OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 4/The dirge of Adonis

Translation of part of a poem by Bion of Smyrna (1st century BCE).
THE DIRGE OF ADONIS.
(FROM THE GREEK OF BION.)
Ai! ai! wail for Adonis!—the young Loves wail for him, ai! ai! Hurt on the hill lies Adonis the beautiful; torn with the boar’s tusk, Torn on the ivory thigh with the ivory tusk, his low gasping
Anguishes Cypris’ soul:—the dark blood trickles in rivers Down from his snowy side,—his eyes are dreamily dimming Under their lids; and the rose leaves his lip, and the kisses upon it Fade, and wax fainter, and faintest, and die, before Cypris can snatch them; Dear to the Goddess his kiss, though it be not the kiss of the living; Dear—but Adonis wists none of the mouth that kissed him a dying.
Ai! ai! wail for Adonis!—ai! ai! say the Loves for Adonis. Cruel! ah, cruel the wound on the thigh of the hunter Adonis, Yet in her innermost heart a deeper wears Queen Cytheræa. Round the fair dead boy his hounds go, dismally howling; Bound him the hill-spirits weep; but chiefest of all Aphrodite, Bitterly bitterly wailing, through all the long hollows laments him, Calling him Husband and Love—her Boy—her Syrian Hunter. Meantime dead in his gore lieth he—from groin unto shoulder Bloody; from breast to thigh; the fair young flank of Adonis, Heretofore white as the snow, dull now, and dabbled with purple.
Ai! ai! sad Cytheræa—the Loves all answer with ai! ai! All the cliffs echo it, all the oaks rustle it, Ai! for Adonis. Even the river-waves ripple the sorrows of sad Aphrodite,— Even the springs on the hills have a tear for the hunter Adonis; Yea, and the rose-leaves are redder for grief; for the grief Cytheræa Tells in the hollow dells, and utters to townland and woodland.
Ai! ai! Lady of Cyprus, “Lo! dead is my darling Adonis!” Echo answers thee back,—“Oh! dead is thy darling Adonis.” Who, good sooth, but would say, Ai! ai! for her passionate story? When that she saw and knew the wound of Adonis,—the death-wound— Saw the blood come red from the gash, and the white thigh a-waning, Wide outraught she her arms, and cried, “Ah! stay, my Adonis! Stay for me, ill-starred love!—stay! stay! till I take thee the last time, Hold thee and fold thee, and lips meet lips, and mingle together. Rouse thee—a little, Adonis! kiss back for the last time, beloved! Kiss me—kiss me—only so long as the life of a kiss is! So I may suck from thy soul to my mouth, to my innermost heart-beat, All the breath of thy life, and take the last of its love-spell Unto the uttermost drop—one kiss! I will tenderly keep it
As I did thee, my Adonis, sith thou dost leave me, Adonis! Utterly hapless my fate, and utterly hopeless my grief is, Weeping my love who is dead to me; hating the Fate that hath slain him. Fled is my joy, like a dream; thou art dead, thrice lovely and longed for! Queen Cytheræa is widowed—the Loves in my bowers are idle— Gone my charmed girdle with thee; why, rash one, went’st thou a-hunting?— Mad wert thou, being so fair, to match thee with beasts of the forest.”
Edwin Arnold.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/The fairies

Translation of "Die Nixen" (1844) by Heinrich Heine
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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Dark Gordon's bride

