OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/A Girl at her Devotions

A GIRL AT HER DEVOTIONS.
BY NEWTON.
She was just risen from her bended knee, But yet peace seem'd not with her piety; For there was paleness upon her young cheek, And thoughts upon the lips which never speak, But wring the heart that at the last they break. Alas! how much of misery may be read In that wan forehead, and that bow'd down head:— Her eye is on a picture, woe that ever Love should thus struggle with a vain endeavour
Against itself: it is a common tale, And ever will be while earth soils prevail Over earth's happiness; it tells she strove With silent, secret, unrequited love.
 It matters not its history; love has wings Like lightning, swift and fatal, and it springs Like a wild flower where it is least expected, Existing whether cherish'd or rejected; Living with only but to be content, Hopeless, for love is its own element,— Requiring nothing so that it may be The martyr of its fond fidelity. A mystery art thou, thou mighty one! We speak thy name in beauty, yet we shun To own thee, Love, a guest; the poet's songs Are sweetest when their voice to thee belongs,
And hope, sweet opiate, tenderness, delight, Are terms which are thy own peculiar right; Yet all deny their master,—who will own His breast thy footstool, and his heart thy throne?
 'Tis strange to think if we could fling aside The masque and mantle that love wears from pride, How much would be, we now so little guess, Deep in each heart's undream'd, unsought recess. The careless smile, like a gay banner borne, The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn,— And for a cloak what is there that can be So difficult to pierce as gaiety? Too dazzling to be scann'd, the haughty brow Seems to hide something it would not avow; But rainbow words, light laugh, and thoughtless jest, These are the bars, the curtain to the breast,
That shuns a scrutiny: and she, whose form Now bends in grief beneath the bosom's storm, Has hidden well her wound,—now none are nigh To mock with curious or with careless eye, (For love seeks sympathy, a chilling yes, Strikes at the root of its best happiness, And mockery is worm-wood), she may dwell On feelings which that picture may not tell.
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Alexander and Phillip

ALEXANDER AND PHILLIP.
He stood by the river's side  A conqueror and a king,  None match'd his step of pride  Amid the armed ring. And a heavy echo rose from the ground, As a thousand warriors gather'd round.
 And the morning march had been long,  And the noontide sun was high,
And weariness bow'd down the strong,  And heat closed every eye; And the victor stood by the river's brim Whose coolness seem'd but made for him.
 The cypress spread their gloom  Like a cloak from the noontide beam,  He flung back his dusty plume,  And plunged in the silver stream; He plunged like the young steed, fierce and wild, He was borne away like the feeble child.
 They took the king to his tent  From the river's fatal banks,  A cry of terror went  Like a storm through the Grecian ranks:
Was this the fruit of their glories won, Was this the death for Ammon's son?
 Many a leech heard the call,  But each one shrank away;  For heavy upon all  Was the weight of fear that day: When a thought of treason, a word of death, Was in each eye, and on each breath.
 But one with the royal youth  Had been from his earliest hour,  And he knew that his heart was truth,  And he knew that his hand was power; He gave what hope his skill might give, And bade him trust to his faith and live.
Alexander took the cup,  And from beneath his head a scroll,  He drank the liquor up,  And bade Phillip read the roll; And Phillip look'd on the page, where shame, Treason, and poison were named with his name.
 An angry flush rose on his brow,  And anger darken'd his eye,  What I have done I would do again now!  If you trust my fidelity. The king watch'd his face, he felt he might dare Trust the faith that was written there.
 Next day the conqueror rose  From a greater conqueror free;
And again he stood amid those  Who had died his death to see: He stood there proud of the lesson he gave That faith and trust were made for the brave.
# The Trolls in Hedale Wood

Småguttene som traff trollene på Hedalsskogen
* "Småguttene som traff trollene på Hedalsskogen in Eventyr, 1928.
* "The Trolls in Hedale Wood" in Tales from the Fjeld, 1908.
* "The Lads who Met the Trolls in the Hedale Wood" in Christmas Fireside Stories: Norwegian Folk & Fairy Tales, 1923.
# The Troops

* "The Troops" in A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919 (1917)
* "The Troops" in Counter-Attack and Other Poems (1918)
* "The Troops" in The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon (1919)
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Ballad

