate maw,
Or where Charybdis foaming ever curls
His shining waters, mortal never saw
Terrors more pleasing, ne’er heard sweeter swell Of music than from out your rocky cell.
Though the wind urge the doomèd ship away,
Though favouring breezes fill her bellying sails,
Still can one sweet low voice the vessel stay,
One loving whisper calm the boisterous gales.
Ah me! for all her crew, who homeward bound Still love to linger on that silvery sound.
All unaware, with pleasure to their death
They pass, lull’d ever by that dulcet band,
Till the song changes to a fitful breath, Rustling through bones which whiten on the sand; But the next ship which sails that sunny sea Hears only the sweet Sirens’ melody.
Well have the poets fabled such a tale,
In the creative mind of olden time. Such to a younger age seems but a veil,
Fair as the fairest summer of their clime, In which they would adorn a moral truth Which, unadorn’d, must cause too bitter ruth.
For their cold creed would fain explain away
The Sirens’ music as the noise of waves,
Beating tumultuous in some rocky bay,
Or echoing faintly from some distant caves; Yet in that legendary song, I wis,
Is hid some truth of morals such as this.
Yet no—’twere better without explanation,
That each should make his Siren what he list,
For magic music is in every station
To make man listen where he should resist;
Listening, aye, listening to those loving tones, Perchance he changes into whitening bones.
J. M.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/The robber saint

THE ROBBER SAINT. A CORNISH LEGEND.
In the far West, where the Lizard
Breaks the long Atlantic swell, Low among the Cornish heather, Good St. Keverne built his cell.
Hospitable was St. Keverne: In his home the trav’ller stay’d— Brother saint, or weary stranger,
Never vainly sought his aid.
Once, St. Just, from further westward,
Passing by St. Madron’s fount,
Came across through Marazion, Near St. Michael’s holy mount.
Many days they pass’d together,
Talking much of holy deed, How the Celt should fight the Saxon,
Till his Pagan hosts recede.
Then St. Just, with gentle sadness, Bade unwillingly farewell, Brightly did the tear-drops glisten
As he left that holy cell.
Good St. Keverne, on the morrow,
Long before the sun was up, Going to take a draught of water,
Could not find his silver cup.
“Ah,” said he, that wily brother Carried off my only wealth: Who would think St. Just, the pious,
Could take anything by stealth?”
Up he got in haste, and nimbly Started off to catch the thief; Over Browzas, down he hurried, Fierce with anger—stung with grief.
There he found three stones of iron, Weighing each a quarter ton, Put them quickly in his pocket, And began again to run.
Near St. Germoe’s ancient chapel He o’ertook his crafty foe; Then commenced a fearful battle, Each saint dealing blow for blow.
Who knows how the fight had ended Had St. Keverne been unarm’d? But at sight of his huge missiles Crafty Just became alarm’d.
So, for want of ammunition, He, at length, was forced to yield; Throwing down the stolen booty, Quickly fled he from the field.
Then, rejoicing at the combat, Mighty, brave, and good St Keverne, Left the stones where still we find them, Call’d the stones of Tremenheverne.
If, perchance, a thoughtless farmer Tries to take those stones from thence, Wanting to complete some hedge-row, Or to mend some broken fence;
Useless is such toil and labour— Not a day will they remain; Put them where you will, the morrow Finds them in their place again.
S.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Mawgan of Melluach, the Cornish wrecker

MAWGAN OF MELLUACH, THE CORNISH WRECKER.
Note.—Mawgan, a well-known wrecker, occupied a hut, about a hundred years agone, at Melluach, the Vale of the Lark, four miles south of Bude. Among other crimes, it is said that he once buried the captain of a wrecked vessel, whom he found exhausted on the beach, alive. At the death of the old man, it was told that a vessel came down channel and lay-to off Melluach, in a tremendous sea. At Mawgan’s last gasp, the doom-ship went to sea suddenly against the wind, and was seen no more.
I.
’Twas a fierce night when old Mawgan died! Men shudder’d to hear the rolling tide: The wreckers fled far from the awful shore,— They had heard strange voices amid the roar!
II.
“Out with the boat there!” some one cried; “Will he never come? we shall lose the tide: His berth is trim, and his cabin stored; He’s a weary long time coming on board!”
III.
The old man struggled, and clutch’d the bed, He knew the words that the voices said; Wildly he yell’d, as his eyes grew dim, “He was dead! he was dead! when I buried him!”
The Cornish Wrecker’s Hut.
IV.
Hark yet again to the devilish roar!
“He was nimbler once with a ship on shore;
Come, come, old man! ’tis a vain delay!
We shall make the offing by break of day!”
V.
Hard was the struggle, but at the last,
With a stormy pang, old Mawgan pass’d;
And away, away! beneath their sight, Gleam’d the Red Sail at pitch of night
R. S. H.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/"Six of the one, and half-a-dozen of the other"

