OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Lodbrokar-Quida

LODBROKAR-QUIDA;
OR
THE DEATH-SONG
OF
LODBROC;
now first correctly printed from various
MANUSCRIPTS,
with a free English translation.
To which are added,
the various readings; a literal Latin version; an Islando-Latino glossary; and explanatory notes.
By the
Rev. James Jonhstone A. M. Chaplain to
HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY’S
envoy extraordinary at the Court of Denmark.
Printed for the Author mdcclxxxii.
Mares. animos. in. martia. bella. versibus. exacuit.
LODBROKAR-QUIDA
SIVE
LODBROCHI EPICEDIUM.
​Οι τε ἐν τῇ ἠπείρῳ παραθαλάσσιοι, και ὅσοι νήσους εἶχον, επειδη ηρξαντο μᾶλλον περαιούσθαι ναυσὶν ἐπ' ἀλλήλους, ἐτράποντο πρὸς ληστείαν, ἡγουμένων ἀνδρων ἐν τῶν αδυνατωτάτων, κέρδεος τοῦ σφτέρου αὐτῶν ἕνεκα, καὶ τοῖς ἀσθενέσι τροφῆς. Και προσπίπτοντες πόλεσιν ἀτειχίστοις, και κατα κωμας οἰκεομέναις, ἥρπαζον. και τον πλείστον τοῦ βίου ἐντεῦθεν ἐποιεοντα, οὐκ ἔχοντός πω αἰσχυνην τούτου τοῦ ἔργου, φέροντος δέ τι και δόξης μᾶλλον
Thucydides.
TO
MORTON EDEN ESQ$^{re}$
HIS
MAJESTY’S
ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY
AT
THE COURT OF
DENMARK.
MDCCLXXXII.
* Lodbrokar-Quida (Icelandic and English)
* Variantes Lectiones
* Lodbrochi Epicedium fere ad verbum Latine redditum (Latin translation)
* Glossarium
* Notes for the English Reader
# Jersey Journal/1948/Jailed as Deserter

Arthur Oscar Freudenberg II in the The Jersey Journal on November 22, 1948.
Jailed as Deserter.
After police investigation disclosed he was an alleged deserter from the United States Army, Arthur Freudenberg, 19, of 309 Central Avenue, was removed to the city prison, pending the arrival of military authorities, who were to take him into custody. Police say they discovered Freudenberg in an inebriated condition at 94 North Street last night.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was legally published within the United States (or the United Nations Headquarters in New York subject to Section 7 of the United States Headquarters Agreement) before 1964, and copyright was not renewed.
* For Class A renewal records (books only) published between 1923 and 1963, check the Stanford University Copyright Renewal Database.
* For other renewal records of publications between 1922–1950, see the University of Pennsylvania copyright records.
* For all records since 1978, search the U.S. Copyright Office records.
Works could have had their copyright renewed between January 1st of the 27th year after publication or registration and December 31st of the 28th year. As this work's copyright was not renewed, it entered the public domain on January 1st of the 29th year.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
It is imperative that contributors ascertain that there is no evidence of a copyright renewal before using this license. Failure to do so will result in the deletion of the work as a copyright violation.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 1/An Event in Indian Park

Layout 2
AN EVENT IN INDIAN PARK
IT was during the years when the Saranacs were divided that Howling Wind, one of the young men of Indian Carry, saw and fell in love with a girl of the family on Tapper Lake. He quickly found a way to tell his liking, and the couple met often in the woods and on the shore. He made bold to row her around the quieter bays, and one moonlight evening he took her to Devil's Rock, or Devil's Pulpit, where he told her the story of the place. This was to the effect that the fiend had paddled, on timbers, by means of his tail, to that rock, and had assembled fish and game about him in large numbers by telling them that he was going to preach to them, instead of which moral procedure he pounced upon and ate all that were within his grasp.
As so often happened in Indian history, the return of these lovers was seen by a disappointed rival, who had hurried back to camp and secured the aid of half a dozen men to arrest the favored one as soon as he should land. The capture was made after a struggle, and Howling Wind was dragged to the chief's tent for sentence. That sentence was death, and with a refinement of cruelty that was rare even among the Indians, the girl was ordered to execute it. She begged and wept to no avail. An axe was put into her hands, and she was ordered to despatch the prisoner. She took the weapon; her face grew stern and the tears dried on her ​cheeks; her lover, bound to a tree, gazed at her in amazement; his rival watched, almost in glee. Slowly the girl crossed the open space to her lover. She raised the tomahawk and at a blow severed the thongs that held him, then, like a flash, she leaped upon his rival, who had sprung forward to interfere, and clove his skull with a single stroke. The lovers fled as only those can fly who ran for life. Happily for them, they met a party from the Carry coming to rescue Howling Wind from the danger to which his courtship had exposed him, and it was even said that this party entered the village and by presenting knives and arrows at the breast of the chief obtained his now superfluous consent to the union of the fugitives. The pair reached the Carry in safety and lived a long and happy life together.
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 1/The Indian Plume

