OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# New Poems (Shorter)/Sister Marie

SISTER MARIE
A Legend of Tyrol
I through the valley of Klausen went By a little stream, and heard it sigh, Down by its bed I crouched and bent A listening ear as it hurried by.
"Lord, have mercy," it murmured low, "Sainted Mother, oh, pray for me!" I laid my hand in the water’s flow "Say, little stream, what your troubles be."
"Virgin Mary, for my soul pray, Lord, have pity," it sighed again, I through the valley did wend my way, Heard it singing the odd refrain.
The stream stole by, "O Christ, on me "Take mercy, Lord, a soul afraid." I looked around and there did see No thing to fear—a peasant maid.
"A fair good-day," she shyly smiled; "A fair good-day to you," said I, "And can you tell me why, sweet child, So loud with prayer the stream goes by."
"'Tis Sister Marie’s voice, they say, (God give her soul for ever rest), Who in yon convent walls did pray As Christ's pure bride she dreamt her blest.
"But came at last a bitter day When out of France flew flame and strife, To still the singing birds and lay Shamed flowers in the red stream of life.
"And ruthless soldiers climbed the hill, Broke through the convent walls and ran Mad through the house to spoil and fill The home that God's pure peace began.
"Before the Saviour's Cross she knelt The fairest nun in all the place, Bowed down until her shoulders felt Rough hands to turn her hidden face.
"She screamed, and up the marble stair Flew like a creature of the wood, And as the hunters on the hare They turned—the chase was in their blood.
"Their shouts came to her like the call Of baying hounds upon her track, The turret roof she reached—the wall— No hiding there—no going back.
"Loud came the soldiers, but she prayed No mercy from her fellows there; Death was more kind—she stood and swayed On the high wall above the glen.
"A moment faltered—then she sprang To the sweet air and God's embrace, And where she fell, the little stream Flowed soft across her dying face.
"So on the wall a cross is made Lest we forget for her to pray, For in God's sight she is afraid Who took her own sweet life away."
She pointed where upon the hill There frowned the old grey convent wall, And there I saw half pictured still, A holy cross rise red and tall.
Down on her knees the fair child bent, "And pity her, dear Lord," she cried— On through the vale the strange stream went. "Ah! pity me, dear Lord," it sighed.
# New Poems (Shorter)/The Good Lord Gave

THE GOOD LORD GAVE
The good Lord gave, the Lord has taken from me, Blessed be His name, His holy will be done: The mourners all have gone, all save I, his mother, The little grave lies lonely in the sun.
Nay! I would not follow, though they did beseech me, For the angels come now waiting for my dead. Heaven’s door is open, so my whispers soar there, While the gentle angels lift him from his bed.
O Lord, when Thou gavest he was weak and helpless, Could not rise nor wander from my shielding arm; Lovely is he now and strong with four sweet summers, Laughing, running, tumbling, hard to keep from harm.
If some tender mother, whose babe on earth is living, Takes his little hand to guide his stranger feet 'Mid the countless hosts that cross the floor of heaven, Thou wilt not reprove her for Thy pity sweet.
If upon her breast she holds his baby beauty, All his golden hair will fall about her hand, Laughing let her fingers pull it into ringlets— Long and lovely ringlets. She will understand.
Wilful are his ways and full of merry mischief; If he prove unruly, lay the blame on me, Never did I chide him for his noise or riot, Smiled upon his folly, glad his joy to see.
Each eve shall I come beside his bed so lowly; "Hush-a-by, my baby," softly shall I sing, So, if he be frightened, full of sleep and anger, The song he loved shall reach him and sure comfort bring.
Lord, if in my praying, Thou should’st hear me weeping, Ever was I wayward, always full of tears, Take no heed of this grief. Sweet the gift Thou gavest All the cherished treasure of those golden years.
Do not, therefore, hold me to Thy will ungrateful; Soon I shall stand upright, smiling, strong, and brave, With a son in heaven the sad earth forgetting, But 'tis lonely yet, Lord, by the little grave, Oh, 'tis lonely, lonely, by the little grave!
# New Poems (Shorter)/The Last Coach

