OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Ante-Nicene Fathers/Volume IV/Commodianus/The Instructions of Commodianus/Chapter 8

VII.—Of the Septizonium and the Stars.
Your want of intelligence deceives you concerning the circle of the zone, and perchance from that you find out that you must pray to Jupiter. Saturn is told of there, but it is as a star, for he was driven forth by Jupiter, or let Jupiter be believed to be in the star. He who controlled the constellations of the pole, and the sower of the soil; he who made war with the Trojans, he loved the beautiful Venus. Or among the stars themselves Mars was caught with her by married jealousy: he is called the youthful god. Oh excessively foolish, to think that those who are born of Maia rule from the stars, or that they rule the entire nature of the world! Subjected to wounds, and themselves living under the dominion of the fates, obscene, inquisitive, warriors of an impious life; and they made sons, equally mortal with themselves, and were all terrible, foolish, strong, in the sevenfold girdle. If ye worship the stars, worship also the twelve signs of the zodiac, as well the ram, the bull, the twins, as the fierce lion; and finally, they go on into fishes,—cook them and you will prove them. A law without law is your refuge: what wishes to be, will prevail. A woman desires to be wanton; she seeks to live without restraint. Ye yourselves will be what ye wish for, and pray to as gods and goddesses. Thus I worshipped while I went astray, and now I condemn it.
# Ante-Nicene Fathers/Volume IV/Minucius Felix
## Contents

* Title Page
* Introductory Note
* The Octavius of Minucius Felix
# Ante-Nicene Fathers/Volume IV/Minucius Felix/The Octavius of Minucius Felix
## Contents

* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
* Chapter 6
* Chapter 7
* Chapter 8
* Chapter 9
* Chapter 10
* Chapter 11
* Chapter 12
* Chapter 13
* Chapter 14
* Chapter 15
* Chapter 16
* Chapter 17
* Chapter 18
* Chapter 19
* Chapter 20
* Chapter 21
* Chapter 22
* Chapter 23
* Chapter 24
* Chapter 25
* Chapter 26
* Chapter 27
* Chapter 28
* Chapter 29
* Chapter 30
* Chapter 31
* Chapter 32
* Chapter 33
* Chapter 34
* Chapter 35
* Chapter 36
* Chapter 37
* Chapter 38
* Chapter 39
* Chapter 40
* Chapter 41
* Elucidations
# Ante-Nicene Fathers/Volume IV/Commodianus/The Instructions of Commodianus/Chapter 9

VIII.—Of the Sun and Moon.
Concerning the Sun and Moon ye are in error, although they are in our immediate presence; in that ye, as I formerly did, think that you must pray to them. They, indeed, are among the stars; but they do not run of their own accord. The Omnipotent, when He established all things at first, placed them there with the stars, on the fourth day. And, indeed, He commanded in the law that none should worship them. Ye worship so many gods who promise nothing concerning life, whose law is not on the earth, nor are they themselves foretold. But a few priests seduce you, who say that any deity destined to die can be of service. Draw near now, read, and learn the truth.
# Ante-Nicene Fathers/Volume IV/Minucius Felix/The Octavius of Minucius Felix/Chapter 1

Minucius Felix.
Chapter I.—Argument:  Minucius Relates How Delightful to Him is the Recollection of the Things that Had Happened to Him with Octavius While He Was Associated with Him at Rome, and Especially of This Disputation.
When I consider and mentally review my remembrance of Octavius, my excellent and most faithful companion, the sweetness and charm of the man so clings to me, that I appear to myself in some sort as if I were returning to past times, and not merely recalling in my recollection things which have long since happened and gone by. Thus, in the degree in which the actual contemplation of him is withdrawn from my eyes, it is bound up in my heart and in my most intimate feelings. And it was not without reason that that remarkable and holy man, when he departed this life, left to me an unbounded regret for him, especially since he himself also glowed with such a love for me at all times, that, whether in matters of amusement or of business, he agreed with me in similarity of will, in either liking or disliking the same things. You would think that one mind had been shared between us two. Thus he alone was my confidant in my loves, my companion in my mistakes; and when, after the gloom had been dispersed, I emerged from the abyss of darkness into the light of wisdom and truth, he did not cast off his associate, but—what is more glorious still—he outstripped him. And thus, when my thoughts were traversing the entire period of our intimacy and friendship, the direction of my mind fixed itself chiefly on that discourse of his, wherein by very weighty arguments he converted Cæcilius, who was still cleaving to superstitious vanities, to the true religion.

