OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Heinrich Frauenlob

HEINRICH FRAUENLOB.
At Worms, about our Lady’s shrine A minstrel’s gently haunting shade is; He sang of Love and War and Wine, His name was Henry Praise-the-Ladies.
This Henry had a yearning heart, And chivalric emotions warmed him, But holy vows kept him apart From all that fired, and all that charmed him.
And many a time his brow grew sad, And many a time his eye grew moister, When lute-like voices, young and glad, Were wafted to his cage-like cloister.
And so, like captive bird, he sung Of cups that kindlier tables graced, Of swords at knightlier sides that hung, Of lips ’twere deadly sin to taste.
The knights he sung were scarce of earth, Not ruffians as we oft behold here, All loyalty and truth and worth, Each one an army in a soldier.
The wines he sung might glad the hoard Of Duke, Archbishop, or Elector, The produce of some fairy hoard, Imprisoned sunbeams changed to nectar.
But sweet as ever woke his lays To celebrate good wine or true man, The rare quintessence of his praise Was thine, inexplicable Woman.
He praised thee in thine April morn, All tremulous with beauty’s budding, When tender thoughts are newly born, And bathe the cheek in roseate flooding.
He praised thee in thy May of youth, The heroine of antique story; Bound soul to soul in ardent truth, And granting maiden love for glory.
He praised thee, peerless queen of home, The hearth-imparadising mother; Fount of the Strong and Fair to come, Most blest in blessing most another.
By Henry wept no child or wife, When bowed to death his silver head; But angel wings, unknown in life, Threw their bland shadows o’er his bed.
Touch closed his eyes more soft than ours, Fair hands dropt wreaths the kind old man on, And eight bright ladies, crowned with flowers, Bore to his rest the genial Canon.
G. C. Swayne.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/"His hand upon the latch"

“HIS HAND UPON THE LATCH.” A YOUNG WIFE’S SONG.
My cottage home is fill’d with light The long, long summer day, But, ah! I dearer love the night. And hail the sinking ray. For eve restores me one whose smile Doth more than morning’s match,— And life afresh seems dawning while His hand is on the latch!
When autumn fields are thick with sheaves And shadows earlier fall, And grapes grow purple ’neath the eaves Along our trellis’d wall,— I dreaming sit,—the sleepy bird Faint twittering in the thatch,— To wake to joy when soft is heard His hand upon the latch!
In the short winter afternoon I throw my work aside, And through the lattice, whilst the moon Shines mistily and wide, On the dim upland paths I peer In vain his form to catch,— I startle with delight, and hear His hand upon the latch!
Yes; I am his in storm and shine; For me he toils all day; And his true heart I know is mine, Both near me and away. And when he leaves our garden gate At morn, his steps I watch,— Then patiently till eve await His hand upon the latch!
Berni.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Master Olaf

Translation of "Odins Meeresritt," a.k.a. "Meister Oluf" (1817).
MASTER OLAF. (From the German.)
Master Olaf, the smith of Heligoland, At midnight layeth his hammer by; Along the sea-shore the tempest howls, When a knock at the door comes heavily.
"Come out, come out, and shoe me my horse!
I must yet far, and the day is at hand!”
Master Olaf opens the door, and sees
A stately Ritter before him stand.
Black is his mail shirt, helm, and shield, A broad sword hangeth upon his thigh,
His black horse tosses his mane so wild, And paws the ground impatiently.
"Whence so late! Whither so fast?” “I yesterday lighted in Nordernie; My steed is swift, the night is clear, Ere sunrise I must in Norway be.”
"Haddest thou wings, that might I believe.” “My horse with the wind right well hath raced,
Yet already a star pales here and there, So the iron bring hither, and make thou haste.”
Master Olaf taketh the shoe in hand, It is too small, but it spread and spread: And as it grew to the edge of the hoof, There seizèd the master fear and dread.
The Ritter mounts, and his broad sword clangs: “Master Olaf, I bid thee now good night! Know, thou hast the horse of Odin shod; I hasten across to the bloody fight.”
The black horse shoots forward o’er land and sea,
Round Odin’s head a splendour shone; Twelve eagles are straining in flight behind, Swiftly they fly,—he rides foremost on.
L. B.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/The King of Thule

Translation of "Der König in Thule" (1774) by Goethe. See also Bayard Taylor's translation "The King of Thule."
​Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/261
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 4/King Olaf

​Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/451 ​Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/452 ​Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/453 ​Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/454 ​Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/455 ​Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/456
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/The mistake of the loves

THE MISTAKE OF THE LOVES.
To-day, as idly in my chair,
I, hardly half-awake, was dreaming,
Methought, in through the sunny air,
A swarm of laughing loves came streaming,
Winged mischiefs, here and there, without
My leave, the wantons gleamed and fluttered,
Buzzing, like bees, the room about, Ere half a sentence could be uttered.
In fact, with such glad hushed surprise,
I saw the little urchins flying,
Like humming-birds, before my eyes,
In every nook and corner prying,
Now handling this—now into that
With childish laughs and chatter peeping,
I did not care to stay their chat,
But silent sat as I’d been sleeping.
What would they do? Quick, every one
Found every moment new employment:
They paused at last; well, now what fun
Would yield their smallships fresh employment? My scrap-book lay before me there;
One saw, and straightway courage mustered,
Helped by five more, the prize to bear
To where all close around it clustered.
Swift over, leaf on leaf was turned;
Small praise, each sketch, while passing under
Those tiny curious quick eyes, earned,
Till, ah! at last, one waked their wonder;
My pencil there had vainly tried,
How vainly! as it oft had striven,
To do that unto it denied—
Image the beauty to you given.
Yet passion there, to labouring art,
A strength beyond its own had granted;
Enough was there to make them start,
However much of you was wanted;
Eyes, dimples, hair, those peeping pearls,
As those red lips so archly show them,
They saw them, and, O flower of girls!
How strange! at once they seemed to know them.   O what a storm of pretty noise,
Of cries and clappings straight I heard then,
Of little feet that stamped the joys, Enough their small tongues couldn’t word then;
What with delight could thrill them so!
Hardly my wonder I could smother;
Till, listening, soon I laughed to know, They, in your likeness, saw their mother.
W. C. Bennett.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/The moon's wanderings

Translation of "Die Monduhr" (1844) by Robert Reinick.
THE MOON’S WANDERINGS.
(FROM THE GERMAN.)
I.
"The keeper is gone to the feast to-night," Is the whispering poacher's call; His wife and his child are sleeping: bright Shines the moon on the chamber wall.
II.
As she shone on the palely glimm’ring bed, The child grasp'd his mother's warm hand,— "O mother! why tarries father so long? I fear, for 'tis lone o'er the land."
III.
"Oh! look not into the moonlight, my child, Oh! close fast those little tired eyes; The moon is bright, but the night it is long, Sleep on till to-morrow's sun rise."
IV.
Then the moon shone bright on the father's gun: "Ah! did you not hear that strange shot? I fear me, and tremble, and cannot rest, For my father's gun it was not."
V.
"Child!" cried the mother, "it is but a dream, Look not in the moonlight again; When father returns with the morning's beam, You'll know that your dreams are all vain."
VI.
Then the moon shone clear on the father's head, As his picture hung in the light; His child started up, with a sudden cry, "Mother! why is his face so white?"
VII.
And ere the mother awoke from her sleep, Or ere she had left her lone bed, And while she was wond’ring why he had stay’d, They had brought him home to her dead.
Margaret Swayne.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/The morning before the Massacre of St. Bartholomew

THE MORNING BEFORE THE MASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW. AUGUST, 1572.
The fickle sunshine (in and out)
Went running up and down the terrace,
Glooming, brightening, dozing, wakening,
O’er the stately roofs of Paris;
Shining, fading in the gardens,
With a wanton, sportive malice,
Silver arrows, fountain-shot, Rose around the lordly palace.   The dogs were basking in the courts,
The peacocks in the shine were sunning;
Pages, with parti-colour’d ball,
Were down the long green alleys running;
The lady, at her tapestry,
From the great oriel window caroll’d;
The noble at the wide porch stood, In black and crimson proud apparel’d.
Between the pulses of the sun (The light and dark still fitful coming) You heard the birds deep in the leaves, And in the flowers the brown bees humming; But louder than the bees or birds The voices of the boys were sounding, As, like a living thing, the ball O’er beds of flowers went gaily bounding.
“To-morrow,” thought the Huguenot, “I gain my suit and win that title.” “To-morrow,” thought the lady fair— “And yet those dreams,—I spent the night ill.” “To-morrow,” laughed the little page, “I wear my new gilt Milan dagger.” “To-morrow,” growled the butler old, “I’ll tap some wine ’ll make ’em stagger.”
The dial’s shadow glided on, Severing the golden hours for ever; The leaves each moment fell away, When breezes made the poplars shiver. One little handful of dark cloud Over the glistening vanes was lowering. But no one heeded it, as they Paced where the yellow leaves were showering.
The morrow came: in smoky fire, The sun arose—a blood-globe burning; The shrieks of women pierced the air; The hiding mothers’ hearts were yearning; And through the streets, all red with gore, Where Guise’s men were dancing, quaffing, In funeral state, with crown and sword, The skeleton, King Death, rode laughing.
Walter Thornbury.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/A moral from Saint Swithin