“SIX OF THE ONE, AND HALF-A-DOZEN OF THE OTHER.”
“Now, dearest Fred,” she softly said, “You must abandon smoking; It spoils your looks—and then your breath,— Indeed it’s most provoking. Did God decree that man should be A chimney flue regarded? Then, darling Fred, let it be said, Tobacco you’ve discarded.”
“Haw, well, my dear,” said Fred, “I fear That will not be so easy; But, like a man, I’ll try a plan, And do the best to please ye. Did God intend that woman’s mind Such wond’rous things should brew, love, As Bustles, Bloomers, Crinolines, Or Hoops-de-dooden-do, love?
“But really, if”—whif, whif, whif, whif,— “And mind you, I’m not joking,— If you abandon Crinoline, By Jove! I—I’ll give up smoking.”
J. Roy.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/The sisters

THE SISTERS.
I.
In Logan Braes, by shores of Dee, There lived three sisters fair to see:— The first had locks of raven hair, And smile to make a seraph swear! The next had eyes of bonny blue, Like chinks to let the sunlight through;— But oh, the third,—the third was such, I thrilled and throbbed beneath her touch!
II.
The first was false for golden shame, She married a miser old and lame; The second she sinned with Lord Clanrone, And now she lieth in churchyard lone; The other lives on, but better, ’tis said, For the weal of her soul if she were dead.
III.
O Kate, my hinny, how fares’t wi’ thee? Are thy children bonny and blythe to see? Ah well, good lack! no child, I ween, In this lone house has e’er been seen.
IV.
And thou, poor Marion, foolish lass, How fares’t with thee in the churchyard grass? Is this thy dwelling, so cold and dim? ’Tis Death has taken thee home with him! Ah, many a cottager’s hut, I wis, Were a happier home for thee than this.
V.
Think of it, lord! and rend thy hair; Thy crime has wrought this child’s despair Had’st thou been true to love’s dear debt, This grass—this grave were empty yet!
VI.
Of three fair sisters, two survive; Yet both, God wot, have sins to shrive: The one has bartered her peace for pelf, The other for shame has sold herself. Of all the three it were better to be The corpse beneath the Churchyard Tree!
George Eric Mackay.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Souvenirs

SOUVENIRS.
I loved a lady fair of face,
A witching girl who made me wise;
I was a city drone, but Grace Made me a poet with her eyes; ​For Grace was sweet as sweet could be— To me, at least, divinely fair: And I believe I loved her—See! This little curl of golden hair.
This curl upon her brow has gleamed Beneath the sun’s alchemic touch; But I, who stole it, little dream’d That it could ever mean so much: It summons back her lovely look, The brow alive with thoughts untold, The blushing laughter, when she shook The sunshine from her locks of gold.
We played a little pleasing game, A playful love, we knew not why: I made acrostics on her name, But came to kisses by-and-by. This sleeping Cupid, red as wine,— A quiver here, a spire beyond,— She sent me as a Valentine, And it reminds me we were fond.
And here,—a book of tender rhymes That (for a wonder) time has kept: I read it out a hundred times, And marked some portions, where we wept: A foolish volume it may be, Yet o’er it she has laughed and grieved— It says, we were so young, that we Conferred the beauty we perceived.
Well, time passed on. Within, without, My brain was hot, my face was fired; We played our pretty folly out, Till I grew bold and she grew tired; Till I grew bold and she grew cold, Forgetful what the years might bring— We quarrelled, she not loath. Behold This tiny, tarnish’d golden ring.
I bought the ring unknown to Grace, A golden ring my love to crown, And often, looking on her face, Dreamed of a cottage out of town,— A little garden, deaf to fame; Till, blind with projects small and big, Sure of its object, Love became A gross ambition for a gig!
O, common folly, short and proud! We quarrelled, parted, turning backs— The gig came never from its cloud, The cottage never felt a tax. I bade, while brow and bosom burned, A bitter truce to all my joys; She married (well, they say), and learned The knack of rearing girls and boys.
I keep the tokens I have shown, And hold them very dear, in truth,— Not for the single loss, I own, But for the general loss of youth; Love dies, but memories renew The heart whose crust is hard and cold: Romeo is young at forty-two, And Juliet can ne’er be old!
R. W. Buchanan.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Sonnet from Petrarch (The birds' sad song, the young leaves' rustling play)

Translation of Sonnet 238 (aka Poem 279) by Petrarch, written about 1351.
SONNET FROM PETRARCH.
“Se lamentar angelli o verdi fronde.”
The birds’ sad song, the young leaves’ rustling play, In the soft summer air, the hoarser sounds Of lucid waters as they rush away Between their verdant flower-enameled bounds, Where, lost in Love’s sweet phantasies, I lie; All these—the murmur of bird, leaf, and stream, Are filled with her. To my fond ear and eye Her voice, her living form, still present seem; And to my passionate sorrow she replies In pitying accents from the far-off shore— “Why dost thou shed such tears from those sad eyes? Untimely wasting! Weep for me no more.
I died to live; and when life seemed to close, The dawn of God’s eternal day arose.”
W.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Song (What can it mean?—that glance so tender)