## Footnotes

* ↑ [Sallust, Catiline, “Idem facere atque sentire,” etc. Also, Catiline’s speech, p. 6 of The Conspiracy.]
* ↑ [Beautiful tribute to Christian friendship, in a primitive example. We must bear in mind that the story is of an earlier period than that of the work itself, written at Cirta.]
# Ante-Nicene Fathers/Volume V/Cyprian/The Seventh Council of Carthage under Cyprian/Elucidation

Elucidation.
(To them we have succeeded, p. 572.)
The theory of Cyprian is thus recognised in full council, by his colleagues, with respect to the unity of the Church Catholic. They have never heard of any counter theory, and they state it as a matter of course.  Fortunatus of “Tuccaboris” had shortly before referred to the Church as “built upon a rock,” with evident reference to the faith, for he adds, “not upon heresy.” Of a perpetuated construction, of which any one bishop was the perpetuated foundation, nobody as yet seems to have dreamed. “Other foundation can no man lay than that is laid,” says St. Paul; viz., “Christ.” On Him, “the Stone, Elect, precious,” St. Peter and all the apostles (the prophets as well) are built as foundation-stones; and we also, as “lively stones,” are built upon that foundation, into a holy temple.
This Council of Carthage sustains Cyprian also in his judgment concerning the question of baptism, and it is a mistake to say that it was ever overruled. Compare St. Basil, Ad Amphilochium (Epist. Canonica prima, p. 19, vol. iii., ed. Paris, 1638), where he refers to Cyprian and Firmilian (“our Firmilian”) as “ancient men,” and treats the question as still an open one.

## Footnotes

* ↑ See p. 522, sec. 16, supra. All this interprets the Petra, not “Petrus.”
# Ante-Nicene Fathers/Volume V/Cyprian/The Seventh Council of Carthage under Cyprian
## Contents

* Concerning the Baptism of Heretics
* Elucidation
# Argosy All-Story Weekly/Volume 124/Issue 3/I Want to Write a Poem

I WANT TO WRITE A POEM—
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER
I WANT to write a poem to my beloved,
(I have written other poems To other beloveds!)
I want to tell her that her eyes
Are as blue as the sea;
And that her lips
Are a scarlet lure,
And that the touch of her hand
On mine
Is as thrilling
As music.
I want to write a poem to my beloved;
(I have written other poems
To other beloveds!)
But, gosh,
This beloved knows more about verse
Than I do.
The popular magazines
Pay twenty-five cents a line
For the stuff
She writes.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1981, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 42 years or less. 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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Backblock Ballads and Later Verses/The Minglers

The Minglers
I hold by stern morality,
 Despite the worldlings' scoffing;
But when I sit beside the sea
 And gaze into the offing
The bathers, mingling on the beach,
Stir thoughts I cannot put in speech.
Indeed, my sad soul loathes a sight
 So ill to minds ascetic;
Yet from the narrow path of right
 I feel a tug magnetic
That seeks to draw me o'er the sand,
Out to the siren-haunted strand.
"Come, mingle," sings the restless sea.
 This urging sorely vexes.
E'en fish, when caught and tinned, may be
 Unwed and mixed in sexes.
But who has heard of potted sin,
Or found temptation in a tin?
Hark, by the seaside yester eve  I had a wondrous vision. The sun was just about to leave  With his well-known precision, When I espied upon the sand A tin of a familar brand.
And, as I gazed, my limbs grew limp  And giddiness came o'er me; For from it stepped a fish-like imp  That smirked and bowed before me; His puckered features seemed to be Awry with spite and devilry.
"Young man," he said, "You're wasting time.  Why do you sit there mooning? So brave a youth, just in his prime,  Should find more joy in spooning. For, see! the ocean hath its pearls; Go forth and mingle with the girls!"
And from the tins that lay about  Upon the silver shingle I heard a wee shrill chorus shout,  "Young man, go forth and mingle!" And then I knew each empty tin Concealed its special imp within.
I felt the red blood course anew,  I felt my pulses tingle; And still the tiny chorus grew;  "Young man, go forth and mingle!". . . . Then, from an old, bashed can I saw A lordly lobster wave a claw.
"Good fellow, have a care!" he said,  "Stray not from pathways upper! I am the ghost of one long dead,  Slain for a sinful supper. But once good works were done by me Among the sinners of the sea.
"In life I roamed the vasty deep  Engaged upon a mission, Which was my fellow-fish to keep  From swimming to perdition. Now I am dead" (his voice grew thin), "Alas! they mingle in the tin!
"Beware the blood that bounds and leaps!  Your sinful feelings throttle. Beware the imp that leers and peeps  From out each tin and bottle! A submarine reformer speaks. Beware when gay Belinda squeaks!"
Lo, as he spoke my blood grew chill,  The spell no longer bound me, The impish chorus now was still  And silence reigned around me. The ghostly lobster disappeared; My heart of base desire was cleared.
But, to this day, I feel a thrill  'Mid tins upon the shingle; I seem to hear that chorus shrill:  "Young man, go forth and mingle!"
But then I hear the lobster's voice, And, knowing I am saved, rejoice.
# Backblock Ballads and Later Verses/The Little Homes