BALLAD.
He raised the golden cup from the board,  It sparkled with purple wealth, He kist the brim her lip had prest,  And drank to his ladye's health.
Ladye, to-night I pledge thy name,  To-morrow thou shalt pledge mine; Ever the smile of beauty should light  The victor's blood-red wine.
There are some flowers of brightest bloom  Amid thy beautiful hair, Give me those roses, they shall be  The favour I will wear.
For ere their colour is wholly gone,  Or the breath of their sweetness fled, They shall be placed in thy curls again,  But dy'd of a deeper red.
The warrior rode forth in the morning light,  And beside his snow-white plume Were the roses wet with the sparkling dew,  Like pearls on their crimson bloom.
The maiden stood on her highest tower,  And watch'd her knight depart; She dash'd the tear aside, but her hand  Might not still her beating heart.
All day she watch'd the distant clouds
 Float on the distant air,
A crucifix upon her neck,  And on her lips a prayer.
The sun went down, and twilight came  With her banner of pearlin grey, And then afar she saw a band  Wind down the vale their way.
They came like victors, for high o'er their ranks  Were their crimson colours borne; And a stranger penon droop'd beneath,  But that was bow'd and torn:
But she saw no white steed first in the ranks,  No rider that spurr'd before; But the evening shadows were closing fast,  And she could see no more.
She turn'd from her watch on the lonely tower  In haste to reach the hall, And as she sprang down the winding stair  She heard the drawbridge fall.
A hundred harps their welcome rung,  Then paused as if in fear; The ladye enter'd the hall, and saw  Her true knight stretch'd on his bier!
# The Trosachs

THERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
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 Trooper Watering His Nag

Traditional folk song. It has a Roud Folk Song Index number of 1613.
* "Green and Airy Around" in A Book of Nursery Songs and Rhymes by Sabine Baring-Gould (1895)
* "The Trooper Watering his Nagg" in National Ballad and Song by John S. Farmer (1897)
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/A Child Screening a Dove from a Hawk

A CHILD SCREENING A DOVE
FROM A HAWK.
BY STEWARDSON.
Ay, screen thy favourite dove, fair child,  Ay, screen it if you may,— Yet I misdoubt thy trembling hand  Will scare the hawk away.
That dove will die, that child will weep,—  Is this their destinie? Ever amid the sweets of life  Some evil thing must be.
Ay, moralize,—is it not thus  We've mourn'd our hope and love? Alas! there's tears for every eye,  A hawk for every dove!
# The Strand Magazine/Volume 1/Issue 1/Introduction

Layout 4
THE
STRAND MAGAZINE
JANUARY, 1891.
THE Editor of The Strand Magazine respectfully places his first number in the hands of the public.
The Strand Magazine will be issued regularly in the early part of each month.
It will contain stories and articles by the best British writers, and special translations from the first foreign authors. These will be illustrated by eminent artists.
Special new features which have not hitherto found place in Magazine Literature will be introduced from time to time.
It may be said that with the immense number of existing Monthlies there is no necessity for another. It is believed, however, that The Strand Magazine will soon occupy a position which will justify its existence.
The past efforts of the Editor in supplying cheap, healthful literature have met with such generous favour from the public, that he ventures to hope that this new enterprise will prove a popular one. He is conscious of many defects in the first issue, but will strive after improvement in the future.
Will those who like this number be so good as to assist, by making its merits, if they are kind enough to think that it has any, known to their friends.
# The Strand Magazine/Volume 1/Issue 1/Fac-simile of the Notes of a Sermon of Cardinal Manning

Layout 4
Facsimile of the Notes of a Sermon by Cardinal Manning.
By the kindness of Cardinal Manning, we are able to present our readers with a fac-simile of the Cardinal's synopsis of a sermon on Charity, preached on the 9th of July, 1890, in the chapel of the Sisters of Charity, Carlisle Place, Westminster. The fac-simile shows the Cardinal's handwriting at the age of 83, and also his peculiar method of jotting down his notes on long, narrow slips, two of which are here given to a page. These notes are for a sermon of an hour's duration.
# The Shadow Over Innsmouth

"The Shadow Over Innsmouth" is a novella by H. P. Lovecraft. Written November-December 1931, the story was first published in April 1936; this was the only fiction of Lovecraft's published during his lifetime that did not appear in a periodical.Warning: template has been deprecated. one or more chapters are available in a spoken word format.
Shadow Over Innsmouth
H. P. LOVECRAFT
Contents
Read all chapters
* Chapter I
* Chapter II
* Chapter III
* Chapter IV
* Chapter V
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was legally published within the United States (or the United Nations Headquarters in New York subject to Section 7 of the United States Headquarters Agreement) before 1964, and copyright was not renewed.
* For Class A renewal records (books only) published between 1923 and 1963, check the Stanford University Copyright Renewal Database.
* For other renewal records of publications between 1922–1950, see the University of Pennsylvania copyright records.
* For all records since 1978, search the U.S. Copyright Office records.
Works published in 1936 could have had their copyright renewed in 1963 or 1964, i.e. between January 1st of the 27th year after publication or registration and December 31st of the 28th year. As this work's copyright was not renewed, it entered the public domain on January 1st, 1965.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1937, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 86 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.
It is imperative that contributors ascertain that there is no evidence of a copyright renewal before using this license. Failure to do so will result in the deletion of the work as a copyright violation.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/His Recommendation

