OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Waithman's Wail

The Waithman's Wail.
The waithman goode of Silverwoode, That bowman stout and hende, In donjon gloom abydes his doome; God dele him getil ende.
It breakes trew herte to see him sterte, Whenas the small birdes sing; And then to hear his sighynges drere Whenas his fetters ryng.
Of bowe and shafte he bin bereft, And eke of bugil horne; A goodlye wighte, by craftie slyghte, Alake! is overborne.
—Old Ballad.
My heart is sick! my heart is sick! And sad as heart can be; It pineth for the forest brook, And for the forest tree; It pineth for all gladsome things That haunt the woodlands free.
O Silverwood, sweet Silverwood, Thy leaves be large and long;
And there, God wot, in summer eve, To list the small bird's song, Were med'cine to the heart that breaks, Like mine, in prison strong.
The sun, in idle wantonness, Shines in this dungeon cold, But his bright glance, through Silverwood, I never shall behold! I ne'er shall see each broad leaf gleam Like banner-flag of gold.
It pains me, this o'ermastering light, Fast flooding from the sky, That streams through these black prison bars In sheerest mockery, Recalling thoughts, by green woods bred, To mad me ere I die.
Dear western wind, now blowing soft Upon my faded cheek, Thy angel whisperings seem even now Of Silverwood to speak; Of streams and bowers that make man's heart As very woman's weak.
Soft western wind, with music fraught, Of all to heart most dear; Of birds that sing in greenest glade, Of streams that run so clear; Why pour thy sweetness o'er the heart That wastes in dungeon drear?
The sunshine's for the jocund heart, The breeze is for the free; They be for those who bend stout bow Beneath the greenwood tree. Sun ne'er should shine, breeze never blow, For fettered slave like me.
I hear the hawk's scream in the wood, The brayings of gaunt hound, The sharp sough of the feathered shaft, The bugle's thrilling sound; I hear them; and, Oh God, these limbs With Spanish irons bound!
Strike these foul fetters from my wrist, These shackles from my knee, Set this foot 'gainst an earthfast stone, This back 'gainst broad oak tree;
Give but one span of earth for fight, And I once more am free!
A single hand, a single brand, Against uncounted foes; A heart that's withered like a leaf, In brooding o'er its woes, Are surely not such deadly odds For stout men to oppose.
But no; bound here midst rotting straw, Within this noisome cell, They joy to see a proud heart break, And ring its own sad knell; They joy to hear me, Silverwood, Bid thee and life farewell.
So let it be; sweet Silverwood, On daylight's latest beam, My spirit seeks again thy glades, Revisits flower and stream; And fleets through thee, unchanged in love, In this my dying dream.
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Wanderer

The Wanderer.
No face I look upon doth greet me With smile that generous welcome lends; No ready hand, with cheerful glow, Is now stretched out, all glad, to meet me: A chill distrust on every brow, Assures me I have here no friends!
I miss the music of home voices, The rushing of the mountain flood, My country's birds that blithely sung In woodlands where green May rejoices, Discoursing love when life was young, And mirthful ever was my mood.
The breezes soft that fan my cheek, The bower that shades the sun from me, The sky that spans this Southern shore, Do all a different language speak From breeze and bower I loved of yore. And sky that spans my own countree.
They bring not health to exiled men— They light not up the home-bent eye; No, piece-meal wastes the way-worn frame That longs to tread its native glen— That trembles when it hears the name Of that land where its fathers lie!
The sun which shines seems not the sun That rose upon my native fields; Majestic rolls he on his way, A cloudless course hath he to run— But beams he with the kindly ray He to our Northern landscape yields?
The moon that trembles in these skies, Like to an argent mirror sheen— Ruling with mistless splendour here— Does she above the mountains rise, And smile upon the waters clear, As in my days of youth I've seen?
O beautiful and peerless light, That thou should'st seem unlovely now, That thou should'st fail to wake anew Those looks of heartfelt pure delight,
Which youthful Fancy upward threw, While gazing on thy cold, pale brow!
But this is not a kindred land, Nor this the old familiar stream; And these are not the friends of youth— 0 heartless, loveless, seems this strand— Its people lack the kindly ruth, The soother of life's turbid dream!
Away regret! Here must I die, Remote from all my soul held dear— My grave, upon an alien shore, Will ne'er attract the passer-by The lonely sleeper to deplore— No flower will grace, the stranger's bier!
Winds of the melancholy night, Begin your solemn dirge and bland! The giant clouds are gathering fast, The fearful moon withdraws her light—- In mournful visions of the past, Again I'll seek my native land!
# The Old English Baron

The Old English Baron is a gothic novel inspired by Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto, written as an attempt to moderate Walpole's perceived excesses while staying within the gothic framework.

