OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Summer Morning
## Summer Morning

'T is beautiful, when first the dewy light Breaks on the earth! while yet the scented air Is breathing the cool freshness of the night, And the bright clouds a tint of crimson wear, Mix'd with their fleecy whiteness; when each fair And delicate lined flower that lifts its head Is bathed in dainty odours, and all rare And beautiful things of nature are outspread, With the rich flush of light that only morn can shed.
When every leafy chalice holds a draught Of nightly dew, for the hot sun to drink, When streams gush sportively, as though they laugh'd For very joyousness, and seem to shrink, In playful terror from the rocky brink Of some slight precipice—then with quick leap, Bound lightly o'er the barrier, and sink In their own whirling eddy, and then sweep With rippling music on, or in their channels sleep.
While lights and shades play on them, with each breath That moves the calm still waters; when the fly Skims o'er the surface, and all things beneath Gleam brightly through the flood, and fish glance by With a quick flash of beauty—when the sky Wears a deep azure brightness—and the song Of matin gladness lifts its voice on high, And mingled harmony and perfume throng On every whispering breeze that lightly floats along.—
'T is sweet to wander forth at such an hour, And drink the spirit of its loveliness; While on the brow no shadowing care-clouds lower, And on strong wing the free thoughts upward press;— Yet there are those whom nature cannot bless, With all her varied beauty;—such as they, Whose cup is drugg'd with pain and sore distress, By their own brother's hand, and the quench'd ray Of whose lost hopes spreads gloom across the brightest day.
Lo! where, like cattle driven by the lash, Forth to their wearying task in groups they go; The mother, lifting up her hand, to dash The tear-drops from her cheek, that still will flow, As on her ear her infant's wail comes low, Yet painfully distinct; and she must leave,— For the stern overseer wills it so— Her tender little one unsoothed, to grieve, Happy to clasp it safe when she returns at eve.
The feeble crone who on her knees hath borne Her children's grandchildren, is toiling there; Young forms, and weak old men, whose limbs are worn Nigh to the grave—strong men, whose bow'd necks bear Perchance the weight of heavy irons, that wear Into their very souls;—small heed has he Who tasks them, of their ills, and none will spare From the rude scourge—nor old nor infancy— Who have the allotted toil perform'd imperfectly.
Oh shame upon man's selfishness! that so The love of gold should canker in his breast, Transforming his affection's kindly glow To bitterness, himself into a pest Upon the earth, the scourge of the oppress'd, And tyrant of the helpless.—Strange that they, Who with man's high capacities are blest, Should, for earth's valueless and tinsel clay, Thus cast the priceless jewels of their souls away.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Afric's Dream
## The Afric's Dream

Why did ye wake me from my sleep? it was a dream of bliss, And ye have torn me from that land to pine again in this; Methought, beneath yon whispering tree, that I was laid to rest, The turf, with all its withering flowers, upon my cold heart press'd.
My chains, these hateful chains, were gone—oh, would that I might die, So from my swelling pulse I could forever cast them by! And on, away o'er land and sea, my joyful spirit passed, Till ‘neath my own banana tree, I lighted down at last.
My cabin door, with all its flowers, was still profusely gay, As when I lightly sported there, in childhood's careless day! But trees that were as sapling twigs, with broad and shadowing bough, Around the well-known threshold spread a freshening coolness now.
The birds whose notes I used to hear, were shouting on the earth, As if to greet me back again with their wild strains of mirth; My own bright stream was at my feet, and how I laugh'd to lave My burning lip and cheek and brow in that delicious wave!
My boy, my first-born babe, had died amid his early hours, And there we laid him to his sleep among the clustering flowers; Yet lo! without my cottage door he sported in his glee, With her whose grave is far from his, beneath yon linden tree.
I sprang to snatch them to my soul; when breathing out my name, To grasp my hand, and press my lip, a crowd of loved ones came! Wife, parents, children, kinsmen, friends! the dear and lost ones all, With blessed words of welcome came, to greet me from my thrall.
Forms long unseen were by my side; and thrilling on my ear,
Came cadences from gentle tones, unheard for many a year; And on my cheek fond lips were press'd, with true affection's kiss— And so ye waked me from my sleep—but't was a dream of bliss!
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Appeal of the Choctaw
## The Appeal of the Choctaw