DARK GORDON’S BRIDE.
Young Helen has heard the fatal order, Her English lover must banish’d be, For Gordon, Chief on the Scottish border, Comes hither to bend the wooer’s knee.
She wildly vows to the heavens above her She’ll wed young Nevill, whate’er betide; But her father has banish’d her landless lover, And the haughty chieftain claims his bride.
In after days they have met: far better That parted lovers should meet no more, When one is bound by that golden fetter, With the love still warm at each true heart’s core.
So sadly he touch’d her lily finger, Weeping she look’d on her ring of gold: Ah, fatal thus by his side to linger! Fatal to sigh for the days of old!
“I saw thee kneeling before the altar, My haughty rival was by thy side, But I could not hear thy dear voice falter When vowing to be his faithful bride!”
“What, Nevill! can’st thou be cruel-hearted? A father’s blessing I could not win, Unless we two for aye were parted,— But, O, I have wept for that deadly sin!
“Vowing to honour, I scorned and hated, Dreaming on all I had loved and lost, But, ah! more bitter, more darkly fated, That ever again our paths have cross’d!”
She felt the clasp of his hand so tender, One kiss he press’d on her cheek so fair,— Hark to that curse! May heaven defend her! Dark Gordon is standing before the pair!
Proudly he lifted his Scottish bonnet, O, but his smile was dark to see: “What ho! Sir Nevill, my life upon it, Thou comest to win my bride from me!”
Now foot to foot, as the sun was sinking, Both lover and husband frowning stood, The fiery chieftain’s blade is drinking The brave young Nevill’s knightly blood.
She tore the ring from her lily finger, With, “Nevill, beloved, I come to thee! In the Gordon’s halls no more I linger If this weak hand can set me free!”
She pluck’d the dirk from her bleeding lover, She buried it deep in her breast so white,— With, “Nevill, beloved, our woes are over!— To the Gordon’s thrall a glad good-night!”
The chief look’d down on the hapless lovers;— O, but his frown was dark to see: “I would give the best of my lands, proud Nevill, To hold the heart thou hast lured from me!”
He knelt him down as her life was ebbing, On the trampled heather he bent the knee; “I would pluck the heart from my breast, false Ellen, For one soft smile of love from thee!”
B. S. Montgomery
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/The Cumaean Sibyl

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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Footsteps of day

FOOTSTEPS OF DAY.
I. I saw the maiden morn go forth, and her steps were soft and still, To load her golden pitcher at the sun~fount on the hill; And as she bow’d her meekly down, the bridegroom of the day Stole by, and with his fiery breath kiss’d Night’s dew-tears away.
II.
I saw the maiden yet again, but her looks were proud and high, And scarce earth’s bossy shield could bear the fire-darts of the sky; And the bridegroom lay beside her, his giant limbs outspread, Far in their noontide slumber, on his azure-banner’d bed.
III.
I saw the maiden yet again, but her feet were hurrying on, As ’twere some hooded pilgrim, ere yet his journey's done; Quench’d was the sunlight of her eye, and the dews hung on her breast, While evening flung her purple scarf thwart the shadow’d west.
IV.
I saw the maiden once again, and as she pass’d in flight, The moon with many a sister star came dancing into sight; And sadly soft on spirit wings, as the vision roll’d away, Fell down the night’s dark curtain on the chambers of the day!
Alsager Hay Hill.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Mary

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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/Love v. Beauty

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# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 11/"Mrs. Smith"

“MRS. SMITH.”
I.
Last year I trod these fields with Di, And that’s the simple reason why They now look arid: Then Di was fair and single—how Unfair it seems on me, for now Di’s fair and married!
II.
In bliss we roved, I scorn’d the song Which says that tho’ young Love is strong, The Fates are stronger: Then breezes blew a boon to men— Then buttercups were bright—and then This grass was longer.
III.
That day I saw, and much esteem’d Di’s ankles—which the clover seem’d Inclined to smother: It twitch’d—and soon untied (for fun) The ribbons of her shoes; first one, And then the other.
IV.
’Tis said that virgins augur some Misfortune, if their shoestrings come To grief on Friday: And so did Di—and so her pride Decreed that shoestrings so untied Are “so untidy!”
V.
Of course I knelt, with fingers deft I tied the right, and then the left; Says Di,—“This stubble Is very stupid, as I live, I’m shocked, I’m quite ashamed to give You so much trouble.”
VI.
For answer I was fain to sink To what most swains would say and think Were Beauty present; “Don’t mention such a simple act. A trouble? not the least. In fact It’s rather pleasant.”
VII.
I trust that love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he’s A graceless rover; She’s happy now—as Mrs. Smith,— But less polite when walking with Her chosen lover.
VIII.
Farewell! And tho’ no moral clings To Di’s soft eyes and sandal strings, We’ve had our quarrels; I think that Smith is thought an ass, But know that when they walk in grass She wears balmorals.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Musa