## Contents

* Preface
* Part I
* Part II
* Part III
* Part IV
* Part V
* Part VI
* Part VII
* Part VIII
* Part IX
* Part X
* Part XI
* Part XII
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 Russian Review/Volume 1/May 1916/Before the Grave

Before the Grave.
By S. J. Nadson.
Translated for "The Russian Review."
Again alone, again the gloom,
The night and darkness spread around,
And, contemplating man's drear doom,
I stand before the fresh-heaped mound.
Why live and strive? What prize above
The common, can there be in store?
There's no one now for me to love,
No one to pray to, and adore.
# The Russian Review/Volume 1/May 1916/Lights

Lights.
By V. G. Korolenko.
Translated for "The Russian Review."
A long time ago, on a dark autumn evening, I happened to be going in a boat up a gloomy Siberian river. Suddenly, beyond a bend of the river, a tiny speck of light flashed ahead, at the foot of some dark mountains.
It flashed brightly, clearly, as though it were very near . . .
"Thank God!" said I joyfully. "Now we are near a place to spend the night."
The man at the oars glanced at the light over his shoulder, and then resumed his apathetic strokes.
"It's far away."
I did not believe him. The light seemed to be so close by, standing out against the vague darkness. But the oarsman was right; the light was really far away.
What a peculiar property do these night lights possess! They approach you ever so closely, conquering the darkness and burning in its midst, beckoning to you and alluring you with their nearness. It seems that two or three strokes more, and you will be at the end of your journey . . . And yet, that end is far, far away.
And on that autumn night, too, it was for a long time after we noticed the light that we were going up the river, black as ink. Rocks and gorges sprang up before us, seemed to be moving towards us, and then floated away, lagging behind and disappearing in the darkness, while the tiny speck of light was still standing before us, there, ahead, twinkling and beckoning, ever near, yet ever far away . . .
And even now, I often recall this dark river, with the rocky cliffs crowding upon its banks, and the tiny speck of light burning far ahead. Many a light has thus allured me and others with its apparent nearness. But life flows, on, between its gloomy banks, and the lights are far away. And again we must ply our oars . . .
And yet . . . and yet, there are lights ahead! . . .
# The Shining Adventure

As rendered in the March 1921 issue of St. Nicholas:
The Shining Adventure
By Henry C. Pitz
At amber dawn we put to sea,  With sails of broidered gold, All day we swept, while the heavens wept,  All night we tossed and rolled.
The white foam broke from her ivory bow,  Like lace from my lady's throat; The north wind shrilled in the rigging-lines,  A piercing treble note. Day by day we scudded south,  Under a torrid sun; At night the stars, in our teak-wood spars,  Twinkled a benison.
We came to a sea of phantom winds  And phosphorescent mist. Lit with a strange, uncertain light,  And ringed with amethyst. While grim across our painted bow,  There crouched the Unknown Land— A craggy height of chrysolite,  A beach of shell-pale sand.
Then we sharpened bright each falchion edge,  Whetted the halberd points, Greased the hides on the battle shields,  Tightened the armor joints. Through the surf from our anchored ship  We waded—freemen all; Flung to the sky our battle-cry,  And stormed the city wall.
The arrows on our crested helms  Dinned like autumn hail; Sword and mace and battle-ax  Scarred our burnished mail. Back we pressed their panting ranks;  Hacked a crimson lane; Our wild war-song and battle-gong  Drowned their feeble strain.
The rose light of the fading sun  Fell o'er a vanquished race; Slain were their three-score champions;  Their town a conquered place! Then we to ship and sea again;  Ho, for the home-land shore! With scars and wounds and gold doubloons  And tales for minstrels' lore.
Now this adventure, wild and strange  As heart could e'er desire, Was mine one day—while I sat and dozed  Before a glowing fire.
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 1976, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 47 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 Shining Pyramid (collection)

