OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Now, and then

NOW, AND THEN.
Birds are singing on bush and tree, Singing a thousand loves and joys; Once, it was music sweet to me, Now, it seemeth only noise. Ah! life’s music fled with him!
Roses are blooming—once they were Fairest of wonders that Nature weaves; Now their perfume makes faint the air, And, to me, they are just—red leaves. Ah! life’s beauty faded with him!
Daylight dies, and the stars arise, Not as of old with hope-giving light; Then, they looked loving, like human eyes, Now, they are pitiless, cold, and bright. Ah! the brightest star has set!
Anna Hagedon.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/One way of looking at it

ONE WAY OF LOOKING AT IT.
I thought you always knew it well (Although indeed you never said so)— I thought you knew I dared not tell, And that was why you toss’d your head so:
For I have often heard you say You hate to see a fellow sighing, To hear him stammer all the day, And hint mysteriously at dying.
And if I have adored you so, I thought you knew I couldn’t help it; I could no more escape my woe Than Joseph could his empty well-pit.
It wasn’t fair of you at all: You moved so light and play’d so neatly, And set your foot upon the ball, And croquet’d me, I know, completely!
Why did you let me look such things, And whisper o’er our melting ices, If converse with you only brings This most objectionable crisis?
I wish I had not loved, for then Perhaps you would not be offended, Nor fling me back my heart again, Nor tell me thus that all is ended!
Oh yes! Sir John’s a charming catch— His stud, his balance at his banker’s, Unlike himself, are hard to match; And I have but one horse at Spanker’s!
He will not house you in some den, Served by a footman single-handed— He has such store of maids and men As your position, love, demanded:
And so, I quite approve your choice; I won’t regret my wasted wooing; I’ll think your sweet soprano voice Has warn’d me from my own undoing:
And yet I know, that when too late— Just as the spectre came to Priam— You’ll learn to rue your splendid fate, And wish yourself as free as I am.
Arthur J. Munby.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Rosamond, queen of the Lombards

ROSAMOND, QUEEN OF THE LOMBARDS.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/The Round Tower at Jhansi—June 8, 1857

In this magazine publication, one stanza of the poem has been omitted for reasons of space.
THE ROUND TOWER AT JHANSI.—June 8, 1857.
A hundred, a thousand to one; even so; Not a hope in the world remained; The swarming, howling wretches below Gained, and gained, and gained.
S—— look’d at his pale young wife:— “Is the time come?”“The time is come.” Young, strong, and so full of life; The agony struck them dumb.
“Will it hurt much?”“No, mine own: I wish I could bear the pang for both.” “I wish I could bear the pang alone: Courage, dear! I am not loth.”
Kiss and kiss: “It is not pain Thus to kiss and die. One kiss more.”“And yet one again.” “Goodbye.”“Goodbye.”
Caroline G. Rossetti.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Richer than ever

RICHER THAN EVER. A WIFE’S STORY.
A sneer upon another’s lip— A foolish, fancied slight, O’er the young summer of our lives Had cast estrangement’s blight;
And courtesy usurped the place Where wedded love should reign— Ah! mocking wealth! thy gauds were flung To such chilled hearts in vain!
There came an hour, the changeful god Revoked his gifts and fled; And Ruin, with her cruel eyes, Sat brooding in his stead.
Then, to my couch at night he came, And with a lingering kiss, “Poor girl!” he said, “I never dreamed Thy fate would change like this!
“The little fortune leaves is thine— Myself, I will not care, Where this now homeless form may stray, Or what fresh sorrows bear.
“Yet hope my aimless life had stirred, Couldst thou have loved as I”— He paused. “Perhaps ’tis better thus;” Yet ended with a sigh.
With joyful tears and broken words, My arms were round him thrown; Oh, ecstasy! what recked I else, If he was all my own!
Now, blessings on my cottage home! Where, when my babe’s at rest, I fling my work aside to go And lean upon his breast;
To press the hands that toil to make My own a happy life; And list unwearied to the voice Which calls me dear, dear wife!
Louisa Crow.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/The wild flowers of spring