We cannot leave our fathers’ land! We cannot leave our fathers’ graves! The long-loved hills that round us stand— Our valleys, with their pleasant waves. Oh, bid us not to trace afar, The pathway of the evening star; We cannot find, where'er we roam, A spot which bears, like this, the name of home!
What though the western forest rise, More tall, more darkly close, than these; And calm the stately wild deer lies, In slumber ‘neath the stately trees;— Though hill and vale are passing fair, And all seems bright and lovely there, We cannot love the beauteous spot, To us the great Manitto gave it not!
What care we for those prairies wide? Our fathers never hunted there;— Those cavern echoes ne'er, in pride, Flung back their wild halloo of war. Those wooded glens, and shaded streams, Came never to our children's dreams; Nor have we, in our young hearts’ glee, Loved, like familiar friends, each rock and tree.
But here, amid the tempest's rush, Our spirit fathers’ voices thrill! They come at midnight's moonlit hush, Or when the eve-star lights the hill. The thoughts of other times are spread O'er every gray crag's misty head;— And how then can we lightly leave The scenes to which our hearts so fondly cleave?
Then have we not in worship bow'd, Before your God, the humbled head? And tamed our spirits, fierce and proud, To till our hunting grounds for bread? And now, that in our bosom's cell, A white man's calmer soul would dwell, You seek to grasp our planted soil, And drive us hence, in distant lands to toil!
Oh, white men! ye have fair smooth brows, And lips whose words we well might trust, But treachery mingles in your vows, Your chain of friendship is but dust! Ye come with falsehood in your hearts, Ye frame your laws with wily arts, And bid us ‘neath their shades to dwell , That we may wither by their blighting spell!
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Schuylkill
## Schuylkill

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM
Sun-lit and shadow'd waters, leaping by 'Midst flowers and greenness, singing as they pass, Or sleeping in some deep and shaded pool, Lake-like, and dimpled by the playful touch Of stooping branches, rocks vine-garlanded, And the green pleasant woods, and over all The wide blue glorious sky—oh it is sweet To breathe amid such scenes!
Look on the page Of Schuylkill's pictured beauty! that is such— And thou may'st gaze, till it shall waken thoughts Treasured in memory—for thou hast watch'd The flashing of its waters, and hast stood, Perchance, beside them, when the moonlight made The scene a paradise, and friends were nigh, Smiling with their glad eyes upon thy joy; And music floated off upon the air, As if the zephyrs breathed in melody. Now other scenes are round thee—it is fair— This wide extended landscape—but unlike To that the Schuylkill mirrors. The old trees That lift their tall green heads against the sky, Are relies of past ages, and there seems, Beneath their dim gray shade, to linger yet A faint and mournful echo of the tones Of the old forest tribes.
But when the hush, And the dim beauty of the twilight steals O'er the calm earth, and on thy spirit lies A shadow and a pensiveness as sweet, Then memory will lift the mystic screen That veils departed years, and give them back The consecrated past; and thou shalt stand 'Midst scenes where thou hast stood in other days; And the gay laugh, and the remember'd tone, Will seem, with startling vividness, to thrill Across thy ear—but mine will not be there; Thy memory hath no garner'd thought of me— Yet think of me, for there may gleam a light Amidst thy twilight dreams, from scenes to which I turn for my most sweet remembrances; Oh, how one charmed word will start to life A thousand breathing memories of the past! Schuylkill! sweet Schuylkill! and still dearer loved, And hallow'd with yet deeper, sweeter thoughts, My own dear native vale, and the bright flood* That makes it beautiful! name them again, For thou hast trodden there, and let me dwell With thee upon the past! Yet they will come To thee, with but a stranger's parting glance Of brief and pleasant memory—to me— With tales of childhood's years, of hours of glee, Friendships, and tears, and rainbow-pinion'd hopes, And all the sacred thoughts that halo home!
(*The Brandywine)
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Stanzas
## Stanzas

'T is sweet to think of days gone by, When life and all its charms were new, And seem'd as bright to childhood's eye, As morning's liquid gems of dew.
To think of joys that long have fled, Of youthful hopes indulged in vain, Of feelings waken'd from the dead, And sorrows that have ceased to pain.
To let the thoughts excursive rove, In many a wild prophetic dream, To pour the prayer for those we love And feel that we are dear to them—
To think of friends we fondly loved, Who calmly now in darkness sleep, By all our joys and griefs unmoved— To think with soften'd breast and weep!
Oh! well such moments can repay, For lingering hours of darker thought, When hope has bent ‘neath sorrow's sway, And feeling is with anguish fraught.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Storm
## Storm