Miscellany gathered from old files showing extraordinary versatility and the expected Machen artistry. —The Bookman July 1923.
The
Shining
Pyramid
Arthur
Machen
Chicago COVICI-M$^c$GEE 1923
Copyright 1923 Vincent Starett Chicago
This is a limited edition of 875 copies of which 850 copies are for sale and this copy is
No. 462
* The Shining Pyramid, 1
* Out of the Earth, 37
* The Spagyric Quest of Beroaldus Cosmopolita, 47
* The Priest and the Barber, 63
* The Splendid Holiday, 73
* The Lost Club, 77
* A Wonderful Woman, 87
* In Convertendo, 93
* The Hidden Mystery, 103
* The Martyr, 115
* The Art of Dickens, 125
* Unconscious Magic, 135
* Happiness and Horror, 143
* Ars Artium, 157
* Realism and Symbol, 165
* Paganism, 173
* Education and the Uneducated, 183
* New Lamps for Old, 195
* Mandatum Novissimum, 203
* "Sad Happy Race", 215
* The Capital Levy, 229
* Drake's Drum, 237
Edited
With an Introduction
by
Vincent Starrett
drawings by
Wallace Smith
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 1947, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 76 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 She-Gallants/Preface to the Reader

THE
PREFACE
TO THE
READER:
This Play was Written by the Author in France above twelve Years past, without any design of becoming Publick, but only as an Exercise to learn to Write, at an Age when many are but beginning to Spell. It was afterwards accidentally communicated to some Persons, and begg'd by a Friend, who propos'd to make some Advantage by it, which was consented to upon Promise that the Author should never be nam'd. Thus it remain'd for some Years in other Hands, till at last the Author was importun'd to own it, or his Friend had been ​disappointed. Some few Alterations were made to suit it only to the present time of Acting; in every thing else the Play is the same as at first, even to the Songs, and the Epilogue as it is printed. If his Friend has had a Third Day to his Satisfaction, it is all the end that the Author propos'd to himself: And if before the ordinary Age of Manhood, he shall be allow'd not to have been wholly Impotent, it is all the Commendation he expects. Of which the Reader is left to judge as he thinks fit.
# The She-Goats and Their Beards

Perry index 516
* "The She-Goats and Their Beards", translated by George Fyler Townsend, in Three Hundred Æsop's Fables (1887)
* "The She-Goats and their Beards", translated by Vernon Stanley Jones, in Æsop's fables: A New Translation (1912)
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 She-Gallants/Epilogue

EPILOGUE.
Spoke by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
EINIS.
# The She-Gallants/Persons names

Persons Names.
| Mr. Betterton, | Bellamour, | Formerly contracted to Angelica, to be marry’d to Lucinda. |
| Mr. Hodgson, | Philabel, | In Love with Lucinda. |
| Mr. Thurman, | Frederick, | In Love with Constantia. |
| Mr. Underhill, | Sir Toby Cusifle, | A Knight a Pimp. |
| Mr. Bowen, | Sir John Aery, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$Two egregious Fops. |
| Mr. Dogget, | Vaunter, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$Two egregious Fops. |
| Mr. Bailie. | Courtall, | Brother to Constantia. |
| WOMEN. |||
| Mrs. Barry, | Lady Dorimen, | Aunt to Lucinda. |
| Mrs. Bracegirdle, | Angelica, | In Love with Bellamour, Daughter to Sir Toby. |
| Mrs. Bootell, | Constantia, | In Love with Frederick. |
| Mrs. Bowman, | Lucinda, | In Love with Philabel. |
| | Diana, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$Sisters to Frederick. |
| | Melissa, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$Sisters to Frederick. |
| | Dorinda, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$Sisters to Frederick. |
| | Miranda, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$Sisters to Frederick. |
| Mrs. Lee, | Plackett, | Waiting-Woman to Lady Dorimen. |
| | A Frenchman, that dresses Heads for Ladies. | A Frenchman, that dresses Heads for Ladies. |
| | Women that sell Indian Ware. | Women that sell Indian Ware. |
| | Page and Servants to Lady Dorimen. | Page and Servants to Lady Dorimen. |
| | Dancers and Fiddlers. | Dancers and Fiddlers. |
| | Scene, St. James's. | Scene, St. James's. |
# The She-Gallants/Prologue

Prologue to the She-Gallants, Spoke by Mr. Betterton.
# The Song of Right and Wrong