THE WILD FLOWERS OF SPRING.
Spring taps at your casement, cousin, In her delicate robe of green! And full of delight at the coming May, The village children are pointing the way, Where under the hedges, and on the damp ground, And mid grassy meads, where they love to be found, Are the wild, wild flowerets seen!
Don’t you remember, my cousin, When we went, as blithely as they, Into the dell where the snowdrop grows, And the fragrant violet early blows; Or where, on the sandbank so wild and high, The starry primrose saluteth the sky, With the daffodils bold and gay?
Yes, you remember, my cousin; With a trembling lip and a sigh, You are murmuring, Times have changed, since we These spots went roaming, with some such glee As that merry urchin’s who runs to tell He has found a haunt, where the bright bluebell Is trying to rival the sky!
I, too, am sighing, my cousin; It is not the times that have changed! But I, who have made myself grey and old, Nought in life’s lottery winning but gold,— And you, who fondle a child on your lap, With your tresses hid ’neath a widow’s cap, And who look at me now estranged!
But still remember, dear cousin, That if winter flouts us awhile, And withers our hopes with its stormy skies— The snows will melt and fresh verdure arise, And the icy shadows its tempests fling Wlll hurry away, when awakening Spring Comes chasing them hence, with her smile.
And as over the past we linger, Its pleasures we yet may renew! Ay, give me your hand, my cousin; we know By life’s narrow pathway will always grow Some cheerful blossoms, which we may find If we do but seek with contented mind, And hearts that accept with grateful praise Their tiniest buds to garland our days, And keep spring-time the whole year through.
Louisa Crow.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Seasonable wooing

SEASONABLE WOOING.
When the merry Spring flung her odorous gifts To the smiling Earth below, ’Till the hawthorn scattered o’er every hedge Her flowery, fragrant snow; And the bright-eye tapestried each sunny bank, The blue-bells tinted each glade, And the plenteous cowslip beneath our feet A golden carpeting laid: Then I wove wild blossoms to crown my love, A queen on a throne of hay; But she mocked my pains with a saucy smile, And answered my love-suit nay.
But I breathed it again in the summer eve, Adown in a leafy lane, Where the frolic sunbeams might seek to pierce The deep, cool shadow in vain; Where the rustling ivy around the elm Its glossiest garland weaves, And the clinging bramble the pathway bars With trails of silvery leaves. Then the sweet wild-rose I plucked for her hair And told my love with a sigh; But she heard me again with a saucy smile, That mocked a tear in her eye.
But I wooed her once more when the hills were full Of reapers bowing the corn, And their cheerful voices who gathered it in Were ringing from night till morn; And purple and crimson were buds we snatched As the cold keen sickle drew near, To weave a wreath for the harvest feast, The last of the waning year. And I wound it round her, and bade her yield,
Yield to my flowery chain; But she broke the bond with a blush and a smile, And my vows were breathed in vain.
“I may not woo thee, dear maiden, now,” I sighed ’neath the wintry sky, “My hopes, like earth’s treasures, have withered away, And buried in coldness lie; But love’s truest mission shall still be mine, To bow to each storm and wait, With a changeless faith, that in brighter hours May win it a happier fate!” Then she yielded her waist to my circling arm,
And her crimsoning cheek to my kiss, And whispered, “I had been easier won, Had your wooing been ever as this.”
L. C.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Twilight dreams

The illustration is credited to the unidentified artist "T. White."
TWILIGHT DREAMS.
Mistress Edith, in the twilight, From her crimson-cushion’d chair In the oriel window gazeth With a pensive, listless air, Over lawn and over terrace, With the tints of sunset dyed— Over park and over meadow, All her own those acres wide.
Dame Rebecca, staid duenna, Knits and nods, and nods and knits: Master Arnold, patient limner, At his easel thoughtful sits, Altering here, and there retouching Mistress Edith’s pictured face— Heedless, in his deep abstraction, How night draweth on apace.
Now he sighs and drops the palette— Art indeed can do no more; Now farewell this sweetest labour! Master Arnold’s task is o’er. Sighs he then again so deeply, Mistress Edith looks around, Dame Rebecca knits no longer, Sunk in slumber too profound.
“All a-dreaming!” quoth the lady, “Let me break the sleepy spell; Master Arnold, be thy visions Sad or joyful, prithee tell!” “Dreamer I indeed!” he sayeth, “As in wizard’s magic glass O’er this canvas dimly floating Changeful moods have seemed to pass.
“Hazel eyes, there glancing softly, Mocking, wondering looks have worn; Rosy lips, there smiling kindly, Curl’d in angry, haughty scorn; And the head, so regal ever, With a gesture sternly cold, Seem’d to warn the humble limner He presumptuous grew and bold.
“Then the dream, a moment changing In the brightness of its smile, As I sunn’d me, honour’s promptings Were forgotten for awhile; Till a gnome his wither’d fingers Rudely o’er the canvas spread— Wealth his name—and at his presence All my hopes and wishes fled.”
Once again the toiling artist— “This wild dream shall come no more, And the portrait of my lady Wears the look it wore before. Madam, see, my work is ended—” Sinks his voice, his face grows pale, Twilight deepens into darkness While he falters through his tale.
Mistress Edith—turning towards him Cheeks where smiles and blushes blend— Whisp’reth, “I too have been dreaming, Dreaming I had won a—friend! And that, while the gold disdaining That has cast o’er lover’s eyes Mammon’s glamour, one approach’d me Who believed my heart a prize.
“One—who, worldly motives spurning, By affection’s holy light, And his own unselfish wishes, Readeth mine—and readeth right. Is this but an idle fancy? Ah! indeed I cannot tell! Waken, dame! for Master Arnold Waits to bid us both farewell.”
Dame Rebecca yawns and wakens. Seizing Mistress Edith’s hand— “Must I go?” asks Master Arnold, “I obey thy least command!” Dame Rebecca calls for tapers, But they come a moment late— One long kiss by twilight stolen Sealeth Mistress Edith’s fate.
Louisa Crow.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"A retrospect"