The tempest mounts the sky! with hurrying sweep, Driving across the heavens, cloud on cloud, Which ever and anon the lightnings steep In a red glare of flame, as they were proud To make more visible the gloomy shroud, That wraps the thunders:—Now its might is nigh! And faster peal and flame alternate crowd, And the loosed winds sweep onward fearfully, Outpouring on the earth the fountains of the sky.
'T is terrible—yet most sublimely grand! Magnificently awful! how the heart Shrinks from all earthly splendour, as we stand, And view the pomp of the proud storm—I start, As the fork'd flames their glance of brightness dart, Yet scarce in terror, for the tempest's might, Yields of its own sublimity a part, To the wrapt thoughts, and urges up their flight, With free and eagle wing, above their wonted height.
Yet soon to stoop again—the green earth lies Spread out before me, and the heart will yield To the sweet sympathy of human ties, And downward bend from the excursive field Of reverie, where it had been upheld With a strong writhe of thought, to blend again With human sorrows—woes that might be heal'd, If man would be no more the scourge of man, And loose his brother's limbs from slavery's crushing chain.
Yet even now, amid the heavy clouds That long have wrapt the Afric's sky in gloom, Ten-fold more deep than that which darkly shrouds The face of nature, there at length hath come The breaking in of light, which shall illume With a strong glow, ere long, its whole expanse, And, shining on destroy'd oppression's tomb, O'er all the earth its holy light advance, Brilliant and clear and wide as the first sunbeam's glance.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Slave Produce
## Slave Produce

Eat! they are cates for a lady's lip, Rich as the sweets that the wild bees sip; Mingled viands that nature hath pour'd, From the plenteous stores of her flowing board, Bearing no trace of man's cruelty—save The red life-drops of his human slave.
List thee, lady! and turn aside, With a loathing heart, from the feast of pride; For, mix'd with the pleasant sweets it bears, Is the hidden curse of scalding tears, Wrung out from woman's bloodshot eye, By the depth of her deadly agony.
Look! they are robes from a foreign loom, Delicate, light, as the rose leaf's bloom; Stainless and pure in their snowy tint, As the drift unmarked by a footstep's print. Surely such garment should fitting be, For woman's softness and purity.
Yet fling them off from thy shrinking limb, For sighs have render'd their brightness dim; And many a mother's shriek and groan, And many a daughter's burning moan, And many a sob of wild despair, From woman's heart, is lingering there.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Story-Telling
## Story-Telling

Come to the green-wood with me, gentle friend! I know a hidden dell, where the chafed stream Goes bounding playfully with child-like mirth, Over its stony path, and flinging up Its waves, with seeming petulance, in foam. The bank slopes down unevenly, but wears, Like Fairy, a gay mantelet of green, All border'd daintily with bright-hued flowers; The gray old trees bend over it, and up Among their twisted boughs, an ancient vine Hath strongly wreathed its stem. Below, it bends In wayward convolutions o'er the stream, Offering a couch where thou may'st safely sit, While I recline beside thee on the turf; Will not the vine-leaves shade us pleasantly, While we discourse together? wilt thou sing? Or shall we tell sad stories? One I read But yesterday, that lingers with me still, Haunting my memory with its thoughts of woe; 'T was of a dark-brown slave—one whose bright days Of early infancy had pass'd beneath The glowing sun of Africa. She was torn, Ere her tenth summer, from the sight of all That made her childhood happy, and the spring Of all the buoyant hopes that make young hearts So blissful in their dreams, was crush'd at once. She was a sad-eyed girl—she never met In revel scenes, with those who flung aside Their sorrows for mad joyance; but a gleam Of something like to bliss stole o'er her heart, When one, who shared her infant sports, would speak Of those remembered hours. She wedded him; And years of spirit-wearing toil went by, Even amidst her bonds, with almost happiness. He could not brook his chains: a quenchless fire Was in his spirit, and he burst all ties That bound his heart—he left her, and was free; She bore her sorrows patiently, and scarce Let fall a tear-drop; but the gentle ones That call'd her mother, were more closely bound In her bereaved affections; and their love Was all that warm'd the pulses of her heart. Then came another and a darker blight: They were torn from her, one by one, and sold, Those nestlings of her heart; and she grew wild With her exceeding anguish, and her cry Went forth in accusation up to heaven. She wander'd o'er each spot where they had been, Calling their names, and mourning with a grief That had no comforter; until at length The springs of life were wasted; and she laid At twilight hour, her head upon the turf In dying feebleness. There came one by, Who would have spoke her kindly then, and soothed The parting spirit; but the time was past; She raised her head a moment, and once more Repeated the sad burden of her grief: “Me have no children, massa, no one child!” And her last cry was hush'd!
# The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes/A Bundle of Life/Epilogue