A MORAL FROM SAINT SWITHIN.
When Tellus crowned with half-embrownéd wheat, Wearing within the braids of her long hair In thick festoons her scarlet poppy-wreath Pants hot and breathless in the July air:
And scorchéd white the bearded barley bends, Parched and all-drooping to the sultry breeze, And sullen roars the distant thunder-voice, Shaking with coming wrath the fretful trees:
Ariseth he—Physician much belied!— Fruitful Saint Swithin, and with out-stretched hand, His crystal vase of sweet cool rain down-pours In gift baptismal on the craving land.
Come, bounteous Rain-god, in thy watery car, For to thine influence owe we, and thy power All earth’s green verdure, her rich crops, her fruit, The thousand Iris-hues of each sweet flower!
Nature revives! And she, whose o’er-taxed womb But for all blesséd rain would sterile be, Rises refreshed, and blushing through her tears Wears the glad heart-smile of maternity.
Take courage, then, for when in life’s high noon Faints the strong man upon his sultry way, Faith with her out-poured vial pointing on Lets fall the rain-dew of a July day!
Astley H. Baldwin.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/The mill on the River Mole

THE MILL ON THE RIVER MOLE.
Where are the waters wandering?
The miller’s daughter asks;
Under the mill-wheel, over the mill-dam,
Plying their noisy tasks,
They murmur and brawl for a moment,
Then onward and onward they go;
Ever advancing, never returning—
Where do the waters flow?
Where are the waters wandering?
Lying, last night, on my bed,
List’ning their restless dashing,
Methought their wild voices said:
“So shall it be on life's current—
A hope or a joy once o’er—
A wish or a dream once uttered—
Like us, shall return no more!”
Then my busy thoughts went wand’ring
Far into my coming life—
Shall it bear me hence on its bosom,
To mingle with care and strife?
Never, ah! never returning, As those sad whispers foretold,
To the happy hours of the present—
The careless dreaming of old?   With the voice of the wand’ring waters
Mingled at early morn
The sound of the whirring mill-wheel,
The gentle fall of the corn;
And the twilight, misty and mournful,
Faded away from my sight,
Till the drooping boughs of the willows
Were tinted with rosy light;   And the waters onward wand’ring,
Laughing and sparkling went;
Till my lips their smiles repeated,
And I learned the lesson, Content.
Shall I fear—whilst a loving heaven
Such smiles and guidance bestows—
To float on life’s darksome waters,
Or reck where its current flows?
Louisa Crow.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/The mill-fiend

THE MILL-FIEND.
Come, let us go down from this weather-stain’d hill—
One, two, three, and away!
Go down to the hollow where glassy and still
The mill-race rolls over the wheels of the mill, And its foam is the dew of the morning.
There are two bonny eggs in a nest on the hill—
One, two, three, and away!
One lies in the warmth of its mother-bed still,
But the other is rolling adown to the mill—
For the winds are so wild in the morning.
Two children are playing atop of the hill—
One, two, three, and away!
One clings to the peace of its infancy still,
But the other is off and away to the mill,
To see how it looks in the morning.
Two lovers are wed at the church on the hill— One, two, three, and away!
She lights up his home, and is true to him still,
But he hurries down to the rear of the mill,
And thinks not of her or the morning.
Two weary wayfarers come over the hill— One, two, three, and away!
One makes for the cottage that’s dear to him still, But the other strides on to get work at the mill,
And stays not to look at the morning.
Two friends are in talk on the brow of the hill—
One, two, three, and away!
One sleeps, but the cool grass is over him still, While the other is whirl’d round the pool of the mill,
And his corpse will float up in the morning.
Two spirits fly over the cross on the hill—
One, two, three, and away!
One stays there and prays there and watches there still,
And the other, who writhes in the teeth of the mill,
Is Lucifer, son of the morning.
Arthur J. Munby.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/"My Emma and Cupid"