“A RETROSPECT.”
I.
I saw her gathering roses on a lawn,
And wondered what a gift the gods had given:
Her cheek, the hue of a fair summer dawn,
Her eyes, the calm of even.
II.
I saw her next upon a holiday,
And won her dear love on yon sunny crest:
While golden clouds grew crimson, crimson grey,
And the winds sank to rest.
III.
Later I saw, with these tear-drownèd eyes,
Or in celestial vision seemed to see,
How some bright angel from the blessed skies
Had come to wed with me.
IV.
One year—and then I saw a baby dead,
On the white pillow where she, dying, lay,
And seemed a-listening, till her little maid
Might call her soul away.
V.
I’m now alone; but sometimes in the night
Around my head familiar voices roam, And win me, with a mystical delight, To dream I am at home.
M.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Rizpah, daughter of Aiah

RIZPAH, DAUGHTER OF AIAH. (WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.)
I.
Under the changing sky,
Under the clouded moon,
The earth gapes, white and dry,
But the rain cometh soon;
Yes! down from yon low skies
Rushes, at last, the rain;
Woman forlorn, arise!
Thou hast not crouched in vain,
Rizpah, daughter of Aiah.
II.
Brave men have told the king,
How, scared away by thee,
Each ravenous fowl takes wing,
And wolves and panthers flee:
How thou hast wrestled here,
Despising ease and sleep,
Without a thought of fear,
Because thy love is deep,
Rizpah, daughter of Aiah.
III.
Therefore, in sight of all,
A proud tomb is begun,
To hold the bones of Saul,
And Jonathan, his son;
There too, in calm repose,
From insult safe, shall dwell
The stately forms of those
Whom thou hast watch’d so well,
Rizpah, daughter of Aiah.
IV.
And whilst the ages roll
Through Time’s unsounded deep,
Thy true and tender soul
A magic life shall keep;
Maidens shall muse alone,
And mothers’ hearts be stirr’d,
Where’er thy deeds are known,
Where’er thy name is heard,
Rizpah, daughter of Aiah. Francis Hastings Doyle.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Stanzas written in dejection

Translation of 宣州谢朓楼饯别校书叔云 ("A Farewell to Secretary Shuyun at the Xietiao Villa in Xuanzhou") by Li Bai.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION.
FROM THE CHINESE OF LI-TAI-PÈ.
[This poet is considered by his countrymen, according to the Marquis D’Hervey St. Denys, their greatest poet. The admiration of the Chinese for him is so great that they have erected a temple in his honour, as the “Great Doctor,’ the “Prince of Poetry,” and, what to European ears savours of bathos, “The immortal given to drink.” He was born A.D. 702. He died at the age of 61, A.D. 763.—Ed. O. a W.]
I.
The sun of yesterday which leaves me, No earthly skill can woo to stay, To-day’s pale gloom which chills and grieves me, No human arm can hold away: The birds of passage, ever flying past, In countless flocks stream down the autumn blast, I mount my tower to gaze far off, and fast Fill wine-cups from the waning jar.
II.
The mighty bards, long dead, seem rising Around me in this lonely place, I murmur through the old songs, prizing Their matchless vigour, truth, and grace— I too feel powers that will not be controlled, But cannot rival here the great of old, Till to pure skies up-soaring, I behold, More closely, each unclouded star.
III.
Vainly our swords would cleave the river: It keeps its ever-living flow; Vainly in wine-cups, mantling ever, We strive to drown the sense of woe— Man, in this life, when stormy fate grows dark, Must let her billows rock his wandering bark, Give the wild waves their will, nor pause to mark Too keenly how they foam afar.
Francis Hastings Doyle.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Practising