Layout 2
THE INDIAN PLUME
BRIGHTEST flower that grows beside the brooks is the scarlet blossom of the Indian plume: the blood of Lenawee. Hundreds of years ago she lived happily among her brother and sister Saranacs beside Stony Creek, the Stream of the Snake, and was soon to marry the comely youth who, for the speed of his, foot, was called the Arrow. But one summer the Quick Death came on the people, and as the viewless devil stalked through the village young and old fell before him. The Arrow was the first to die. In vain the Prophet smoked the Great ​Caulmet: its smoke ascending took no shape that he could read. In vain was the white dog killed to take aloft the people's sins. But at last the Great Spirit himself came down to the mountain called the Storm Darer, splendid in lightning, awful in his thunder voice and robe of cloud. "My wrath is against you for your sins," he cried, "and naught but human blood will appease it."
In the morning the Prophet told his message, and all sat silent for a time. Then Lenawee entered the circle. "Lenawee is a blighted flower," she sobbed. "Let her blood flow for her people." And catching a knife from the Prophet's belt, she ran with it to the stream on which she and the Arrow had so often floated in their canoe. In another moment her blood had bedewed the earth. "Lay me with the Arrow," she murmured, and, smiling in their sad faces, breathed her last. The demon of the quick death shrank from the spot, and the Great Spirit smiled once more on the tribe that could produce such heroism. Lenswee's body was placed beside her lover's, and next morning, where her blood had spilt, the ground was pure, and on it grew in slender spires a new flower,—the Indian plume: the transformed blood of sacrifice. The people loved that flower in all years after. They decked their hair and dresses with it and made a feast in its honor. When parents taught their children the beauty of unselfishness they used as its emblem a stalk of Indian plume.
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 1/Birth of the Water-Lily

Layout 2
BIRTH OF THE WATER-LILY
BACK from his war against the Tahawi comes the Sun, chief of the Lower Saranacs,—back to the Lake of the Clustered Stars, afterward called, by dullards, Tupper's Lake. Tall and invincible he comes among his people, boasting of his victories, Indian fashion, and stirring the scalps that hang at his breast. "The Eagle screams," he cries. "He greets the chief, the Blazing Son. Wayotah has made the Tahawi tremble. They fly from him. Hook, hooh! He is the chief." Standing apart with wistful glance stands Oseetah, the Bird. She loves the strong young chief, but she knows that another has his promise, and she dares not hope; yet the chief loves her, and when the feasting is over he follows her footprints to the shore, where he sees her canoe turning the point of an island. He silently pursues and comes upon her as she sits waving and moaning. He tries to embrace her, but she draws apart. He asks her to sing to him; she bids him begone.
He takes a more imperious tone and orders her to listen to her chief, She moves away. He darts toward her. Turning on him a face of sorrow, she runs to the edge of a steep rock and waves him back. He hastens after. Then she springs and disappears in the deep water. The Sun plunges after her and swims with mad strength here and there. He calls. There is no answer. Slowly ​he returns to the village and tells the people what has happened. The Bird's parents are stricken and the Sun moans in his sleep. At noon a hunter comes in with strange tidings: flowers are growing on the water! The people go to their canoes and row to the Island of Elms. There, in a cove, the still water is enamelled with flowers, some as white as snow, filling the air with perfume, others strong and yellow, like the lake at sunset.
"Explain to us," they cry, turning to the old Medicine of his tribe, "for this was not so yesterday." "It is our daughter," he answered. "These flowers are the form she takes. The white is her purity, the yellow her love. You shall see that her heart will close when the sun sets, and will reopen at his coming." And the young chief went apart and bowed his head.
# Myths and Legends of Our Own Land/Volume 1/The Lost Grave of Paine