The identity of the pseudonymous contributor is unknown.
MUSA.
Away with you, baby, away to the garden, And leave ugly Latin to Algernon, do: He must learn the lesson, although it’s a hard one, But, darling, there’s plenty of time before you.
Oh, if you but knew, dear, you’d run like the kitten, And scamper away from a future that waits:— If you knew the dry nonsense the big folks have written On purpose to pester the little folks’ pates.
We want all poor Algernon’s deepest attention, You see his sad case by the way that he frowns; He’s fighting a thing that they call a declension— A sort of a regiment of soldiers called nouns.
He’ll beat them, you know, for he’s brave and he’s willing; And going to work at them, hammer and tongs, And mamma knows who’ll give him a splendid new shilling As soon as he’s perfect to—here, see,—“By Songs.”
So don’t interrupt him, my darling, with chatter, He stops in his lesson to look up and laugh: His fragile conception of datives you scatter, And cut his poor ablative plural in half.
What, blue eyes wide open at hearing such tidings, At being accused in such very long words, And looking as wistful as if they were chidings? No, darling, run off to the flowers and the birds.
Eh? you want a lesson? Well! count all those roses, For each you leave out you must pay me a kiss: And Al shall be free, too, the moment he knows his Musæ, musarum, mu—what, Al?—musis.
So off with you, baby, and O! be contented That you’ve got no lesson to cloud that white brow, Some day you’ll wish Latin had not been invented: Perhaps, in her heart, mamma wishes so now.
E. M. B.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/"Parvuli"

“PARVULI.”
I.
Streameth the sunset through the pane, Glitter the drops of summer-rain, That, soothing, fall in sparkling shower Upon the couching Passion-flower.
II.
And round the sill the roses peep, Their heavy petals ripe for sleep; And through the half-drawn blind I see The white clematis spy at me.
III.
As pensive, but not sad, I muse Upon—a tiny pair of shoes! A tiny white-laced frock. Ah! well, I love the pretty “bagatelle!”
IV.
A cradle-couch beside my knee, A tiny home of mystery; The little fingers in their clasp The coverlid unconscious grasp.
V.
As yet unwaked, the soul within Her Chrysalis lies slumbering. The first-blush of that opening rose— Who dreams what in the casket grows?
VI.
A solemn trust!—and yet how dear! Ah! but for children blooming here, This earth a joyless earth would be, And life itself a vacancy!
VII.
’Tis little fingers mould us all, ’Tis little voices heavenward call, ’Tis little hearts that Heaven prepare, And little angels lead us there!
Astley H. Baldwin.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Nach zehn Jahren (After ten years)