“MY EMMA AND CUPID.”
“No earthly love my path shall cross,” Romantic Emma cries; “Love’s dross, And hearts are foolish empty toys, For moon-struck maids and sillier boys. No! happy in my single state, I’ll live and die without a mate.”
Sly Cupid heard the fair maid’s vow, And, chuckling, drew his amber bow, Then whispered in mine ear, “My friend, Fear not, this whim will find its end; Fair Emma is not what she seems,
And when a young maid vows, she dreams.
“I swear by these unerring darts,
I can read maidens’ inmost hearts;
And what is true of A. B. C.
(Not to say anything of D.)
Can scarce be false of E. F. G.   “Trust me, your Emma means but this,— Should some fond lover steal a kiss,
Standing upon her left or right,
She’ll not let slip the lucky wight,
But do her best to hold him tight.”
Ralph de Peverel.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/My home

MY HOME.
The evening hours are here—the hours I prize. The day’s work over, all my thoughts are turn’d To the sweet rest which head and hands have earn’d— To her who is so pleasant in my eyes.
A mile of road, a sinuous shady lane, A patch of wood, a bridge—there stands my home; No fairer ever yet in gilded tome Was pencil’d; through the parlour window frame
I see the picture that adorns its walls, Graces each room, graces my inner life— The picture of a happy poor man’s wife: I hear the welcome from her lip that falls.
Ere yet the sun drops in the little brook, Into the wood we take an hour’s soft stroll, Or, seated there, perchance some mighty soul Communes with ours from his undying book.
For chiefly after all the cares of day, I love to hear her read those trees among: I often think the wild birds stay their song, To listen to a yet more thrilling lay.
Not all alone we wander o’er the sward: A little merry sprite, half black, half “tan,” More than a dog, and yet not quite a man, Is our companion, jester, friend, and guard.
Just half-way up the road a gentle rise Reveals the lane, and there, with mingled hope And fear, I search each grassy curve and slope For her who is so pleasant in my eyes.
She often comes to meet me: will she come, And stand just in the corner of the lane? She is my Home! Oh! will she come again, And make me, by her coming, nearer home?
’Twas thus in early days we used to meet. Yes!—that small speck has grown a flutt’ring dress, While the broad space between is growing less,— My busy eyes and heart outstrip my feet.
And while my heart and eyes my steps outrun, My thoughts o’erleap the present, and my fears Say, “will it be thus too in coming years, When evening falls and the day’s work is done?
Will she still wander with me in the wood, Still meet me in the corner of the lane? Or shall I have to look for her in vain, And live alone on Memory’s meagre food?”
Albert B.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Our secret drawer

The illustration is credited to the unidentified artist "Miss Wells."
OUR SECRET DRAWER.
There is a secret drawer in every heart, ⁠Wherein we lay our treasures one by one; Each dear remembrance of the buried past; ⁠⁠Each cherished relic of the time that’s gone;
The old delights of childhood long ago; ⁠⁠The things we loved, because we knew them best; The first discovered primrose in our path; ⁠⁠The cuckoo’s earliest note; the robin’s nest;
The merry hay-makings around our home; ⁠⁠Our rambles in the summer woods and lanes; The story told beside the winter fire, ⁠⁠While the wind moaned across the window panes;
The golden dreams we dreamt in after years; ⁠⁠Those magic visions of our young romance; The sunny nooks, the fountains and the flowers, ⁠⁠Gilding the fairy landscape of our trance;
The link which bound us later still to one ⁠⁠Who fills a corner in our life to-day, Without whose love we dare not dream how dark ⁠⁠The rest would seem, if it were gone away;
The song that thrill’d our souls with very joy; ⁠⁠The gentle word that unexpected came; The gift we prized, because the thought was kind; ⁠⁠The thousand, thousand things that have no name.
All these in some far hidden corner lie, ⁠⁠Within the mystery of that secret drawer, Whose magic springs, though stranger hands may touch, ⁠⁠Yet none may gaze upon its guarded store.
Isabella Law.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/My confession