The Little Homes
We have heard the cheering, brothers,
 We have heard the martial peal;
We have seen the soldiers marching
 And the glint of sun on steel.
We have heard the songs, the shouting;  But, while forth the soldier roams,
Who has heard the weeping, brothers,
In the Little Homes?
We have seen the gay processions
 And the careless, laughing crowds;
We have seen the banners waving
 Out against the peaceful clouds;
Yet, while colours proudly flutter
 Over noble spires and domes,
Who has seen the mourning, brothers,
In the Little Homes?
From the Little Homes that nestle
 Where the smiling fields sweep wide,
From the Little Homes that huddle
 In the city, side by side,
They have called the eager fighters—  Men who went with smiles and cheers;
Pride of wives and pride of mothers— Pride that conquers fears.
What the Little Homes shall suffer,
 What the Little Homes shall pay
Must be more than sturdy fighters,
 More than women's grief to-day.
In the years that follow after,
 Be our battles won or lost,
In the Little Homes, my brothers,
They shall pay the cost.
They shall pay the cost of glory,
 They shall pay the price of peace,
Years and many long years after
 All the sounds of battle cease.
When the sword is sheathed—or broken—  When the battle-flag is furled,
Still the Little Homes must suffer
Over all the World.
Have you seen the old grey mothers
 Smiling to the ringing cheers?
Have you seen the young wives striving
 Bravely to hold back the tears?
Have you seen the young girl marching
 By her soldier-lover's side?
Have you seen our country's women
All aglow with pride?
Women of the little homesteads,
 Women of the city slums,
They are waiting, ever waiting;
 And the sound of muffled drums
In some stricken Home is echoed,
 Where grey Grief is guest to-day.
And to-morrow? Nay, the others
Still must wait—and pray.
Then, shall we think shame, my brothers,
 To give thanks upon our knees
That the land we love should hold them—  Wives and mothers such as these?
Women who still hide their sorrow
 As their soldiers march away,
Turning brave and steadfast faces
To the light of day?
Oh, the Little Homes are cheerful—  Little Homes that know no pride
But the pride of sacrificing
 Loved ones to the battle tide!
They are many, many, brothers,
 And their sacrifice is great,
Shrines are they and sacred places,
Where the women wait.
Aye, the Little Homes are holy
 At the darkening of day,
When young wives must face their sorrow,
 When grey mothers kneel to pray,
Magnifying, in dread visions,
 Danger where the soldier roams,
Then God heed the lonely sobbing,
In the Little Homes.
# Backblock Ballads and Later Verses/The Lovers

The Lovers
One idle hour she sought to see
 Whose image 'twas he cherished so,
(All fondly certain whose 'twould be)
 And found a—girl she did not know.
A trusting maiden's modest face,
 All innocence and purity.
"What nun is this that fills my place?
 Alas, he loves me not!" sighed she.
"Nay, daughter, let no foolish fears
 Your trust in his devotion mar,"
Her mother said. "Come, dry your tears ;
 That is the girl he thinks you are."
All fondly curious with love—  (Half guessing what he would lay bare)
He rifled her heart's treasure-trove,
 And found—a stranger's image there.
"This is the man she loves!" said he,
 And, searching in the noble face, Read high resolve and constancy.
 "This saint," he cried, "usurps my place!"   "Nay," spake his friend. "Your anger cool ;
 Gaze on that godlike face once more;
And then be satisfied, O fool;
 That is the man she takes you for."
# Backblock Ballads and Later Verses/The Philistine