EPILOGUE.
Spoken by a Daughter of Eve, who is weeping, and an Angel, who looks out of fashion.
The Angel.
This is only sorrow For To-Day. Life begins To-Morrow!
A Daughter of Eve.
So they say.
The Angel.
Life with one love and laughter Gay and free— Yet no heartache after.
A Daughter of Eve.
Can it be?
The Angel.
Life with work that reaches
To the sky;
Life that never teaches
How to die.
Life that is eternal,
Ever young, ​Ever bright and vernal Just begun!
A Daughter of Eve.
Will To-Morrow ever dawn? Shall we wake that golden morn But to see All the treasures gained by tears, All the faith that's won by fears— Vanity?
The Angel.
Doubter, look behind thee In the past, All the dreams that pleased thee Did one last? Is a wish remaining From thy youth? This thou art retaining If 'twas truth. Mortal passions sicken, Fade away— Love alone can quicken Earthly clay. Faith, and all endeavour That is pure, Hope, and Love, for ever These endure. All things else are folly To the wise,— Quit thy melancholy And thy sighs!
# The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes/A Bundle of Life/Part 2 Chapter 10

X.
WHICH CONTAINS A LETTER WRITTEN THE SAME EVENING BY LADY TWACORBIE TO HER HUSBAND.
"Arden Lodge,
"Near Wensley,
"Mertford.
"Your affectionate wife,
"CHARLOTTE TWACORBIE.
"P.S.—Spalding has just been in to say that he and Danby wish to get married this day month! What could be more tiresome? I begged him to reconsider it, but he said it was too late. He had made up his mind.
"P.S. No. 2.—Ventry has given me to understand that he proposed to Teresa this afternoon, and that she seemed quite annoyed. He is furious, and blames ME. I dare not tell him about Wiche."
# The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes/A Bundle of Life/Part 1 Chapter 4

IV.
Lady Warcop, meanwhile, was pacing the floor of her boudoir. In her hand she held the photograph of a singularly plain little girl, who stood in a cork grotto staring at a stuffed dog. This portrait of Teresa had been taken some ten years before, and Blanche had lacked the courage to send for another. And now, without warning, to be obliged to present this to the world! It was too hard, too bitter, too outrageous. Was ever woman called upon to suffer such mortification? As for motherly feelings, what were they? How could she love a creature she had never seen? Some one had once shown her an infant, but she had felt too ill to notice the piteous object. She did not even understand that it was her own. There was so much cant and nonsense talked about maternal instinct. A cab drove up to the door; with a cry, her Ladyship rushed to the window. Thank goodness, it was only Sidney. What suffering! What suspense! One more day like this, and she would be on her deathbed.
"Ah! so you have come at last, Sidney?" Where had he been all the morning? She made few demands on his time, but she certainly thought that in common decency and merely for the sake of appearances he would have remained with her to receive poor darling Teresa. It was true that she had not yet arrived, but this did not alter the fact that he might have missed her. Poor child! a stranger in her own father's house! But the world was a cruel place, and she, for her part, was sick and tired of it. If it were not for Teresa, who ​needed a mother's care, she was by no means sure that she might not seek a speedy way out of it. Suicide, of course, was wicked, but God was never hard on women. He understood them: men did not....Was that the bell?
"Go and meet her," said Blanche. "Try and look affectionate. I want the poor little thing to think we are glad to see her. As for me, I feel too ill and extraordinary to move."
As she spoke, however, the door was opened, and two nuns, followed by a young girl, were ushered in. Her Ladyship flushed and paled, and, without speaking, with tears raining down her cheeks, took the girl in her arms, tenderly, closely, as only a mother can.
Sir Sidney rubbed his eyes, almost fearing to them on a scene so beautiful, so new in his experience. Blanche seemed to him transfigured, and he saw in that brief moment the woman she might have been: all the fair ambitions she had forgotten, all the good impulses she had not obeyed flashed their pure light on her countenance.
Like some guilty creature, he left the room. He was the only sinner there.
# The Tale of Genji (Waley)/Appendices

