OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/On the Union

ON THE UNION.
THE queen has lately lost a part Of her entirely-english heart, For want of which, by way of botch, She piec'd it up again with scotch, Blest revolution! which creates Divided hearts, united states! See how the double nation lies, Like a rich coat, with skirts of frize: As if a man, in making posies, Should bundle thistles up with roses. Who ever yet a union saw Of kingdoms without faith or law? Henceforward let no statesman dare A kingdom to a ship compare; Lest he should call our commonweal, A vessel with a double keel: Which, just like ours, new rigg'd and mann'd, And got about a league from land, By change of wind to leeward side, The pilot knew not how to guide. So tossing faction will o'erwhelm Our crazy double-bottom'd realm.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/On Paddy's Character of the Intelligencer

ON
PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE INTELLIGENCER.
1729
AS a thorn bush, or oaken bough, Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, Above the door, on country fair, Betokens entertainment there; So bays on poets' brows have been Set, for a sign of wit within. And, as ill neighbours in the night Pull down an alehouse bush for spite; The laurel so, by poets worn, Is by the teeth of Envy torn; Envy, a canker-worm, which tears Those sacred leaves that lightning spares. And now t' exemplify this moral: Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel, (Which, measur'd on his head, was found Not long enough to reach half round, But, like a girl's cockade, was ty'd, A trophy, on his temple-side) Paddy repin'd to see him wear This badge of honour in his hair; ​And, thinking this cockade of wit Would his own temples better fit, Forming his Muse by Smedley's model, Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle, Pelts him by turns with verse and prose, Hums like a hornet at his nose, At length presumes to vent his satire on The dean, Tom's honoured friend and patron. The eagle in the tale, ye know, Teas'd by a buzzing wasp below, Took wing to Jove, and hop'd to rest Securely in the thunderer's breast: In vain; even there, to spoil his nod. The spiteful insect stung the god.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/On Reading Dr. Young's Satires

ON READING DR. YOUNG'S SATIRES
CALLED
THE UNIVERSAL PASSION.
1726.
IF there be truth in what you sing, Such godlike virtues in the king; A minister so fill'd with zeal And wisdom for the commonweal: ​If he who in the chair presides So steadily the senate guides: If others, whom you make your theme, Are seconds in the glorious scheme: If every peer, whom you commend, To worth and learning be a friend: If this be truth, as you attest, What land was ever half so blest! No falsehood now among the great, And tradesmen now, no longer cheat; Now on the bench fair Justice shines; Her scale to neither side inclines: Now Pride and Cruelty are flown, And Mercy here exalts her throne: For such is good example's power, It does its office every hour, Where governours are good and wise; Or else the truest maxim lyes: For so we find all ancient sages Decree, that, ad exemplum regis, Through all the realm his virtues run, Ripening and kindling like the sun. If this be true, then how much more When you have nam'd at least a score Of courtiers, each in their degree, If possible, as good as he! Or take it in a different view. I ask (if what you say be true) If you affirm the present age Deserves your satire's keenest rage: If that same universal passion With every vice has fill'd the nation: ​If virtue dares not venture down A single step beneath the crown: If clergymen, to show their wit, Praise classicks more than holy writ: If bankrupts, when they are undone, Into the senate house can run, And sell their votes at such a rate, As will retrieve a lost estate: If law be such a partial whore, To spare the rich, and plague the poor: If these be of all crimes the worst, What land was ever half so curst?
* ↑ Sir Robert Walpole, afterward earl of Orford.
* ↑ Sir Spencer Compton, then speaker, afterward earl of Wilmington.
# The poetical works of Matthew Arnold/Stanzas from Carnac