THE LAST COACH
Before her mirror in a pouting mood, Afraid to weep lest anger should revoke The picture there, she did impatient brood Why Fate should treat her worse than other folk.
Her lilac frock her mother's hand caressed, So fond and helpful in maternal pride, Here to its place a slipping button pressed, And there a wayward ribbon softly tied.
"They will not come!" the maid in her despair Cries out on Fate who serves her now so ill: "'Tis past the hour, and oh! they do not care, They have forgot that I am waiting still."
Upon the breeze there comes the sudden beat Of many hoofs and hum of turning wheels, The murmur of low voices in the street, And from afar a church bell faintly peals.
"List!" said the maid, "'tis to my neighbour's gate Come these proud horses, hear their harness ring. Perchance her natal feast she holds in state, And ev'ry guest some precious gift will bring.
"Hark! how they pass, full forty steeds and more, My neighbour's child is but a maid like me; Hear how her friends all whisper by her door, While I forlorn and all neglected be."
"Thy humble coach last in the throng may wait, Slow to advance while others hold the way; Perchance but now it passes to our gate, Let me look forth and seek the strange delay."
The mother rose and to the window went, With sore embittered heart that this parade Was not for her dear girl; then slowly bent There for a moment, silent and dismayed.
Then came her child, in wonder at her mood, Looked forth and saw, her neighbour's home before, How two black steeds in mournful harness stood To draw their coach of sorrow from the door.
"My neighbour's child is but a maid like thee," The mother cried, and swiftly heart to heart They clung, and wept together prayerfully, Till each sad coach did from their gaze depart.
Then came the last, where merry faces pressed Upon the glass all laughing to be late; And beckoning hands all ready to caress— This humble coach did stop before their gate.
# New Poems (Shorter)/Haunted

HAUNTED
How restless are the dead whose silent feet will stray In to our lone retreat or solitary way; Within the dew-wet wood or sun-enchanted lane We meet them face to face, we hear them speak again.
How powerful are the dead whose voices ever speak, So softly by our side in accents faint and weak: They bid us go or stay, or do, or leave undone, We hear them breathe our name ere dawn has well begun.
How silent are the dead when come accusing fears To chide our aching hearts, to fill our days with tears:
They hush not now our grief, nor heed us as we plead For some unspoken word, or some ungentle deed.
Beside the golden fire they take the empty chair They tread from room to room, they pass from stair to stair, And when comes tranquil night to call to us to sleep Within our pleasant dreams the restless dead will creep.
How pitiless the dead who come in dearest guise And most beloved ways before our wistful eyes; To cry to us lost words that we remembered not, To act again each scene that we had half forgot.
And should we seek to ease our heart with some caress How timidly they fly and leave us loneliness: How fugitive the dead who at our stricken call Hide in the chilly tomb and answer not at all.
# New Poems (Shorter)/The Cry Eternal

THE CRY ETERNAL
Last eve and through the night I heard a cry Go forth across the fields, and still to-day I hear it echo, and the fierce reply Of some poor stricken heart too far away.
Beside my gate a little calf, bereft Of those maternal cares that were his right, Calls for the milky comfort he has left, And learns his first hard lesson through the night.
And from afar the answering cries repeat His grief forlorn, his longing, and his woe— Poor mother mourning, in her green retreat, Her helpless young lost in the vale below.
And I had come unto the quiet ways Of pleasant fields, of woods so cool and deep, To lose those cries that from the city’s maze Wearied my hours and broke my troubled sleep.
To hear this lone and this most stricken call Of all earth's prayers that pierce the eternal height And by the closed doors of Heaven fall— What woman's heart can bear it through the night?
# New Poems (Shorter)/The Four Children