Translation of an 1840 poem by Emanuel Geibel.
NACH ZEHN JAHREN (AFTER TEN YEARS.) FROM THE GERMAN OF EMMANUEL GEIBEL.
I wandered long abroad, and thence returned, Came to my sister’s house; I heard therein Clear-ringing jubilee of children’s voices— But all unknown. I looked, and in the chamber, Where fell through shades of leaves the gold of even, Right glad of heart I saw—in number seven— The little ones at play. Their fair heads tumbled In the rich stream of light, with buxom health Bloomed the round cheeks like rose. When I went forth To roam through the wide world, not one was born: I scarce was master of their several names. So, silent and in wonder, with great eyes They stared at me; the play fell sudden mute; And then the eldest, drawing near me shy, Asked with the mother’s very tone, “Who are you?” And then came in my sister. In her arms I threw myself, and with a mother’s pleasure She showed me all that sevenfold household treasure Which had increased so sweetly; to the children She showed the uncle dear come home again. Now all was joy and shouting; quick resolved, The bolder boys came climbing up to kiss me, The girls bent round their heads, and even the smallest, Which shrunk at first in awe of my great beard, Put out its little hands to feel for me. Oh! that was rare delight, so interlaced And so festoon’d to be with fresh young life, Which clustered on me like a swarm of bees On a new hive, expecting tales of wonder With questions thousand-fold. Yet on my heart Smote cold one breath of sadness, for these kisses, These questionings, which took me by close storm, Spoke with an inward echo. “Steps so many Hast thou gone forward on the way of death. In these each day more quickly ripeneth The novel generation which shall walk Over thy grave, and happy be and weep.” And so I laid my hands as though in blessing Upon those heads, and spake in thought the words: “Welcome, most gentle monitors of death; Welcome indeed, and thanks, that ye convey So tenderly disguised your earnest warning. But ye in joy grow up to prime of life, That when I am no more, ye and your brothers May perfect where fell short my age and I.”
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Pan vinctus—Pan victor

PAN VINCTUS—PAN VICTOR.
I.
Pan sate blowing his pipe of reeds, Where the ferns branched over him, And the sun’s great orb of burning gold Was hid by an oak’s huge limb: He piped to the Fauns and the Nymphs unseen, And the Dryads hiding the boughs between, In that fir wood mossy and dim.
II.
He sate and played on his magic pipe Under the fir-tree’s odorous cones, The nightingales with envy heard The wealth of those deep, rich tones, Fluting, gurgling, trilling, thrilling, All the woods with music filling, Cheering the gods on their thrones.
III.
The sunshine played round his laughing face, The shadows crept to his feet, The birds came fluttering round the boughs To hear that song so sweet, Flowing, rippling, fluttering, rising, Or with a gladdening joy surprising, As of a cymbal beat.
IV.
The mole crept up to listen and mark, The squirrel stole down to hear, For joy the very fish in the stream Were leaping far and near, As the pipe was breathing softly, lowly, Now soaring swift, now sinking slowly, With a mirth that laughed at fear.
V.
Two hunters, tracking a wounded stag, Came peeping through the trees, With pursed-up mouths and hands to their ears, To catch and question the breeze: They heard the pipe, like a wild bird singing, Pour out its pure and silvery ringing, As they stealthily couched on their knees.
VI.
They leaped out fierce on the heedless Pan, With bow-strings bound his hands; They led him back to the little town, Followed by boors in bands. Loosing him then, they set him playing, And the notes went soaring, fluttering, swaying, Over the stubble lands.
VII.
Then the fishermen threw down their spangled nets, And the vineyardmen their knives, And slaves came running to hear the song, With the youths, and children, and wives, As the notes went gushing and bubbling forth, With echoes that answered from south to north, As thick as bees from their hives.
VIII.
“Brain him!” cried out a butcher’s slave; While a priest whispered “Sacrifice;” And a murderous thirst for the Satyr’s blood Reddened the fishermen’s eyes. But still the music went rippling on, The glad notes chasing the glad notes gone, Like runners seeking a prize.
IX.
Then Pan blew a longer, wilder note, And the fir woods stirred and shook, Then there came a rush of hairy hoofs Down the banks and over the brook. And still the pipe went murmuring, As the stream bursts forth from its mountain spring: There were Satyrs in every nook!
X.
And on with a lusty shout they came, Clashing cymbals with might and main, Waving sheep-crooks in homage rude, Dancing welcome over the plain; And still their Monarch sate still and played, By neither priest nor slave dismayed, Nor by their threatening train.
XI.
Then Pan, in his anger, changed those men To aspens, and such poor shivering trees, And ever since they have stood by that town Trembling to every fitful breeze, As if that pipe was murmuring still, Sending its magic o’er plain and hill, O’er river, rocks, and leas.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/The palimpsest