The Philistine
Smith is a very stupid man;  He lives next door to me; He has no settled scheme or plan  Of domesticity. He does not own a gramophone,  Nor rush for morning trains; His garden paths are overgrown,  He seldom entertains.
In all our staid suburban street  He strikes the one false note. He goes about in slippered feet,  And seldom wears a coat. I don't know how he earns his bread;  'Tis said he paints or writes; And frequently, I've heard it said,  He works quite late at nights.
She's quite a pretty girl, his wife.  Our women-folk declare It is a shame she spoiled her life  By wedding such a bear. And yet she seems quite satisfied  With this peculiar man; And says, with rather foolish pride,  He is Bohemian.
He will not join our tennis club,  Nor come to may'ral balls, Nor meet the neighbours in a rub  At bridge, nor pay them calls. He just delights to scoff and sneer,  And feigns to be amused At everything we hold most dear—  What wonder he's abused?
Although he's ostracized a deal  He never makes a fuss; I sometimes think he seems to feel  He ostracizes us! But that, of course, is quite absurd;  And, risking the disgrace, I sometimes say a kindly word  When I pass by his place.
But still, although one likes to keep  One's self a bit select, And not be, so to speak, too cheap,  I'm broad in that respect. So oft, on sultry summer eves,  I waive all diffidence, And chat across the wilted leaves  That garb our garden fence.
But, oh, his talk is so absurd!  His notions are so crude. Such drivel I have seldom heard;  His mode of speech is rude. He mentions "stomach" in a bark  You'd hear across the street. He lacks those little ways that mark  A gentleman discreet.
Good books he seldom seems to read;  In Art all taste he lacks. To Slopham's works he pays no heed;  He scorns my almanacks— Framed almanacks! It's simply rot  To hear the fellow prate About Velasquez, Villon, Scott,  And such folk out of date.
He lacks all soul for music, too;  He hates the gramophone; And when we play some dance-tune new  I've often heard him groan. He says our music gives him sad,  Sad thoughts of slaughtered things. I think Smith is a little mad;  Nice thoughts to me it brings.
Now, I have quite a kindly heart;  Good works I do not stint; Last week I spoke to Smith apart,  And dropped a gentle hint. He will be snubbed, I told him flat,  By neighbours round about, Unless he wears a better hat  On Sundays, when he's out.
Last Sunday morn he passed my place  About the hour of four; A smile serene was on his face,  And rakishly he wore A most dilapidated hat  Upon his shameless head. "This ought to keep 'em off the mat,"  He yelled. I cut him dead.
# Backblock Ballads and Later Verses/The High Priest

The High Priest
Nay, why do foolish politicians strive  To win a fleeting popularity? In vain, in vain, they jealously contrive  To turn the doting Public Eye from Me. What was this land, this nation, destined for?  For Art, Trade, Politics? All out of place. Behold, I am the Sporting Editor!  I call the race!
Reviewers, leader writers—what are they?  Subs, poets, novelists? Scribes of a sort— Mere puny scribbling creatures of a day;  While I, the people's idol, stand for Sport! For mark, when inspiration falls on me,  What recks the public of that nameless band? I ope my lips, and wisdom, gushing free,  O'erflows the land.
I lift my voice, and, lo, an army wakes—  A mighty host, a hundred thousand strong— To spread the message; while the nation quakes  And thunders with the burden of my song: "Ten lengths from home Grey Lad outstripped The Witch,  And passed the post, by just a short neck, first." These are the words, the pregnant words, for which  The land's athirst.
They are the children of my brain, mine own!—  These mighty words for which the people yearn; The product of my genius alone!  Would you begrudge the laurels that I earn? Mark you, yon sturdy native, strong o' limb,  That leans against the lamp-post o'er the way— Approach, and learn of my great fame from him.  Approach, and say:—
"Awake! Arise! A curse on him who waits!  Behold, young man, thy country needs thy like; The foeman's hordes are panting at our gates.  Arouse, young patriot, go forth and strike! Awake, and cast thy reeking fag away!  Arise, and take the white man's burden up!" I'll lay you ten to one in quids he'll say:  "Wot's won the Cup?"
Behold, the High Priest of the people's creed!  Proclaim his genius loud. The bays! The bays! Come, crown the Sporting Editor—indeed,  He is quite intimate with bays—and grays. "Ten lengths from home!" How exquisite. How chaste!  "Gray Lad outstripped The Witch!" What style! What grace! Come, Beauty, twine a laurel wreath! Nay, haste!  He calls the race!
# Backblock Ballads and Later Verses/The Homeward Track