THE FOUR CHILDREN
A Ballad of Good Intentions
Four children played by an old oak tree, Big John and James and little Benjie, And, threading a chain of daisies fine, On the leaf-brown sward knelt Geraldine.
Quoth John, "I'll ride on the gipsies' roac, For narrow space and a small abode Would break this vagrant heart in me, And the world is wide and good to see."
"I'll stay," said James, "for my father's sake From his ageing hand his toil to take, So he have at last his heart's desire To sit at ease by the glowing fire."
"I shall not work," said little Benjie, "Nor roam the world that is fair to see; But here I'll stay in the green beech wood, By my mother’s side and I'll just be good."
Linking her chain sweet Geraldine said, "Big John or James I will surely wed; I soon must choose which shall best please me, I care not at all for little Benjie." ·····The oak grows brown and the oak grows green, The owl and thrush on her branch have been; For fifty winters a snood of snow She wears all white till the spring winds blow.
For fifty autumns a robe of red She wears till the wet west wind has fled, But ne'er from dawn till the dusk of day Hath she heard the sound of a child at play.
Big John grows old and all full of care, He works till night in his oaken chair; His feet have led him not long nor late, No more than a league from his father's gate.
Where yew trees wave and their dark leaves shed Young James lies cold in his four-foot bed, O soft did his father lay him down, And over him drew the earth so brown.
In a far-off land on a lonely height Geraldine weeps full many a night, And prays all day 'neath a gallows tree Where hangs the corpse of little Benjie.
# New Poems (Shorter)/Leaves

LEAVES
On the dry brown bough The withered leaves still cling In their last desperate hold And ceaseless murmuring.
They push the swinging branch To beat upon the pane; "Save us," they whispering cry— “We shall not live again!"
She laughs in pretty play, The child beside my chair, “Look at the linden tree! The leaves are dancing there.
"Are swaying on the branch, Are singing in their glee; The little song I hear Is, 'I am glad to be.'"
At night when she doth rest From all her laughing hours, And plays in dreamy vales With everlasting flowers.
I hear the withered leaves Beat loud upon the pane, "Save us," they screaming cry— "We shall not live again!"
What grief within my breast Beats to the tapping call? Deep in my heart I hear The rustling of their fall.
# New Poems (Shorter)/Rain After Drought

RAIN AFTER DROUGHT
All night the small feet of the rain Within the garden ran, And gentle fingers tapped the pane Until the dawn began.
The rill-like voices called and sung The slanting roof beside; "The children of the clouds have come; Awake! awake!" they cried.
"Weep no more the drooping rose Nor mourn the thirsting tree, The little children of the storm Have gained their liberty."
All night the small feet of the rain About my garden ran, Their rill-like voices called and cried Until the dawn began.
# New Poems (Shorter)/The Guardian Angels

THE GUARDIAN ANGELS
A Ballad
Father John in the green lane went And he drew his robe full tight, "I would," quoth he, "I were home again For there’s evil in the night.
"I would," quoth he, "the gold I bear Were safe with the poor and old, For strange the fear that follows me That my eyes cannot behold."
He looked him left and there he saw A white rose climb and cling, He looked him right and in the brake A wild bird shook his wing.
He looked him back and far there stood The old church tall and dim, Yet on the lonely path there came A terror strange to him.
Without the shadow of the trees That bent above his way, Where lost the moon her silver light, He stood at last at bay.
And on his gown, from his pale brow Fell great tears of his fright; His shaking hands held close the gold Wrapped in its cloth so white.
He knelt him down upon his knee And prayed the Lord to hear, "Christ, loosen Thou these laggard feet That hold me slow in fear.
"Oh, strengthen Thou this childish heart That trembles all afraid, In pity for the calling sick Who die without my aid.
"And let me bring all safely through The shadows of the night, The gold I bear for old and poor, Still Thou this strange affright."
And as he prayed from off his heart Fear’s clutching fingers fell, A holy joy grew in his heart He knew that all was well.
He turned him left and stayed to take A white rose from her tree, He turned him right and lilted low A wild bird melody.
He looked him back and smiling saw The tall church guarding him, And then all fearless laughing sped Through shadows strange and dim. ·····When but a year had passed away There came before his gate, A dying man who "Succour," cried "Before it be too late."
"Oh, shrive me, Father, ere I die," The moaning stranger said; He took him to his own hearth side And laid him on his bed.
"Oh, Father! Father! hear me now And let me rest in peace." "Now speak, my son, and tell your sin To give your soul release."
"It was one night a year ago— Sweet Mary, ease my pain— I followed far your toiling feet Within a lonely lane.
"The red gold for the old and poor You had beneath your gown, I hid within a darksome place Where I could strike you down."
Now Father John he smiled and leant In pity by the bed, "I did disarm you by my prayer, I thank the Lord," he said.
"I went in fear upon my path I knew some danger lay, And lone I knelt upon the road A little while to pray."
The dying man he raised his head And laughed both long and loud, "Oh, ne'er a prayer would hold my hand Or keep you from your shroud.
"But by you went two mighty men To guard you either side, Else had my dagger reached your heart And surely you had died."
Then Father John upon his knees Bent low his holy head, "God's angels walked beside me there Lest you my blood should shed: My guardian angels walked by me, I thank Thee, Lord," he said.
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume III/Moral Treatises of St. Augustin/Of the Work of Monks/Section 14