THERE was a letter in the mail yesterday from a firm in Chicago asking me to recommend McGuire. The requirements were that he should be a man of honesty and integrity with energy and initiative. It was a hard rôle for Mac to play, and I laid the letter aside to ponder over my answer and its phrasing. I wanted to be both truthful and kind.
Mac was the sort of man who doesn't care what people think. He expected to get by through his own cleverness and adroitness rather than by honest effort. He never worked unless he had to do so, and then as little as possible. If I had ever wanted him suddenly, I should have sought him in the most frequented loafing place about the campus. He was "no student", he admitted, but he was sure he was "getting as much out ​of the course as some of these grinds." There had occasionally been some doubt as to whether what Mac got from the course came from his own brain or from some one else's paper, but he had never really been caught.
His written exercises were carelessly done and usually late; if he felt that he could pass the course without it, they were never written at all. He was a man of excuses, desiring always extensions and special privileges. No, I could not say that he was honest, and though he had brains, he had neither energy nor initiative. He was in reality an unreliable loafer, and a difficult man to recommend.
A friend of mine once said to a young fellow who had asked him for a letter of recommendation, "If you will write one about yourself that is true and complimentary, I will sign it." I think, perhaps, it is not a bad test of a man's character for him to sit down and fairly and honestly analyze his ​qualifications, to see if there is anything he could write about himself that is true and complimentary, to put down in black and white the real personal facts, and then face them.
If your work in college has been irregular, commonplace, and sometimes a failure; if you have been delighted merely to get by; if you have gained the reputation of being a loafer rather than a grind, of being a clever shifty fellow rather than straightforwardly square and honest, the man who writes your recommendation will also have a hard time.
What could you say about Mac, if you were called upon to write a letter of recommendation for him; and what could you write about yourself?
August
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Introduction

PROBABLY most of the readers of these brief homilies will close the book with a smile at the little foibles or serious faults of their brother men, possibly known to them by name, at whom the gentle criticisms are pointed. Most of us will believe that we have long ago been promoted from the primer of conduct. We can enjoy the reminiscences of our youthful shortcomings called up by these chapters; the humor, the style, the human sympathy and charity that make for a better common understanding, they all appeal to us. And yet few will fail to admit, quite tacitly no doubt, that we too share the weaknesses of those who inspired the sermons, and that we can use the advice.
They are inspired indeed. For they are all documents of real experience; behind each is at least one episode fresh from the ​life of college students, which is quite like the life of mankind in general. The simple, homely truths of existence, the lessons of human intercourse here told us, the sound and helpful and kindly advice are not new in the world, but they must be taught over and over again, and they have not often been 80 well expressed. Because they have been well told, made real and vivid and impressive to the readers of the Daily Illini of the University of Illinois where they have appeared every Sunday for the past year or so, it has seemed desirable that they should be preserved.
Probably no one person needs the guidance or advice offered by many of these little sermons; one might react unfortunately to a reading of all of them at a sitting. But every one of them has gone home to some readers. Many of them have had surprising results. Within a few days after "The Uncertain Mail" first appeared no fewer than forty guilty consciences sought pardon from ​the Dean. They had never known that courteous but unsolicited notes should be answered, or they had meant to write, but . . . . And how many, secretly and ashamed, made new resolutions, not because of this one reminder only, but of others as well?
I recall the interested surprise with which Dean Clark told me of the elderly man who called, after reading one of these, to ask what was clearly to him an embarrassingly personal question.
"Dean Clark", he said, "I've lived a long while, and have eaten baked potatoes with a spoon as long as I can remember. I am chagrined, but helpless, as I read your reference to that practice of mine. How then should I eat a baked potato?"
Not all of us will be willing thus candidly to admit how often our foibles are illuminated in the pages of this book.
Frank W. Scott
November, 1916
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 1950, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 73 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
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Manners