Layout 2
THE LOST GRAVE OF PAINE
FAILURE to mark the resting-places of great men and to indicate the scenes of their deeds has led to misunderstanding and confusion among those who discover a regard for history and tradition in this practical age. Robert Fulton, who made steam navigation possible, lies in an unmarked tomb in the yard of Trinity Church—the richest church in America. The stone erected to show where André was hanged was destroyed by a cheap patriot, who thought it represented a compliment to the spy. The spot where Alexander Hamilton was shot in the duel by Aaron Burr is known to few and will soon be forgotten. It was not until a century of obloquy had been heaped on the memory of Thomas Paine that his once enemies were brought to know him as a statesman of integrity, a philanthropist, and philosopher. His deistic religion, proclaimed in "The Age of Reason," is unfortunately no whit more independent than is preached in dozens of pulpits to-day. He died ripe in honors, despite his want of creed, and his mortal part was buried in New Rochelle, New York, under a large walnut-tree in a hay-field. Some years later his friends removed the body to a new grave in higher ground, and placed over it a monument that the opponents of his principles quickly hacked to pieces. Around the original grave there still remains a part of the old inclosure, and it was proposed to erect a suitable memorial on ​the spot, but the owner of the tract would neither give nor sell an inch of his land for the purpose of doing honor to the man. Some doubt has already been expressed as to whether the grave is beneath the monument or in the inclosure; and it is also asserted that Paine's ghost appears at intervals, hovering in the air between the two burial-places, or flitting back and forth from one to the other, lamenting the forgetfulness of men and wailing, "Where is my grave? I have lost my grave!"
# Education of Women (Selassie)

* information about this edition.
* related portals: Education, Oriental languages and literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Spoken May 07, 1965 in celebration of the 24th anniversary of Ethiopian independence The translation is released into the public domain.
With regards to the boys, We are satisfied with the progress made. Our hope in this circumstance is partially fulfilled; but the prospect of Our female children is frightening. It is as if they die early and leave their parents childless; for as soon as they show some promise in their education, they are, either by their parents or of their own accord, married.
The money We spend on the girls' schools seems to be wasted because they leave before receiving enough knowledge. If this state of affairs continues, how can We reach the goal of public education for which We have planned and are planning?
Today, the women of the world are not content only to live as housewives. In most countries they are striving harder and harder for higher education so that they may participate in the civic duties of their community and nation. In time of war, women like men, have served their country and some of them have fought side by side with the men against the enemy.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Notebooks of Leonardo Da Vinci
### Contents
#### Volume 1

* Preface
* Prolegomena and General Introduction to the Book on Painting
* Linear Perspective.
* Six books on Light and Shade.
* Perspective of Disappearance.
* Theory of colours.
* Perspective of Colour and Aerial Perspective.
* On the Proportions and on the Movements of the Human Figure.
* Botany for Painters and Elements of Landscape Painting.
* The Practice of Painting.
* Studies and Sketches for Pictures and Decorations.

#### Volume 2

* The notes on Sculpture.
* Architectural Designs.
* Theoretical writings on Architecture.
* Anatomy, Zoology and Physiology.
* Astronomy.
* Physical Geography.
* Topographical Notes.
* Naval Warfare. Mechanical Appliances. Music.
* Philosophical Maxims. Morals. Polemics and Speculations.
* Humorous Writings.
* Letters. Personal Records. Dated Notes.
* Miscellaneous Notes.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld/Volume 1/Ovid to his Wife

OVID TO HIS WIFE.
IMITATED FROM DIFFERENT PARTS OF HIS TRISTIA.
# Ovid to his Wife

* "Ovid to his Wife", in Poems (1773)
* "Ovid to his Wife", in The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld (1825)
# The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld/Volume 1/To a Lady, with some painted flowers

TO A LADY.
WITH SOME PAINTED FLOWERS.
# To a Lady, with some painted flowers

* "To a Lady, with painted Flowers", in Poems (1773)
* "To a Lady, with some painted flowers", in The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld (1825)
# Poems (Barbauld)/To a Lady, with painted Flowers

To a LADY,
With some painted Flowers.
———————— tibi lilia plenis
Ecce ferunt nymphæ calathis.
Virgil.
FLOWERS to the fair: To you these flowers I bring,
And strive to greet you with an earlier spring.
Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like you;
Emblems of innocence, and beauty too.
With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair,
And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear. ​Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew,
In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew.
To loftier forms are rougher tasks assign'd;
The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind,
The tougher yew repels invading foes,
And the tall pine for future navies grows;
But this soft family, to cares unknown,
Were born for pleasure and delight alone.
Gay without toil, and lovely without art,
They spring to cheer the sense, and glad the heart.
Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these;
Your best, your sweetest empire is—to please.
# The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld/Volume 1/Ode to Spring