PRACTISING.
“Practising, practising.” Well, if you’re doing it, Why snub me with answer so tart?
Since to a friend superficially viewing it
Practice appears, Jane, a wonderful art.
“Nonsense!” Most likely, you petulant cousin,
Yet you’ve a mystery under your eyes;
Gloves on it, Jenny-bird? Bet you a dozen,
Five and three-quarters, I know, is the size.
“Tease.” No I’m not, Jane. I’m humbly requesting
Small explanations I think you might deign:
Surely, the one-sided bet I’m suggesting
Means that I’ll pay for my lesson, Miss Jane.
“Well, what’s the wonder? The music before us
Is plain enough, certainly. Out of Lurline.
The exquisite air that leads up to the chorus
Where Rudolph—Grimaces, sir! What do they mean?”
Don’t say grimaces, but hasten to solace
Fear I begin to have, Jane, for my sight:
I really can’t see, in the scoring of Wallace,
Half that you’ll do when you sing this to-night.
Where does he tell you, the moment you’re seated,
Give a half-smiling, half-terrified glance:
Where is it written, Jane—Here be repeated
I’m sure they’d be much more delighted to dance?
Where does he say that though knowing how well you’d
Accomplish the song, you must daintily moan
I have really no voice; and then, skimming the prelude,
Fling out a rich note that Alboni might own?
Where is the least kind of mark or direction Give, yet don’t give, a sweet look—you know where: Is it done at “devoted,” or done at “affection,”
Or here, where Lurline’s in a trance of despair?
When that same Party, restoring your flowers, Mumbles and mutters the compliment due, Jane, I don’t read in this music of ours,
I always sing well when I’m singing to you.
Practising, practising! Tears—overquick
Sure one may tease when one—cousinly-loves! I think Charley Churchill no end of a brick, child,
And—kiss me for bringing them—here are the gloves.
Shirley Brooks.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/The portrait

THE PORTRAIT.
Her hair was a golden brown— The photograph makes it black; You may take the portrait out, if you will; You’ll find a lock at the back.
Her eyes were a living blue, And through their splendour rare, You could gaze right into her soul, and see The passions that sported there.
Why did we part? God knows! It may be that she and I Love still with as true and tender a love As we swore in the days gone by.
To see a mighty rift In a mountain, who would think It was rent in twain by a tiny rill That had trickled in at a chink
Needs but an angry thought, Or a light word, lightly spoken, And a mountain of love may be rent in twain, And the chain of life be broken.
You may solder it up, if you will,
But the place will always show;
It’s better to do, as she and I— Far better to let it go.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/Sleep and death

The author, recorded as "E. King Harman" in the magazine’s account book, may be the Irish politician Edward King-Harman (1838-1888).
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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Something worth having

SOMETHING WORTH HAVING.
To have the sure esteem
Of those whose worth we know,
The heart will oft redeem
From many a doubtful throe;
The anxious soul declares
Some good must be in us,
Or, by such souls as theirs
We were not valued thus.
When brimming cups go round,
When friendly faces meet,
Where jest and smile abound,
Oh, if we there may meet
Such long-tried friend of years
To share with us the wine— ’Tis nectar then—and cheers
With influence divine!
Or, if oppress’d with care
Or sickness, low we lie,
What med’cine can compare
With friendship’s love-lit eye?
One fond plain English word
More cheers our suffering man
Than all the pomp absurd
Of doctor’s Latin can.
Oh, bliss how bright, how rare,
Where friend like this appears,
With smiles our joy to share,
Or share our grief with tears:
To have this, is to win
From out our earthly strife
The brightest jewel in
That crown of thorns—called life!
Samuel Lover.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/The poet's home

THE POET’S HOME.
Mark yonder cot, among the trees, Where flow’rs in native freedom twine,
Whose fragrance courts the healthy breeze
That sheds around their scent divine. Within that humble cot thou’lt find
More pow’r than dwells ’neath gilded dome;
The wealth of wit, the pow’r of mind,
For there behold a poet’s home.
While counted gold, ’neath bolt and bar, To hide from all the miser tries,
The poet’s wealth—more precious far—
In open page, uncounted lies. The pearls of thought, the mental ore,
By fancy’s fire to gold refined,
The poet makes no hidden store,
But shares his wealth with all mankind.
Then wealth, and pomp, and pow’r give way, And warriors bold with flag unfurl’d;
A king can but one nation sway—
The poet’s rule is o’er the world! Then honour be, without a blot,
Around his path where’er he roam,
But where he loves and wanders not
Be blessings!—on the poet’s home.
Samuel Lover.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Paddy O'Rafther