STANZAS FROM CARNAC.
Far on its rocky knoll descried, Saint Michael's chapel cuts the sky. I climbed; beneath me, bright and wide, Lay the lone coast of Brittany.
Bright in the sunset, weird and still, It lay beside the Atlantic wave, As though the wizard Merlin's will Yet charmed it from his forest-grave.
Behind me on their grassy sweep, Bearded with lichen, scrawled and gray, The giant stones of Carnac sleep, In the mild evening of the May.
No priestly stern procession now Streams through their rows of pillars old; No victims bleed, no Druids bow: Sheep make the daisied aisles their fold.
From bush to bush the cuckoo flies, The orchis red gleams everywhere; Gold furze with broom in blossom vies, The bluebells perfume all the air.
And o'er the glistening, lonely land, Rise up, all round, the Christian spires; The church of Carnac, by the strand, Catches the westering sun's last fires.
And there, across the watery way, See, low above the tide at flood, The sickle-sweep of Quiberon Bay, Whose beach once ran with loyal blood!
​And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!— All round, no soul, no boat, no hail; But, on the horizon's verge descried, Hangs, touched with light, one snowy sail.
Ah! where is he who should have come Where that far sail is passing now, Past the Loire's mouth, and by the foam Of Finistère's unquiet brow,—
Home, round into the English wave?— He tarries where the Rock of Spain Mediterranean waters lave; He enters not the Atlantic main.
Oh, could he once have reached this air Freshened by plunging tides, by showers! Have felt this breath he loved, of fair Cool Northern fields, and grass, and flowers!
He longed for it—pressed on. In vain! At the Straits failed that spirit brave. The South was parent of his pain, The South is mistress of his grave.
# The poetical works of Matthew Arnold/Stanzas in Memory of Edward Quillinan

STANZAS.
In Memory of Edward Quillinan.
I saw him sensitive in frame, I knew his spirits low; And wished him health, success, and fame— I do not wish it now.
For these are all their own reward, And leave no good behind; They try us, oftenest make us hard, Less modest, pure, and kind.
Alas! yet to the suffering man, In this his mortal state, Friends could not give what fortune can,— Health, ease, a heart elate.
But he is now by fortune foiled No more; and we retain The memory of a man unspoiled, Sweet, generous, and humane;
With all the fortunate have not, With gentle voice and brow. —Alive, we would have changed his lot: We would not change it now.
# The poetical works of Matthew Arnold/The Better Part

THE BETTER PART.
Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare! "Christ," some one says, "was human as we are; No judge eyes us from heaven, our sin to scan;
We live no more, when we have done our span." "Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, "who can care? From sin which Heaven records not, why forbear? Live we like brutes our life without a plan!"
So answerest thou; but why not rather say,— "Hath man no second life? Pitch this one high! Sits there no judge in heaven, our sin to see?
More strictly, then, the inward Judge obey! Was Christ a man like us? Ah! let us try If we then, too, can be such men as he!"
# The poetical works of Matthew Arnold/The Divinity

THE DIVINITY.
"Yes, write it in the rock," Saint Bernard said, "Grave it on brass with adamantine pen! 'Tis God himself becomes apparent, when God's wisdom and God's goodness are displayed;
For God of these his attributes is made."— Well spake the impetuous saint, and bore of men The suffrage captive: now not one in ten Recalls the obscure opposer he outweighed.
​God's wisdom and God's goodness! Ay, but fools Mis-define these till God knows them no more. Wisdom and goodness, they are God!—what schools
Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore? This no saint preaches, and this no Church rules; 'Tis in the desert, now and heretofore.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 11/From Jonathan Swift to Robert Harley - 5

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD,
ON HEARING HIS INTENTIONS TO RESIGN HIS STAFF.
TO MORROW sevennight I shall set out from hence to Ireland; my license for absense being so near out, that I can stay no longer without taking another. I say this, that if you have any commands, I shall have just time enough to receive them before I go. And if you resign in a few days, as I am told you design to do, you may possibly retire to Herefordshire, where I shall readily attend you, if you soon withdraw; or, after a few months' stay in Ireland, I will return at the beginning of winter, if you please to command me. I speak in the dark, because I am altogether so; and what I say may be absurd. You will please to pardon me; for, as I am wholly ignorant, so I have none of your composure of mind. I pray God Almighty direct and defend you, &c.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 11/From Jonathan Swift to William King - 1