The illustration is by Clara Lane; the decoration at the bottom is by W. Harry Rogers.
THE PALIMPSEST.
Love turn’d quite studious, grave, one day, And left his play. He folded close each azure wing, And ceased to sing: Casting from groves reverted looks, Took to his books.
He chose a volume from his store, And ’gan to pore Upon a thickly-cover’d page, Which youth or age Had writ, and cross’d and so recross'd, Meaning seem’d lost.
Yet Love still gazed, all open-eyed, And almost sigh’d. But tenderness was soon beguiled, And so he smiled, As vagrant Memory, hovering near, Whisper’d his ear.
“This manuscript,” cried Love at last, “Contains my past: The tale of passion’s following waves, Which found their graves, Leaving a wrinkle on the shore, And nothing more.
“First on the roll Aglae’s name,-—— My virgin ﬂame! O, how I loved thee! Offering ﬂowers At matin hours, When birds fill’d all the sky with mirth, And joy the earth;
“And should have loved for aye, I ween, Had it not been That Dora’s eyes, so nun-like, sweet, My glance did meet, And drew me, at each vesper bell, To her green cell.
“I could have knelt for ever there, But Sibyl fair Ross, like a conquering star, and then (We are but men) Led me beside her chariot wheel (Dear! what we feel!)
“Over her name I just can trace Thine, sweetest Grace. Thine was the advent of the day: The rest were play. Ah, why should passion’s perfect noon Sink all so soon!
“Next there comes Zoe; then Lucrece (I had no peace!) And here’s a name I can‘t make out,— Much loved, no doubt; And here’s one I have clean forgot, Or, ’tis a blot.
“Then Clarice, large-eyed like a fawn” (Love ’gan to yawn), “And thy full charms, dear Amoret, I ne’er forget; Nor Lettice, frank and debonnaire, I do declare.”
Love kept deciphering his past Till sleep at last Drowsed him, but show’d him in his dreams
Beauties in streams, Whose lips still held the kiss he gave When he was slave;
And ears that thrill’d to whisper’d praise; And cheeks his gaze Had tinged so ruddy; all slid on, And quick were gone, As snowﬂakes that the spring earth pelt Gleam bright and melt.
Murmur‘d the lips of that quaint boy,— “I scatter joy. I’m not inconstant, save in name; My sacred ﬂame Burns ever. Circumstance doth move—— Deathless is Love!
BERNI.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/The parting of Ulysses: An Homeric reminiscence

See also the drawing by Millais on the same subject, later in this volume of the magazine.
THE PARTING OF ULYSSES; AN HOMERIC REMINISCENCE.
I dare not live, thy loving thrall;
Dread queen, I quit thy wondrous hall;
Soft dreamy days, time’s perfumed fall,
Farewell, for aye farewell!
Yon trembling star, that gems the west,
Shakes o’er the land where I must rest;
The great gods beckon, their behest
Is “onward e’en through hell!” Stay me not; raise, dread queen, thine eyes;
Lo! crimson floods eve’s amber skies!
Pearl-dropped, thy soft-fringed eye-lash lies
In shade upon my face.
Call me not cruel! curse my fate,
’Tis that which leaves thee desolate;
The gods are stern; the galleys wait,
Good rowers, take your place!
Ah, loose thy clinging arms! their sheath
Rusts the bold heart—and yet, thy breath
Ambrosial soothes my neck—oh, death!
Dost thou not spare too long?
Is life a boon, if I must part
From love like Circe’s? Faithless heart,
Better death’s pang than live’s long smart!
True wife I do thee wrong!
Yield me my mates, my frolic crew;
The palm-leaves cloud with glistening dew;
’Tis late! Bright-hair’d one, ah! too few
The working hours of life!
Dear Ithaca, my rocky home,
Remembered more, the more I roam,
I hold thee e’en through leagues of foam,
Lov’d isle, sweet son, true wife!
List, glittering Circe! wedded love
Burns stronger than yon orbs which move
To greet their crescent queen above,
Fair stars, that blind the day!
By magic wiles made once thine own,
Uncharm’d, my weakness stands like stone;
The gods draw back their lingering loan,
Farewell! my crew give way!
W.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/A pouring wet day