PADDY O’RAFTHER.
Paddy, in want of a dinner one day, Credit all gone, and no money to pay, Stole from the priest a fat pullet, they say, And went to confession just afther; “Your riv’rince,” says Paddy, “I stole this fat hen.” “What, what!” says the priest, “at your owld thricks again? Faith, you’d rather be staalin’ than sayin’ amen, Paddy O’Rafther!”
“Sure you wouldn’t be angry,” says Pat, “if you knew That the best of intintions I had in my view, For I stole it to make it a present to you, And you can absolve me afther.” “Do you think,” says the priest, “I’d partake of your theft? Of your seven small senses you must be bereft— You’re the biggest blackguard that I know, right or left, Paddy O’Rafther!”
“Then what shall I do with the pullet,” says Pat, If your riv’rince won’t take it?—By this and by that I don’t know no more than a dog nor a cat What your riv’rince would have me be afther.” “Why then,” says his rev’rence, “you sin-blinded owl, Give back to the man that you stole from, his fowl, For if you do not, ’twill be worse for your sowl, Paddy O’Rafther.”
Says Paddy, “I ask’d him to take it—’tis thrue As this minit I’m talkin’, your riv’rince, to you; But he wouldn’t resaive it—so what can I do?” Says Paddy, nigh chokin’ with laughter. “By my throth,” says the priest, “but the case is absthruse; If he won’t take his hen, why the man is a goose— ’Tis not the first time my advice was no use, Paddy O’Rafther!
“But for sake of your sowl, I would sthrongly advise To some one in want you would give your supplies, Some widow, or orphan, with tears in their eyes; And then, you may come to me, afther.” So Paddy went off to the brisk Widow Hoy, And the pullet, between them, was eaten with joy, And, says she, “’pon my word you’re the cleverest boy, Paddy O’Rafther!”
Then Paddy went back to the priest, the next day, And told him the fowl he had given away To a poor lonely widow, in want and dismay, The loss of her spouse weeping after. “Well, now,” says the priest, “I’ll absolve you, my lad, For repentantly making the best of the bad, In feeding the hungry and cheering the sad, Paddy O’Rafther!”
Samuel Lover.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 4/Shade

Contributor unknown.
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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/The shadow kiss

THE SHADOW KISS.
Two deep bay windows lit the room In which we watch’d the evening gloom; In this myself and Lucy sat, Pater and maiden aunts in that; The gaslight on the flags below And on our ceiling cast a glow.
While pater and his coterie Talk’d matters parliamentary; Or rul’d, with solemn shake of head, How prudently the young should wed, In my committee I said, “This, My dearest, is the time to kiss!”
Lured by the shadowy hour and nook, The proffer’d pledge she coyly took; When, lo! by our unlucky fate, In silhouette, our tête-a-tête, Noses and pouted lips were all Obliquely shadow’d on the wall!
So, when the footman brings in tea, Sombre are they, and scarlet we: The lamp has prematurely shown A truth we had not dared to own: Small thanks to light untimely cast,— And yet this kiss was not our last!
J. S.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/September the third

SEPTEMBER THE THIRD. (THE ANNIVERSARY OF CROMWELL’S DEATH, OF DUNBAR, AND OF WORCESTER.)
I.
Whereas the storm had died away, and thou, Brave spirit, parting too, didst render vain (So thought thy people) every strongest vow And most assurèd prayer for thy domain: If then, uprising over dim Whitehall, And far beyond the blear and sunken day, Thou didst attain some midway-hanging throne To watch the striving nations rise and fall, And see the seeds of thy most high essay Ferment and quicken in their proper day, Thyself forecasting all result full grown,
II.
Even now behold us where we battle still, And toil, and—toiling—see not yet the end, But barren wrangling, apathetic will, With friend and foe commingled, foe and friend. Strike one strong ray on our bewildered kind, Meting sure limits for true men and good, For wise men and for foolish, rich and poor: Until we wonder, simpler grown, to find State-knots resolved and Parliaments renewed: And wake to lessons of the blessed Rood Fairer, more beautiful, undreamed before.
III.
But—for wild winds, foul-striking, may drive on Some plague of storm even to our northern gate— If any, in the rack, with smile or frown, Seeking occasions, question of our state, Let none, word valiant, gage of battle scorn: Let no mock union a mock fight foreclose: But, always near, instruct us to be free, As once among the rows of Severn corn: Or when with solemn face, on scattered foes That reddened grassy Brockburn, God arose Beyond St. Abb and the grey German sea.
Horace Moule.
* ↑ Worcester.
* ↑ Dunbar. As the Royalists fled from the field, the sun rose over St. Abb’s Head: then Cromwell, falling on his knees on the ground, recited from the 68th Psalm, “Let God arise, and let his enemies be scattered.”