TO DR. KING, BISHOP OF DERRY.
I WAS several times to wait on your lordship at your lodgings; but you were either abroad, or so engaged, that I could not be permitted the honour to attend you. I have an humble request to your lordship, that you will please to excuse me if I cannot be at the triennial visitation; for, my lord and lady continually residing at the lodge, I am obliged to a constant attendance there.
I am, with all respect,
My lord,
Your lordship's most obedient
and most humble servant,
JON. SWIFT.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 11/From Jonathan Swift to Robert Harley - 4

TO LORD TREASURER OXFORD.
WHEN I was with you, I have said more than once, that I would never allow quality or station made any real difference between men. Being now absent and forgotten, I have changed my mind: you have a thousand people who can pretend they love you, with as much appearance of sincerity as I; so that, according to common justice, I can have but a thousandth part in return of what I give. And this difference is wholly owing to your station. And the misfortune is still the greater, because I always loved you just so much the worse for your station: for, in your publick capacity, you have often angered me to the heart; but, as a private man, never once. So that, if I only look toward myself, I could wish you a private man to morrow: for I have nothing to ask; at least nothing that you will give, which is the same thing: and then you would see whether I should not with much more willingness attend you in a retirement, whenever you please to give me leave, than ever I did at London or Windsor. From these sentiments, I will never write to you, if I can help it, otherwise than as to a private person, or allow myself to have been obliged by you in any other capacity.
Tht memory of one great instance of your candour and justice, I will carry to my grave: that ​having been in a manner domestick with you for almost four years, it was never in the power of any publick, or concealed enemy, to make you think ill of me, though malice and envy were often employed to that end. If I live, posterity shall know that, and more; which, though you, and somebody that shall be nameless, seem to value less than I could wish, is all the return I can make you. Will you give me leave to say how I would desire to stand in your memory? As one, who was truly sensible of the honour you did him, though he was too proud to be vain upon it: as one, who was neither assuming, officious, nor teasing; who never wilfully misrepresented persons or facts to you, nor consulted his passions when he gave a character: and lastly, as one, whose indiscretions proceeded altogether from a weak head, and not an ill heart. I will add one thing more, which is the highest compliment I can make, that I never was afraid of offending you, nor am now in any pain for the manner I write to you in. I have said enough; and, like one at your levee, having made my bow, I shrink back into the crowd. I am, &c.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 11/From Jonathan Swift to Robert Harley - 6

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD.
IT may look like an idle or officious thing in me, to give your lordship any interruption under your present circumstances: yet I could never forgive myself, if, after being treated for several years with the greatest kindness and distinction, by a person of your lordship's virtue, I should omit making you at this time the humblest offers of my poor service and attendance. It is the first time I ever solicited you in my own behalf; and if I am refused, it will be the first request you ever refused me. I do not think myself obliged to regulate my opinions by the ​proceedings of a house of lords or commons; and therefore, however they may acquit themselves in your lordship's case, I shall take the liberty of thinking and calling your lordship the ablest and faithfullest minister, and truest lover of your country, that this age has produced: and I have already taken care that you shall be so represented to posterity, in spite of all the rage and malice of your enemies. And this I know will not be wholly indifferent to your lordship; who, next to a good conscience, always esteemed reputation your best possession. Your intrepid behaviour under this prosecution astonishes every one but me, who know you so well, and how little it is in the power of human actions or events to discompose you. I have seen your lordship labouring under greater difficulties, and exposed to greater dangers, and overcoming both, by the providence of God, and your own wisdom and courage. Your life has been already attempted by private malice; it is now pursued by publick resentment. Nothing else remained. You were destined to both trials; and the same power, which delivered you out of the paws of the lion and the bear, will, I trust, deliver you out of the hands of the uncircumcised.
I can write no more. You suffer for a good cause; for having preserved your country, and for having been the great instrument, under God, of his present majesty's peaceable accession to the throne. This I know, and this your enemies know; and this I will take care that all the world shall know, and future ages be convinced of. God Almighty protect you, and continue to you that fortitude and magnanimity he has endowed you with! Farewell.
J. S.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 11/From Jonathan Swift to William King - 12