MY CONFESSION.
Wife! long true to me, Through good and ill: Hear my confession, And love me still!
I was not false, dear, When, years ago, Thinking I loved you, I told you so.
Yet, my gift to you I lived to see Was not fair payment For yours to me.
You did not know it; You guessed not how I was your debtor,— As I am now.
I dare not own it, This later day, Were I not able Some part to pay.
Watching together Here, by this bed, Where, softly pillowed, Lies one bright head;
Smiling together On other face, Pressed to your bosom— Its rightful place.
Thus, dear, I venture To whisper this,— Now that I give you A whole-heart kiss.
Now that—God helping— I am to you Husband more worthy, Lover more true.
G. R. T.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/The meeting

THE MEETING.
The old coach-road thro’ a common of furze
With knolls of pines, ran white:
Berries of autumn, with thistles, and burrs,
And spider-threads, droopt in the light.
The light in a thin blue veil peer’d sick;
The sheep grazed close and still;
The smoke of a farm by a yellow rick
Curl’d lazily under a hill.
No fly shook the round of the silver net;
No insect the swift bird chased;
Only two travellers moved and met
Across that hazy waste.
One was a girl with a babe that throve,
Her ruin and her bliss;
One was a youth with a lawless love,
Who claspt it the more for this.
The girl for her babe made prayerful speech;
The youth for his love did pray;
Each cast a wistful look on each,
And either went their way.
G. M.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Only for something to say

ONLY FOR SOMETHING TO SAY.
“Not engaged? I’m so glad. Will you talk with me, then? An oasis for me in this desert of crowd: Blest be the blindness of dancing men, And Laurent for playing so loud! And so you came with the Ardesley set? Do you talk with them as you talk with me? Do these men listen and never forget, And never again be in fancy free? I scarce remember’d you, fair as you are, And you’ll beam as brightly when I am gone,— Careless that thoughts of a vanished star Make a starless night so lone. I may take one flower before I go,— One little bud to tell of the giver? O yes, it will die in a day, I know, But the memory—never—never!” An innocent spirit that knew not pain, A sweet sunny brow that was stranger to sorrow, May ponder and dwell on such words again, Half-glad, half-sad, to-morrow. Nay, bonny bird, never pine. Among The fairest and gayest be fair and gay, Spite of homage wrung from a flattering tongue, Only for something to say.
“That last valse yours, sir? Certainly, no. Have I not kept the very next two? And should I have kept and remember’d them so For any one else but you? Oh, I’ll not praise you for dancing in time, And talking better than all the rest; But because it is so I think it no crime To like you for a partner best. Why did you look, when I danced with Sir John, With a look as black as a storm of thunder, And now put your drawing-room manners on, And your brightest face, I wonder? Well, will you take me to have some tea? Dear, how fresh it is on the stair! You’re not too engaged to stay with me A minute or two in the air?” A look that had scorned the tenderest guile, A heart that deem’d itself stern and strong, Is bent to the light of a Psyche smile, And chain’d by a syren-song. Ho, there, Sir Knight, unconquer’d yet,— Rover so long, are you caught to-day In the soft snare set by a clever coquette, Only for something to say?
’Tis a glorious prowess, in sooth, with a word To wound the trusting, and tame the proud, Even as a leaf by a breath is stirr’d, A spray by a dew-drop bow’d. And so the battle goes bravely through, And heart gets harden’d as tongue flows free, And swells the blazon, “I conquer you, Lest you should conquer me.” Fight on, brave souls, ’tis a noble strife— Play on, rosy lips, ’tis a merry game— Tourney for tourney, and life for life, Weapons and lists the same. Since language was framed but to hide the thought, (Moral as deep as the proverb is old),
Since daily the delicate miracle’s wrought, Hourly the legend told, You will surely own it an idle creed, Frivolous gallant and faithless maid, That forbids the victim to suffer and bleed, For one vain hour’s parade; You will surely deny by the evident token Of trophy on trophy won day by day, That hearts may be broken by light words spoken,— Only for something to say.
Ralph A. Benson.
# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/"Only"

“ONLY.”
Only a woman’s face, In the dark night and cold, But, oh! the ghost of a vanish’d grace,
And the pitiful tale it told!
Wrapt in a ragged shawl (Why was it not her shroud?) It look’d as white as the moon at night, Thro’ a rift in a driving cloud.
Only a few poor pence, And a few kind words addressing; And all they brought was a kindly thought
And a poor lost woman’s blessing.
M. P.