SONG.
What can it mean?—that glance so tender, Out of the depths of two soft dark eyes; Can it be earnest of heart-surrender, Making me blest with a sweet surprise?
What can it mean?—white hands caressing Between them a hand that is scarred and brown: Is it a dream?—two soft lips pressing That hard rough hand while the tears fall down.
What can it mean?—you kneel beside me, Laying your dear head upon my breast, Giving me all that you once denied me! Is it, sweetheart, is it love confessed?
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Sketching the castle

SKETCHING THE CASTLE.
I.
Sketching the castle, there they sit, A happy group, this summer day: But I, who cannot draw one bit, Can sketch it too as well as they.
II.
Yet if you saw my castle-sketch You might begin to laugh or rail: I own, indeed, it might not fetch A price at Mr. Christie’s sale.
III.
For, look. You find no donjon-keep, No frowning arch, no stern old wall; And where’s the moat, so broad and deep? “It’s not,” you say, “the thing at all.
IV.
“You’ve tried to draw an English cot, A cottage set in flowers and trees, A fountain near a garden grot, And birds of song, and hives of bees.
V.
“And there’s a lady, young and mild, Who smiles her bees and flowers among; Before her crawls a white-limb’d child, Beside her sits a husband young.
VI.
“And, yes,—why, you audacious wretch, She’s something like Miss Laura there—” Pooh, hold your tongue, I choose to sketch My little castle—in the air.
S. B.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Student's song

STUDENT’S SONG.
Though we’re deep in Titus Livius,
Or in Plato all the day,
Trust us, we are not oblivious
Of our maidens far away.   Though we hide in far-off places,
Working ever week by week,
We remember your dear faces,
Learning Latin, grinding Greek.   Living up in dismal attics,
Or in coziest first-floors—
Reading toughest mathematics,
Classics, science—horrid bores.
Turning leaves of dictionary,
Working hard as work we can,
We remember pretty Mary,
Lively Louie, gentle Anne.
Though we’re deep in Titus Livius,
Or in Plato night and day,
Trust us, we are not oblivious
Of our maidens far away.
F. V.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/Sir Olaf

Translation of "Ritter Olaf" (1839).
SIR OLAF.
(FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE.)
I.
Nigh the church two men are standing, Each in scarlet mantle shrouded,— One the king, with brow o'erclouded, And the headsman is the other.
To the headsman speaks the monarch, "When the priests have ceased their chanting, Ceased the chant, the bridal ending, Keep, oh! keep thy good axe ready."
Bells ring out, deep swells the organ, Out of church the throng is streaming, Bridal train of festive seeming— In the midst the bride and bridegroom.
Pale as corpse, and trembling, weeping, See the king's fair child appearing,— Bold and proud, as nothing fearing, Gaily smiling, walks Sir Olaf.
And, with lips so red and smiling, To the gloomy king thus speaks he, "Father of my wife, I greet thee, Though my head must pay the forfeit.
"I must die to-day, yet let me, Only let me live till midnight, That, with feast and dance by torchlight, I may celebrate my bridal;
"Let me live till the last goblet To the last drop I have drained, Till the last wild dance is ended,— Let me, let me live till midnight."
And the king speaks to the headsman,— "To the bridegroom grant we respite, But his life must end at midnight. Keep, oh! keep, thy good axe ready."
II.
Sir Olaf sits at the festive board, Into his cup the last wine is poured, And close at his side Sits the weeping bride, And the headsman stands in the doorway.
The dancing begins, the knight, in wild haste, Hath clasped his arm round his fair wife's waist, And they dance the last dance By the torches' glance, And the headsman stands in the doorway.
Merry the viols' clear notes float by, But the flutes full softly and sadly sigh; As the dancers draw near, Each soul fills with fear, And the headsman stands in the doorway.
And as through the quaking room they glide, Sir Olaf whispers so low to his bride,— "My love for thee can never be told— The grave is so cold,"— And the headsman stands in the doorway.
III.
Sir Olaf, hark! the midnight bell, For thee shall rise no morrow; To love a king's fair child too well Bringeth but shame and sorrow.
Chant, ye monks, a prayer for the dead, The dismal block is ready, The headsman, wrapped in his mantle red, Poiseth his axe so steady.
Sir Olaf the castle-yard doth reach. Swords flash and lights are flaring, But boldly he maketh his dying speech, And his lips a smile are wearing.
"I bless the sun, and the moon, and each star Its rays o'er the fair earth flinging, The birds that in the free air afar Their joyful songs are singing.
"I bless the land, and I bless the sea, The flowers the earth entwining; I bless the violets, sweet that be As my wife's blue eyes so shining.
"Those eyes have cost my life to me, Those violet eyes, love-lighted, Yet I bless them, and the elder-tree Where our rash love was plighted."
Julia Goddard.