ODE TO SPRING.
Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
Hoar Winter's blooming child; delightful Spring!
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crowned;
From the green islands of eternal youth,—
Crowned with fresh blooms and ever springing shade,—
Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds,—
And through the stormy deep
Breathe thine own tender calm. ​ Thee, best beloved ! the virgin train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,
With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favoured youth
That prompts their whispered sigh.
Unlock thy copious stores,—those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds;
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem,
And feed the flowering osier's early shoots;
And call those winds which through the whispering boughs
With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers. ​ Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale;
And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.
O nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun
With bashful forehead through the cool moist air
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses wooes
The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade
Protects thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.
Sweet is thy reign, but short:—The red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flowerets all,
Remorseless shall destroy. ​ Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell:
For O, not all that Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
Can aught for thee atone,
Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.
# Ode to Spring

* "Ode to Spring", in Poems (1773)
* "Ode to Spring", in The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld (1825)
# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 2/Number 6/A Last Look

THE LAST LOOK.
Naushon, September 22d, 1858.
Behold—not him we knew! This was the prison which his soul looked through, Tender, and brave, and true.
His voice no more is heard; And his dead name—that dear familiar word— Lies on our lips unstirred.
He spake with poet's tongue; Living, for him the minstrel's lyre was strung: He shall not die unsung!
Grief tried his love, and pain; And the long bondage of his martyr-chain Vexed his sweet soul,—in vain!
It felt life's surges break, As, girt with stormy seas, his island lake, Smiling while tempests wake.
How can we sorrow more? Grieve not for him whose heart had gone before To that untrodden shore!
Lo, through its leafy screen, A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green, Untrodden, half unseen!
Here let his body rest, Where the calm shadows that his soul loved best May slide above his breast.
Smooth his uncurtained bed; And if some natural tears are softly shed, It is not for the dead.
Fold the green turf aright For the long hours before the morning's light, And say the last Good Night!
And plant a clear white stone Close by those mounds which hold his loved, his own,— Lonely, but not alone.
Here let him sleeping lie, Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber in the sky, And Death himself shall die!
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Barbauld)/Ode to Spring

ODE to SPRING.
Hope waits upon the flowery prime.
Waller.
SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
Hoar Winter's blooming child; delightful Spring!
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crown'd;
From the green islands of eternal youth,
(Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever springing shade,)
Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice
​More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding winds,
And thro' the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.
Thee, best belov'd! the virgin train await
With songs and festial rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,
With untir'd feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favour'd youth
That prompts their whisper'd sigh.
Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem,
​And feed the flowering osier's early shoots;
And call those winds which thro' the whispering boughs
With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.
Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale;
And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.
O nymph approach! while yet the temperate sun
With bashful forehead, thro' the cool moist air
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses wooes
The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade
Protects thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.
​Sweet is thy reign, but short; The red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.
Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewel;
For O, not all that Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
Can aught for thee atone
Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.
# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 2/Number 6/Nature and the Philosopher

Featured in Vol 2., No.6 of The Atlantic Monthly.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Nature and the Philosopher.
What dost thou here, pale chemist, with thy brow Knotted with pains of thought, nigh hump-backed o'er Thy alembics and thy stills? These garden-flowers, Whose perfumes spice the balmy summer-air, Teach us as well as thee. Thou dost condense Healthy aromas into poison-drops, Narcotic drugs of dangerous strength and power,— And wines of paradise to thee become Intoxicating essences of hell. Cold crystallizer of the warm heaven's gold! Thou rigorous analyst! thou subtile brain! Gathering thought's sunshine to a focus heat That blinds and burns and maddens! What, my friend! Are we, then, salamanders? Do we live A charmèd life? Do gases feed like air? Pray you, pack up your crucibles and go! Your statements are too awfully abstract; Your logic strikes too near our warm tap-roots: We shall breathe freer in our natural air Of common sense. What are your gallipots And Latin labels to this fresh bouquet?— Friend, 'tis a pure June morning. Ask the bees, The butterflies, the birds, the little girls. We are after flowers. You are after—what? Aconite, hellebore, pulsatilla, rheum. Take them and go! and take your burning lens! We dare not bask in the sun's genial beams Drawn to that spear-like point. Truth comes and goes, Life-giving in diffusion. Nature flows, extends, And veils us with herself,—herself God's veil. But you persist in opening your bladders, And the three gases that compose the air You bid us take a breath of, one by one. For Mother Nature you should have respect: She does not like these teasings and these jokes. Philosopher you seem; you'd state all fair; You would go deep and broad. You're right; but then Forget not there's an outer to your inner,— A whole that binds your parts,—a truth for man As well as chemist,—and your lecture-room, With magic vials and quaint essences And odors strange, may teach your students less Than this June morning, with the sun and flowers.