IT is surprising how many men find it difficult to get their hats off their heads, or their cigars out of their mouths when they go into a public office or when they meet a lady on the street. Some men seem glued to their hats, in the house and out; possibly that is why so many Americans are bald. The fellows who sit in the house with their hats on, or smoke in your face at a ball game, or crowd you into the gutter as you walk down the street are quite as often as otherwise those from whom we have a right to expect better things,—they are the leaders, the fellows who come from the most celebrated centers of social aristocracy.
The man who sat next to me at table in the hotel at Alleghany City not long ago showed the keenest interest in the moral uplift of the community, but he excavated his ​baked potato with a tea spoon, and harpooned the bread with his fork. He did both expertly and well, so that it seems unreasonable for me to have been annoyed by it. He was a good citizen, no doubt, even though he had crude manners.
A friend of mine a few weeks ago invited a number of undergraduates to dinner. Half of those who were invited did not respond to the note of invitation, two who accepted the invitation did not come to dinner, and no one has since made any apology or explanation; yet most of these boys have had every chance to know what is mannerly and conventional.
Of course a State University like Illinois is to teach, as the catalog says, "such branches of learning as are related to agriculture and the mechanic arts in order to promote the liberal and practical education of the industrial classes in the several pursuits and professions of life," but if a man gets through the course without knowing ​how to answer an invitation to dinner, when to take his hat off, and how to feed himself conventionally—if he doesn't learn good manners as well as accurate scientific principles—he'll get on in the world badly; he will have omitted a training which is quite as practical as anything in the mechanic arts.
April
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Mother

I HEARD a man say once that he did not want to send his grown son away from home because the boy's going would separate him, he felt, from his mother's influence. It was a foolish thought. There is nothing in time or in distance that can separate one from such an influence. You can feel it today with ten thousand miles or twenty years intervening as strongly as you did when as a child you lay with your head against her breast and felt her gentle hand upon your hair. You can hear her voice and see her face as if she were now in the room with you.
"I lost my mother forty years ago," an old man said to me recently, "and yet I have never ceased to feel a daily sense of loneliness and loss." And so many of us feel.
And yet no matter how long she has been gone or how far away she is, you know very ​well what she would say if she were with you today, and what she would have you do. She wants you first of all to be good—to be clean and honest and strong and self-controlled. She wants you to do the day's work manfully and well without whimpering and without complaint. She may never have said these things to you in so many words, but you know without the words' having been spoken.
If through your endeavor there should come to you honor or recognition, her heart will thrill with joy to you inconceivable; if unhappily you should encounter defeat or disgrace, the pain which she will suffer you will never quite understand. Her love and her faith will follow you through every diversity of experience, and no matter who deceive or turn against you, she can be counted on.
"My boy is a good boy," mothers say to me often in the innocence of their trust. "I know he hasn't a single bad habit."
​I am not surprised that most college men turn out well for, for so many years, I have seen what faith and confidence their mothers have in them and what hope is built upon their future. He would be craven indeed who lived down to a lower level than she set for him.
# The Sunday Eight O'Clock/On Time

WHEN the Barrows family filed into church—father, mother, and the seven little red-headed Barrowses,—we always knew that the services were pretty well under way. I used to think sometimes that the minister planned his sermon with their coming in mind, and allowed time for a pause or a breathing spell while they were getting comfortably arranged in their pews.
The congregation was never quite settled until they arrived, for they attended regularly, though they were punctiliously and dependably late, like some instructors to an eight o'clock or like the Big Four between Peoria and Indianapolis. I used to wonder why, although we lived two miles farther from the church than they, we always arrived on time for the opening hymn and the collection while they escaped half the ser​vice. It was so regular that their belated arrival seemed planned, deliberate, quite intentional.
I have learned since that being late or being on time is all a matter of habit, just as one learns to put on one's clothing in an orderly way without following a recipe.
It is usually the same persons who regularly come late to church or who tiptoe into the class room ten minutes after the last bell has rung, or who annoy the sensitive soprano and the whole auditorium full of people by stumbling into their seats while the program is under way. And the people who are late are usually in a hurry. I meet them daily going up the stairs three steps at a time, rushing breathlessly to catch a disappearing car, or coming in hot and perspiring in a vain attempt to make up for a late start.
We have all suffered from the selfishness of the man chronically behind his schedule. A friend of mine who is punctiliously prompt in meeting all of his engagements says that ​he has developed corns from having his feet trod upon by late-comers who walk over him getting into their places. It was a cynic, perhaps, who said that he had wasted more time by being on time than by any other process, but his cynicism has in it more than a modicum of truth.
These people who are forever behind in meeting their engagements and who thus handicap and disturb and delay those who are conscientious and methodical are not busier than their neighbors; they simply delude themselves in the belief that that which has previously taken a half hour to accomplish they can this morning do in ten minutes. They never learn by experience. They continue to retard the progress of every enterprise with which they are connected. They ought to start earlier, take an earlier train, or cancel the date.
April