The Homeward Track
Once a year we lumber southward with the clip from Yarradee;
Spell the bullocks in the township while we run our yearly spree.
What's a bullocky to live for? Days of toil are hard and long; And you'd not begrudge him yearly one short week of wine and song.
While it lasts he asks no better. When it's over, "Yoke 'em up"
And we'll make another promise to reject the brimming cup.
When we've done our little cheque in, and the township's at our back,
Then we start to think of mending—out along the Homeward Track.
For there comes a time of reck'ning when we're trudging by the team;
Back again to work and worry; kind of waking from a dream; We begin to see the folly of a week of wicked fun,
Bought with months of weary slaving, punching bullocks on the run.
But our views are somewhat tempered when we've done a twelve months' drouth;
And our thoughts ain't so religious when the team is heading south.
When the pleasure is before us, work and worry at our back,
We forget the grim reformers out along the Homeward Track.
What's the odds? It's got to happen. What we've done we'll do again;
And we know it while we make 'em, resolutions are in vain. Life's a weary track to travel, mostly full of ruts and stumps:
Those who spend their days in drudging have to take their joy in lumps.
Yoke 'em up an' get a move on! Gayest times must have an end,
There's a weary track to travel when you've nothing left to spend.
If there's still a bob we'll wet it, and a last glad joke we'll crack, Time enough for vain regretting when we're on the Homeward Track.
# Backblock Ballads and Later Verses/The March

The March
In early, prehistoric days, before the reign of Man,
When neolithic Nature fashioned things upon a plan
That was large as it was rugged, and, in truth, a trifle crude,
There arose a dusky human who was positively rude.
Now, this was in the days when lived the monster kangaroo;
When the mammoth bunyip gambolled in the hills of Beetaloo;
They'd owned the land for centuries, and counted it their own;
For might was right, and such a thing as "law" was quite unknown.
But this dusky old reformer in the ages long ago,
One morning in the Eocene discovered how to "throw";
He studied well and practised hard until he'd learned the art;
Then, having planned his Great Campaign, went forth to make a start.
"See here," he said—and hurled a piece of tertiary rock,
That struck a Tory bunyip with a most unpleasant shock— "See here, my name is Progress, and your methods are too slow;
This land that you are fooling with must be cut up. Now go!"
They gazed at him in wonder, then they slowly backed away;
For "throwing" things was novel in that neolithic day;
'Twas the prehistoric "argument," the first faint gleam of "art," Yet those mammoths seemed to take it in exceedingly bad part.
Then a hoary, agéd bunyip rose, and spluttered loud and long;
He said the black man's arguments were very, very wrong. "You forget," he said, indignantly, "the land is ours by right,
And to seek to wrest it from us would be—well, most impolite."
But the savage shook his woolly head and smiled a savage smile,
And went on hurling prehistoric missiles all the while,
Till the bunyip and the others couldn't bear the argument,
And they said, "Why, this is robbery!" But, all the same—they went.
Some centuries—or, maybe, it was æons—later on,
When the bunyip and the mammoth kangaroo had passed and gone;
While the black man slowly profited by what his fathers saw,
While he learned to fashion weapons and establish tribal law,
There came a band of pale-faced men in ships, from oversea,
Who viewed the land, then shook their heads and sadly said, "Dear me!"
Then they landed rum and school books, and a trusty gun or two,
And started out to "civilize," as whites are apt to do.
They interviewed the black man and remarked, "It's very sad, But the use you make of this great land is positively bad; Why, you haven't got a sheep or cow about the blessed place! Considering the price of wool, it's simply a disgrace."
Then they started with the school books and the rum—likewise the guns; And some began to look for gold and others "took up runs." For, they said, "This land must be cut up; it's simply useless so; Our name is Progress, and you're out of date, so you must go!"
But the black was most indignant, and he said it was a shame; For he'd been full and satisfied before the white man came, And he used a word unpublishable in his argument,— Which was native for "A blanky Buccaneer." And yet—he went.
It's the same old "march unceasing." We are getting down the list, And yesterday's "Reformer" is to-day's "Monopolist," For history will repeat itself in this annoying way: Who stood for "Progress" yesterday is "Retrograde" to-day.
# Backblock Ballads and Later Verses/The Joy Ride

The Joy Ride