APPENDIX I
| A.D. | 0978 (?) | Murasaki born. |
| A.D. | 0994 (?) | Marries Fujiwara no Nobutaka. |
| A.D. | 1001 | Nobutaka dies. |
| A.D. | 1005 (?) | She becomes lady-in-waiting to the Empress Akiko, then a girl of sixteen. |
| A.D. | 1007–1010 | Keeps a diary, which survives. |
| A.D. | 1008 | Book I of the Tale of Genji read to the Emperor. |
| A.D. | 1025 | Murasaki still at Court. |
| A.D. | 1031 | Murasaki no longer at Court and perhaps dead. |
APPENDIX II
The Vestal Virgins of Ise and Kamo.
So important a part do these ladies play in the Tale of Genji that the reader may perhaps wish to know exactly what they were. I may say at the outset that I have used the term ‘vestal’ merely for convenience. These Virgins were not guardians of a sacred fire.
Ise.—Upon the accession of a new Emperor, a princess of the Imperial House (preferably a daughter of the Emperor) was sent to be priestess of the great Shintō shrines at Ise. According to the Nihongi (Bk. V; Emperor Sūjin 6th year) ‘The gods Amaterasu and Ōkunidama were formerly both worshipped in the Emperor’s Palace Hall. But the Emperor Sūjin was frightened of having so much divine power concentrated in one place. Accordingly he entrusted the worship of Amaterasu to the Princess Toyosuku-iri, bidding her carry it out in the village of Kasanui in Yamato.’ Subsequently Amaterasu expressed a desire to be moved to Ise.
The Virgin was usually about twelve years old at the time of her appointment. Cases however are recorded in which she was an infant of one year old; or again, a woman of twenty-eight. Her office lasted till
* (1) The Emperor died or resigned
* (2) She herself died or became disabled
* (3) Either of her parents died
* (4) She misconducted herself.
Kamo.—The Virgin of Kamo, first instituted in A.D. 818 was a replica of the Ise Virgin. She too had her Palace-in-the-Fields, three years of purification, etc. The practice of sending a Virgin to Kamo was discontinued in 1204.
Upon both Virgins curious speech-taboos were imposed. Thus they called
death, ‘recovery’ illness, ‘taking a rest’ weeping, ‘dropping salt water’ blood, ‘sweat’ to strike, ‘to fondle’ a tomb, ‘an earth heap’ meat, ‘vegetables’
All words connected with Buddhism were taboo. Thus Buddha himself was called ‘The Centre’; Buddhist scriptures were called ‘stained paper’; a pagoda, ‘araragi’ (meaning unknown); a temple, ‘a tile-covered place’; a priest (ironically), ‘hair-long’; a nun, ‘female hair-long’; fasting, ‘partial victuals.’
To both Virgins was attached an important retinue of ​male officials. These were appointed by the Emperor and no doubt acted as his agents and informers in the districts of Ise and Kamo.
Probably the Ise Virgin was a very ancient institution which later proved useful for political ends. The Virgin of Kamo, who does not appear on the scene till the ninth century, was presumably instituted simply as a means of spreading Court influence.
# The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy (1st edition)

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
THE
RESTORATION
OF THE
WORKS OF ART TO ITALY:
A POEM.
BY A LADY.
AS IF FOR GODS A DWELLING PLACE. BYRON.
OXFORD, PRINTED BY W. BAXTER; FOR R. PEARSON, HIGH STREET, OXFORD: AND J. EBERS, OLD BOND STREET, LONDON. 1816.
ADVERTISEMENT.
"THE French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its Masterpieces from their pedestals, and dragging them from their temples of marble, transported them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of taste transitory!"
Eustace's Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. p. 60.
* Errata
* The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy
# The Restoration of Our Soil

Serialized article, as published in Once a Week.
* Part 1
* Part 2
# The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy

* The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy (1st edition)
* The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy (2nd Edition)