Feast on wine or fast on water And your honour shall stand sure, God Almighty's son and daughter He the valiant, she the pure; If an angel out of heaven Brings you other things to drink, Thank him for his kind attentions, Go and pour them down the sink.
Tea is like the East he grows in, A great yellow Mandarin With urbanity of manner And unconsciousness of sin; All the women, like a harem, At his pig-tail troop along; And, like all the East he grows in, He is Poison when he's strong.
Tea, although an Oriental, Is a gentleman at least; Cocoa is a cad and coward, Cocoa is a vulgar beast, Cocoa is a dull, disloyal, Lying, crawling cad and clown, And may very well be grateful To the fool that takes him down.
As for all the windy waters, They were rained like tempests down When good drink had been dishonoured By the tipplers of the town; When red wine had brought red ruin And the death-dance of our times, Heaven sent us Soda Water As a torment for our crimes.
# The Song of Quoodle

They haven't got no noses, The fallen sons of Eve; Even the smell of roses Is not what they supposes; But more than mind discloses And more than men believe.
They haven't got no noses, They cannot even tell When door and darkness closes The park a Jew encloses, Where even the law of Moses Will let you steal a smell.
The brilliant smell of water, The brave smell of a stone, The smell of dew and thunder, The old bones buried under, Are things in which they blunder And err, if left alone.
The wind from winter forests, The scent of scentless flowers, The breath of brides' adorning, The smell of snare and warning, The smell of Sunday morning, God gave to us for ours
And Quoodle here discloses All things that Quoodle can, They haven't got no noses, They haven't got no noses, And goodness only knowses The Noselessness of Man.
# The Song of Roland

* related portals: Medieval poetry.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, quotes, Wikidata item.
The Song of Roland is a French chivalric romance, written possibly during the 12th century. It tells the story of Charlemagne’s attempt to free the city of Zaragoza from the Saracens. Warning: template has been deprecated.
THE SONG OF ROLAND
THE
SONG OF ROLAND
Done into the English, in the original measure by CHARLES SCOTT MONCRIEFF
With an Introduction by G. K. CHESTERTON
and a Note on Technique by GEORGE SAINTSBURY
Ma io senti’ sonare un alto corno, Tanto ch’ avrebbe ogni tuon fatto fioco, Che, contra sè la sua via seguitando, Dirizzò gli occhi miei tutti ad un loco: Dopo la dolorosa rotta, quando Carlo Magno perdè la santa gesta, Non sonò sì terribilmente Orlando.
Inferno: xxxi., 12–18.
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD. MCMXIX
Printed in England at The Westminster Press 411 a Harrow Road London
* Dedication
* Introduction
* Translator's Note
* Note on Technique
* The Song of Roland
* Postscript
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Song of Roland/Postscript

Postscript
The day after I had sent the last of my part of this book to the Press, I came by chance upon M. Leon Gautier’s final edition of Roland.
This work, prepared for the use of Secondary Schools in France, is so admirable, in every way so necessary that its effect upon me has been that of King Vivien’s appeal upon Charlemagne.
Apart from its Introduction and Excursûs it contains a Glossary, which makes me ashamedly conscious of my temerity in translating “unseen.” But at present I will only admit to one “howler,” and that with reservations. In the punishment of Guenes, 3968 reads:
“Devers une ewe ki est en mi un camp.”
The word “ewe” MM. Gautier and de Julleville have alike rendered by “jument;” I by “stream.” And to “stream” I adhere, for, although “ewe” may be derived as well from “equam” as from “aquam,” it is used in the latter sense five times elsewhere in the poem, while: “ewe”=“equam,” in a long poem abounding in the mention of horses, occurs not once. I state this here to defend myself from the charge of illiteracy which will, I know, be brought heavily, on other grounds, against me.
M. Gautier charged M. de Julleville with an idolatrous fidelity to the text of the Oxford MS. To its 3998 lines he added but four; and I have added but one more. M. Gautier, from a careful and impartial study of all the trustworthy versions of the poem, has been able to emend it in many corrupt places and to add laisses and single lines to the number of five hundred. Upon his enlarged text the next edition of this work will be based.
C. K. S. M.
# The Song of Roland/Dedication