14. Here peradventure some man may say, “If it was bodily work that the Apostle wrought, whereby to sustain this life, what was that same work, and when did he find time for it, both to work and to preach the Gospel?” To whom I answer: Suppose I do not know; nevertheless that he did bodily work, and thereby lived in the flesh, and did not use the power which the Lord had given to the Apostles, that preaching the Gospel he should live by the Gospel, those things above-said do without all doubt bear witness. For it is not either in one place or briefly said, that it should be possible for any most astute arguer with all his tergiversation to traduce and pervert it to another meaning. Since then so great an authority, with so mighty and so frequent blows mauling the gainsayers, doth break in pieces their contrariness, why ask they of me either what sort of work he did, or when he did it? One thing I know, that he neither did steal, nor was a housebreaker or highwayman, nor chariot-driver or hunter or player, nor given to filthy lucre: but innocently and honestly wrought things which are fitted for the uses of men; such as are the works of carpenters, builders, shoemakers, peasants, and such like. For honesty itself reprehends not what their pride doth reprehend, who love to be called, but love not to be, honest. The Apostle then would not disdain either to take in hand any work of peasants, or to be employed in the labor of craftsmen. For he who saith, “Be ye without offense to Jews and to Greeks and to the Church of God,” before what men he could possibly stand abashed, I know not. If they shall say, the Jews; the Patriarchs fed cattle: if the Greeks, whom we call also Pagans; they have had philosophers, held in high honor, who were shoemakers: if the Church of God; that just man, elect to the testimony of a conjugal and ever-during virginity, to whom was betrothed the Virgin Mary who bore Christ, was a carpenter. Whatever therefore of these with innocence and without fraud men do work, is good. For the Apostle himself takes precaution of this, that no man through necessity of sustaining life should turn aside to evil works. “Let him that stole,” saith he, “steal no more; but rather let him labor good with his hands, that he may have to impart to him that needeth.” This then is enough to know, that also in the very work of the body the Apostle did work that which is good.

## Footnotes

* ↑ 1 Cor. x. 32
* ↑ Matt. xiii. 55
* ↑ Eph. iv. 28
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume III/Moral Treatises of St. Augustin/Of the Work of Monks/Section 11

11. And he goes on, and adjoins, lest perchance any should imagine that he only therefore received not, because they had not given: “But I have not written these things that they may be so done unto me: good is it for me rather to die than that any make void my glory.” What glory, unless that which he wished to have with God, while in Christ suffering with the weak? As he is presently about to say most openly; “For if I shall have preached the Gospel, there is not to me any glory: for necessity is laid upon me;” that is, of sustaining this life. “For woe will be to me,” he saith, “if I preach not the Gospel:” that is, to my own will shall I forbear to preach the Gospel, because I shall be tormented with hunger, and shall not have whereof to live. For he goes on, and says; “For if willingly I do this, I have a reward.” By his doing it willingly, he means, if he do it uncompelled by any necessity of supporting this present life; and for this he hath reward, to wit, with God, of glory everlasting. “But if unwilling,” saith he, “a dispensation is entrusted unto me:” that is, if being unwilling, I am by necessity of passing through this present life, compelled to preach the Gospel, “a dispensation is entrusted unto me;” to wit, that by my dispensation as a steward, because Christ, because the truth, is that which I preach, howsoever because of occasion, howsoever seeking mine own, howsoever by necessity of earthly emolument compelled so to do, other men do profit, but I have not that glorious and everlasting reward with God. “What then,” saith he, “shall be my reward?” He saith it as asking a question: therefore the pronunciation must be suspended, until he give the answer. Which the more easily to understand, let, as it were, us put the question to him, “What, then, will be thy reward, O Apostle, when that earthly reward due to good evangelists, not for its sake evangelizing, but yet taking it as the consequence and offered to them by the Lord’s appointment, thou acceptest not? What shall be thy reward then?” See what he replies: “That, preaching the Gospel, I may make the Gospel of Christ without charge;” that is, that the Gospel may not be to believers expensive, lest they account that for this end is the Gospel to be preached to them, that its preachers should seem as it were to sell it. And yet he comes back again and again, that he may show what, by warrant of the Lord, he hath a right unto, yet doeth not: “that I abuse not,” saith he, “my power in the Gospel.”