TO ARCHBISHOP KING.
HAVING writ to your grace so lately, I only now make bold to let you know, that on Tuesday I was to wait on Mr. secretary St. John, who told me from Mr. Harley, that I need not to be in pain about the first-fruits, for the warrant was drawn in order toward a patent; but must pass two several forms, and take up some time, for the queen designs to make a grant by her letters patent. I shall take all due methods to hasten it as far as I am able; but in these cases they are generally pretty tedious. Mr. Harley likewise sent me the same day, by another person, the same message. I dined with him about four days ago; but, there being much company, and he going away in haste pretty soon after dinner, he had not time to tell me so himself. Indeed he has been so ready to do every thing in this matter as I would have him, that he never needed pressing; which, considering both the weight and difficulty of affairs at present on his shoulders, is very extraordinary, and what I never met from a great minister before, I had thought, and so Mr. Harley told me, that the queen would have sent a letter to the bishops; but this is a shorter way, and I hope your grace will like it. I am, with the greatest respect, my lord,
Your grace's most dutiful
and most humble servant,
J. SWIFT.
# The volunteer, and other poems/The Fallen Subaltern

THE FALLEN SUBALTERN.
THE starshells float above, the bayonets glisten; We bear our fallen friend without a sound; Below the waiting legions lie and listen To us, who march upon their burial-ground.
Wound in the flag of England, here we lay him; The guns will flash and thunder o'er the grave; What other winding sheet should now array him, What other music should salute the brave?
As goes the Sun-god in his chariot glorious, When all his golden banners are unfurled, So goes the soldier, fallen but victorious, And leaves behind a twilight in the world.
And those, who come this way in days hereafter, Will know that here a boy for England fell, Who looked at danger with the eyes of laughter, And on the charge his days were ended well.
​One last salute; the bayonets clash, and glisten; With arms reversed we go without a sound: One more has joined the men who lie and listen To us, who march upon their burial-ground.
1915.
# The volunteer, and other poems/The Western Line

THE WESTERN LINE.
Flanders, 1915.
THOR draws a chord invisible Across the shaking sky: I hear the tearing of the shell, The bullets sing and cry, As, charging through the flames of hell, The batteries go by.
The gunners laugh about the task, That man to man has given: Like Titans, now the guns unmask And fire the veils of heaven. Above the cloud what lights are gleaming? God's batteries are those, Or souls of soldiers homeward streaming To banquet with their foes? The floods of battle ebb and flow, The soldiers to Valhalla go!
They say that, when the day awoke And the dying night was wan, Harry of England rode the smoke, And led the English van: ​And bowmen in the battle-glare Rose from the ghostly dew: The clothyard sang upon the air And the grey goose-feather flew! Harry of England is awake, His archers mind not trench or stake!
And men have seen the Emperor, The Eagle of the South: God grant the bonds be loosed by Thor That bind that marble mouth! The silver roads of conquest lie Fast frozen in his brow: Would those imperious lips were free To give their orders now! The floods of battle ebb and flow, The soldiers to Valhalla go!
Beyond the thunder of the guns, Beyond the flaming line, Far from this sky of echoing bronze, The English valleys shine, The gardens moated in the wolds By wind and water kissed, And dainty girls, that England folds In sunshine and in mist. The floods of battle ebb and flow, The soldiers to Valhalla go!
​The soldier has his girls to love, And he has his rum to drink, But, when the lines of battle move, He has little time to think: Sometimes he wins a victory; Somewhere the battle ends; And there the paths of glory lie, Where lie the soldier's friends. The floods of battle ebb and flow, The soldiers to Valhalla go!
The fighting men go charging past, With the battle in their eyes, The fighting men go reeling past, Like gods in poor disguise: The glorious men whom none will see, No wife or mother more, Winged with the wings of Victory, And helmeted by Thor! Above the cloud what lights are gleaming? God's batteries are those, Or souls of soldiers homeward streaming To banquet with their foes?
# The volunteer, and other poems/Venice