TO THREE MEN SCHOLARS, POETS, SOLDIERS WHO CAME TO THEIR RENCESVALS SEPTEMBER, OCTOBER, AND NOVEMBER NINETEEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN I DEDICATE MY PART IN A BOOK OF WHICH THEIR FRIENDSHIP QUICKENED THE BEGINNING THEIR EXAMPLE HAS JUSTIFIED THE CONTINUING
PHILIP BAINBRIGGE. WILFRED OWEN. IAN MACKENZIE.
“Mare fustes, seignurs. Tutes voz anmes ait Deus li glorius. En Parèis les metet en seintes flurs.”
I
To P. G. B.
Philip, here, at the end of a year that, ending, Spares for mankind a world that has not spared thee; O’er the sole fathom of earth that may know thee, bending Dry-eyed, bitterly smiling, I now regard thee.
Friend—nay, friend were a name too common, rather Mind of my intimate mind, I may claim thee lover: Thoughts of thy mind blown fresh from the void I gather; Half of my limbs, head, heart in thy grave I cover:
I who, the soldier first, had at first designed thee Heir, now health, strength, life itself would I give thee. More than all that has journeyed hither to find thee, Half a life from the wreckage saved to survive thee. *****
Fare thee well then hence; for the scrutinous Devil Finds no gain in the faults of thy past behaviour, Seeing good flower everywhere forth from evil: Christ be at once thy Judge, who is still thy Saviour,
Who too suffered death for thy soul’s possession; Pardoned then thine offences, nor weighed the merit: God the Father, hearing His intercession, Calls thee home to Him. God the Holy Spirit
Grant thee rest therefore: a quiet crossing From here to the further side, and a safe landing There, no shore-waves breaking nor breeze tossing, In the Peace of God, which passeth our understanding.
Christmas, 1918.
II
To W. E. S. O.
III
To I. H. T. M.
Like fire I saw thee Smiling, running, leaping, glancing and consuming; Like fire thine ardent body moving; Scorching and scouring the mind’s waste places Like fire: like fire extinguished.
Now in my hands Holding thy book, these ashes of thee; Still fire I know thee Gloriously somewhere burning, Who wast so keen, more keenly; Who wast so pure, more purely; Beyond my vision, Somewhere before God’s Face, Eternal.
October, 1919.
# The Stephenson Family/Preface

Want of a knowledge of the history of my ancestors and their families induces me to write this genealogical sketch. I am of the opinion that many of us do not know the names of all our parents' brothers and sisters, to say nothing of our grandparents' brothers and sisters. This ought not to be the case. If some one of the Stephenson family, one hundred and twenty-five years ago, had written something similar to this little work, it would now be of very great interest to generations of descendants. If I had now a written statement in regard to the life, manners, customs, names and place of residence of my ancestors and their kin, it would afford me a source of information which is forever lost.
It is not necessary that such a statement should be printed, but written in order to preserve the chirography of the writer. The paper might be pasted in this history, or placed in the family Bible with the family records. Thus it could be preserved for ages. Every day that passes, the paper will be one day older, and the older the paper becomes the more value is attached to it. The paper never dies. But the older it becomes the more lively it grows in interest. I suspect this booklet will be read a hundred years hence.
It will be impossible in a book of this size to mention even the names of all the relatives with whom I am personally acquainted. But I would advise that each relative paste some blank leaves in his book, on which he can write the names, and such family history as he may wish.
His writing, with what the book contains, will make the genealogical sketch of his own family tolerably complete.
The Plan of the Work.
The ancestors, or parent stock, will be considered, then their children and grandchildren in rotation, down to the present time, in like manner with the rest. But the European relatives will not be so considered.
J. C. Stephenson,
336 McCallie Avenue, Chattanooga, Tennessee.
January, 1906.
# The Stephenson Family/Dedication

To Martha Ann Tyler, nee Stephenson, of Mount Hope, Alabama, a grandmother and great-grandmother, and Margaret Melissa Bell, nee Lewis, of Rodman, South Carolina, a young mother, both direct descendants of Henry Stephenson, of Roxburgh County, Scotland, and Robert Stephenson, of County Antrim, Ireland, and William Stephenson, a Revolutionary soldier, of Chester County, South Carolina, 1776—the former through Hugh W. Stephenson, of Maury County, Tennessee, and Rev. John Campbell Stephenson, of Mount Hope, Alabama, and the latter through Daniel Green Stephenson (called "Stinson"), of Chester County, South Carolina, and Eliza C. Lewis, nee Stephenson, of Rodman, South Carolina, this little Book is respectfully dedicated.