## Footnotes

* ↑ 1 Cor. ix. 15
* ↑ 1 Cor. ix. 16. [See R.V.]
* ↑ 1 Cor. ix. 17
* ↑ 1 Cor. ix. 18
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume III/Moral Treatises of St. Augustin/Of the Work of Monks/Section 1

1. Thy bidding, holy brother Aurelius, it was meet that I should comply withal, with so much the more devotion, by how much the more it became clear unto me Who, out of thee, did speak that bidding. For our Lord Jesus Christ, dwelling in thine inner part, and inspiring into thee a solicitude of fatherly and brotherly charity, whether our sons and brothers the monks, who neglect to obey blessed Paul the Apostle, when he saith, “If any will not work, neither let him eat,” are to have that license permitted unto them; He, assuming unto His work thy will and tongue, hath commanded me out of thee, that I should hereof write somewhat unto thee. May He therefore Himself be present with me also, that I may obey in such sort that from His gift, in the very usefulness of fruitful labor, I may understand that I am indeed obeying Him.

## Footnotes

* ↑ 2 Thess. iii. 10. [R.V.]
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume III/Moral Treatises of St. Augustin/Of Holy Virginity/Translator's Preface

Retr. ii. 23. “After I had written ‘on the Good of Marriage,’ it was expected that I should write on Holy Virginity; and I did not delay to do so: and that it is God’s gift, and how great a gift, and with what humility to be guarded, so far as I was able I set forth in one volume. This book begins,” &c.
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume III/Moral Treatises of St. Augustin/Of the Work of Monks

Of the Work of Monks.
[De Opere Monachorum.]
Translated by Rev. H. Browne, M.A.
Of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge; Late Principal of the Diocesan College, Chichester.

## Contents

* Translator's Preface
* Section 1
* Section 2
* Section 3
* Section 4
* Section 5
* Section 6
* Section 7
* Section 8
* Section 9
* Section 10
* Section 11
* Section 12
* Section 13
* Section 14
* Section 15
* Section 16
* Section 17
* Section 18
* Section 19
* Section 20
* Section 21
* Section 22
* Section 23
* Section 24
* Section 25
* Section 26
* Section 27
* Section 28
* Section 29
* Section 30
* Section 31
* Section 32
* Section 33
* Section 34
* Section 35
* Section 36
* Section 37
* Section 38
* Section 39
* Section 40
* Section 41
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume III/Moral Treatises of St. Augustin/Of the Work of Monks/Section 15

15. But when he might use to work, that is, in what spaces of time, that he might not be hindered from preaching the Gospel, who can make out? Though, truly, that he wrought at hours of both day and night himself hath not left untold. Yet these men truly, who as though very full of business and occupation inquire about the time of working, what do they? Have they from Jerusalem round about even to Illyricum filled the lands with the Gospel? or whatever of barbarian nations hath remained yet to be gone unto, and to be filled of the peace of the Church, have they undertaken? We know them into a certain holy society, most leisurely gathered together. A marvellous thing did the Apostle, that in very deed amid his so great care of all the Churches, both planted and to be planted, to his care and labor appertaining, he did also with his hands work: yet on that account, when he was with the Corinthians, and wanted, was burdensome to no man of those among whom he was, but altogether that which was lacking to him the brethren which came from Macedonia supplied.

## Footnotes

* ↑ 1 Thess. ii. 9; 2 Thess. iii. 8
* ↑ Rom. xv. 19
* ↑ 2 Cor. xi. 9