Contributor unknown.
A POURING WET DAY. JUNE 17TH, 1860.
Rain! endless rain! methinks the weeping clouds Should long ere this have deepest grief assuaged With their fast-falling tears. Quick-footed Winds! Drive these o’er-gloomy mourners far away, So pitilessly selfish in their woe. Poor shiv’ring Earth! when will these spiteful ones Hear her sad sighs, and cease to interpose Between her and her love—the god of day— Ready to woo her with his brightest smiles, But by these marplots thwarted in his wish? Say, ill-used orb, who, in most gen’rous mood, Hast often given these traitor clouds attire Of roseate hue, superbly fringed with gold, Canst thou fresh honours on the rebels fling? Wilt thou again recline thy weary head, In summer eve, on their ungrateful breasts, And fondly kiss them with thy ruddy lips? And ye, sweet, blue-eyed, even-temper’d skies, That look so happy all the sunlit hours, And in the night wear such a tranquil face, When moon and stars hang up their shining lamps, When shall we see you? Peevish clouds, begone!
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Sad words

SAD WORDS.
The little threads break one by one
That bound my heart to thine;
Love’s, like the silkworm’s, web is spun, —
As perilously fine.
It snaps beneath an angry word,
'Neath an unloving look;
Frowns are more trenchant than the sword,
Or Autumn's reaping-hook.
The maiden in the ceaseless mill
Watching the parting weft,
Stands ready to repair the ill
With fingers fast and deft.
But no fourth sister waits beside
Those fatal hands which sever
Life’s clue, which like Love’s thread untied,
Is join’d again, ah, never!
Berki.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Tamise ripe

70
TAMISE RIPE.
“——A praty town by Tamise ripe.”
 Leland.
 I. Of “Tamise ripe” old Leland tells;
I read, and many a thought ups wells
Of Nature in her gentlest dress,
Of peaceful homes of happiness,
Deep-meadow’d farms, sheep-sprinkled downs,
Fair bridges with their “praty towns,”
 By Tamise ripe.
 II.
Stirr’d by the pulse of many oars
That glide between the summer shores,
I love the waters fresh and clear,
And all the changes of the year,
Down to late autumn’s ruddy woods, —
The volume of the winter floods,
 By Tamise bright.
III.
The waving tresses of the weeds,
The water’s ripple in the reeds,
The plunging “lasher,” cold and bright,
Making sweet music to the night,
Old spires, and many a lordly grove
All these there are, and more to love,
 On Tamise ripe.
IV.
Fair Oxford with her crown of towers,
Fair Eton in her happy bowers,
The “reach“ by Henley broadly spread,
High Windsor, with her royal dead,
And Richmond’s lawns, and Hampton’s glades; —
What shore has memories and shades
 Like Tamise ripe?
V.
Not vine-crown’ d Rhine, nor Danube’s flood,
Nor sad Ticino, red with blood;
Not ice-born Rhone, or laughing Seine,
Nor all the golden streams of Spain: —
Far dearer to our English eyes,
And bound with English destinies,
 Is Tamise ripe.
VI. High up on Danesﬁeld’s guarded post Great Alfred turn’d the heathen host;— Below, the vaults of Hurley sent A tyrant into banishment; And still more sacred was the deed Done on the isle by Runnymule,  On Tamise ripe.
VII. And down, where commerce stains the tide, Lies London in her dusky pride, Deep in dim wreaths of smoke infurl’d, The wonder of the modern world: How much to love within the walls That lie beneath the shade of “Paul’s,”  By Tamise ripe!
VIII. And if, which God in Heaven forfend, On us an alien foe descend, The ancient stream has many a son To ﬁght and win as Alfred won; High deeds shall illustrate the shore, And freedom shall he saved once more  On Tamise ripe.
Cholmeney a. Leigh.