VENICE.
IN domes of dim and ancient gold, In cloisters, where the lightning plays, Where gleam the gorgeous saints of old In aisles of jade and chrysoprase, In halls that wave like waving water, Still moves the voice of Ocean's daughter.
Venice! What siren music then Stirred on the shoals and shallow sea, When that small band of wandering men First in their dreams imagined thee, And hung that lyric splendour high Between the water and the sky!
What Triton strains in other days Were heard, when, on a sea of flame, Thy battlefleet swung through the haze, And homeward in her glory came, Bearing the beauty of the East To make Thy happy saint a feast.
Now, though that sceptre-hand be cold, Those argent argosies no more Their Tyrian-tinted wings unfold From Cyprus unto Elsinore; With broken sword, and banner furled, How dies the Siren of the world?
​The cloud has lifted from the stars, And now again the starlight falls; Now Venus calls again to Mars, And Bacchus reels about his halls; And, lovely in a thousand forms, Our Lady drifts above the storms.
Among the moonlit marble lace, That wreathes this avenue forlorn, Some God has made his dwelling place And takes his manna from the morn, And every young and wandering soul, That passes here, must pay its toll.
Far off the city fades away, Save where one tow'r of rosy light, Like some dissolving shaft of day, Pierces the bosom of the night: The distant lightning breaks its shroud Valhalla gleams beyond the cloud.
Alone we float through gulfs remote, The black canal no longer seen; My boat it is a fairy boat, Above the ripple silver-green, Upon the wavelet violet-crowned, My boat and I are outward bound!
1913.
# The wild flower's song (stanza 1)

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
From Notebook, p. 107, reversed. See also I slept in the dark, The wild flowers song, and Songs and Ballads.
The wild flower's song
As I wander'd the forest,
The green leaves among,
I heard a wild [thistle del.] flower
Singing a Song:
"I slept in the [dark 'del.] earth, &c."
________

## Wikisource notes

* ↑ The rest of the poem: I slept in the earth In the silent night I murmurd my fears And I felt delight In the morning I went As rosy as morn To seek for new Joy, But I met with scorn. The title and introductory stanza and were written two pages after the 2nd and 3rd stanzas. G. Keynes printed them separately and numbered as Nos. 20 & 30. In some other editions they unnumbered and printed together.
# The volunteer, and other poems/The Volunteer

THE VOLUNTEER.
HERE lies a clerk who half his life had spent Toiling at ledgers in a city grey, Thinking that so his days would drift away With no lance broken in life's tournament: Yet ever 'twixt the books and his bright eyes The gleaming eagles of the legions came, And horsemen, charging under phantom skies, Went thundering past beneath the oriflamme.
And now those waiting dreams are satisfied; From twilight to the halls of dawn he went; His lance is broken; but he lies content With that high hour, in which he lived and died. And falling thus he wants no recompense, Who found his battle in the last resort; Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence, Who goes to join the men of Agincourt.
# The volunteer, and other poems/To a Baby found paddling near the Lines

TO A BABY FOUND PADDLING NEAR THE LINES.
HAIL! O Baby of the May In the bubbling river-bed, Playing where the cannon play, With the shrapnel overhead! Sparkling in and flashing out Through the eddies and the shallows, With your feet among the trout, And your head among the swallows; While the wag-tails on the daisies Lead you in the minuet, Twinkling through the flow'ry mazes, Baby, do you quite forget That, with shrapnel overhead, Other babes are put to bed?
Baby, may the buttercup, When you tumble, pick you up; If you fall beside the willow, Lilies rise to be your pillow! In the winter should you go Straying far without a rest, Down beneath the drifting snow May you be the mouse's guest; ​May the bull-frog be your Knight, And the tit your templar true! May the fairy guide you right Wandering through a misty land, At the crossings of the dew, With the rainbow in her hand! Should you fall from branches high And go tumbling down the sky, May the heron in the air Take you floating on his wings, And the cloudlets be your stair, Over palaces of Kings: Riding high above the wold, Larks your sentinels shall be, Challenging with tongues of gold Those who try to cage the free!
So, philosopher of May, With my blessing go your way! If you win such friends as these You need never have a care, Cannon you may safely tease, And may juggle, at your ease, With the whizzbang in the air: Though the world be full of sadness, You may still have fun and gladness, And be happy for a day, Playing where the cannon play.