OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Phoenix

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Phoenix."
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This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Phoenix", an Old English poem adapted from the Latin poem "De Ave Phoenice"
* "The Phoenix", a play by Thomas Middleton
* The Phoenix, an American magazine, ed. by Michael Monahan (1914-1916)
* “Phoenix 1.”, in Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, 1870.
* “Phoenix 2.”, in Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, 1870.
* “Phoenix 3.”, in Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, 1870.
* “Phoenix 4.”, in Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, 1870.
* "Phoenix," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
* "Phoenix (Arizona)," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Here lies Erotion

HERE LIES EROTION—1884
In connection with Stevenson's translations from Martial—included in the earlier Bibliophile edition,—translations that embodied two of the Roman poet's tributes to the little slave child and dearly loved playmate who died at the age of six,—it was natural to dwell on the fact that Martial's most winning poems were those concerning Erotion. The present verses show Stevenson attempting an imitation in couplets, rather than a verbal translation of Martial (Book V, No. 35), and with the previously printed poems, one beginning, "Here lies Erotion whom at six years old Fate pilfered," and the other, "This girl was sweeter than the song of swans," they constitute a modern poet's group of adaptations of an unusual theme of ancient literature.
The original poem, "De Erotio," has only ten lines. Stevenson follows them fairly closely, the changes of the actual names of Erotion's parents (Fronte and Flaccila), to "mother and sire," and the introduction of the line "Where the great ancients sit with reverend face," being the only departures from the original worthy of note.
​At the bottom of his Ms. appear two alternate lines as follows:—
That swam light-footed as the thistle-burr On thee O mother earth, be light on her.
HERE LIES EROTION
Mother and sire, to you do I commend Tiny Erotion, who must now descend, A child, among the shadows, and appear Before hell's bandog and hell's gondolier. Of six hoar winters she had felt the cold, But lacked six days of being six years old. Now she must come, all playful, to that place Where the great ancients sit with reverend face; Now lisping, as she used, of whence she came, Perchance she names and stumbles at my name. O'er these so fragile bones, let there be laid A plaything for a turf; and for that maid That ran so lightly footed in her mirth Upon thy breast—lie lightly, mother earth!
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Hopes

HOPES—1872
In its subject matter—its insistence on the "hopeful heart"—the kinship of these verses with so many others of Stevenson's is obvious; but both the date and the place of this composition have a rather special interest, inasmuch as 1871, that vital year when turbulent thoughts and emotions first calmed down sufficiently to permit a clear outlook upon life, has now been left behind. Scotland is replaced by Germany, and at Frankfort, in 1872, we find Stevenson writing in that vein of determined hope which was thenceforth to be his greatest source of strength. It is perhaps the only poem that he wrote in Germany, and one wonders whether the words in his autograph at the bottom of the manuscript and in the German script, recording that "Today for the first time I spoke to Elise," establish so pleasant a meeting with some attractive young girl as to suggest an additional reason for the cheerful tenor of the poem.
From the first to the last stanza Stevenson adheres to a line of imagery effective in itself, and characteristic of the introspective youth ​whose thoughts and hopes are so much a part of his daily life as to take on the aspect of personified companions. In such verses as "And new hopes whisper sweetly new delight," and "A troop of shouting hopes keep step with me," he gives voice and form to these creatures of the mind, in a manner that appealingly intensifies our realization of the intimate communion between the poet and his faithful troop of thoughts and aspirations.
HOPES
Tho' day by day old hopes depart, Yet other hopes arise If still we bear a hopeful heart And forward-looking eyes.
Of all that entered hand in hand With me the dusty plains— Look round!—not one remains, Not one remains of all the jovial band.
Some fell behind, some hastened on; Some, scattered far and wide, Sought lands on every side; One way or other, all the band are gone.
​Yes, all are gone; and yet, at night, New objects of desire People the sunken fire And new hopes whisper sweetly new delight;
And still, flush-faced, new goals I see, New finger-posts I find, And still thro' rain and wind A troop of shouting hopes keep step with me.
Tho' day by day old hopes depart, Yet other hopes arise If still we bear a hopeful heart And forward-looking eyes.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Aye, mon, it's true

AYE, MON, IT'S TRUE—1885
In a letter written from Bonallie Towers, Bournemouth, in February, 1885, to John Addington Symonds, Stevenson tells of "two thundering influenzas" that he had caught in the previous August and November. He had recovered with difficulty from the latter attack. His ill health had "painfully upset" Mrs. Stevenson, and he himself confesses to feeling "a little old and fagged." Yet, as always, his courage and his philosophical humor stood him in good stead; and even as he lay very ill on his sick bed he could write such a bright little poem as the following lines in the Scots dialect.
AYE, MON, IT'S TRUE
Aye mon, it's true; I'm no that weel. Close prisoner to my lord the de'il, As weak 's a bit o' aipple peel, Or ingan parin', Packed like a codfish in a creel, I lie disparin'.
Mon, it's a cur-ous thing to think How bodies sleep and eat and drink; I'm no that weel, but micht be waur An' doubt na mony bodies are.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Gather ye roses while ye may

GATHER YE ROSES WHILE YE MAY
1875
This is another one of Stevenson's poems written in France, and a charming bit of verse experimentation, where Stevenson weaves the famous lines of Robert Herrick into a more concrete form of old French poetry.
GATHER YE ROSES WHILE YE MAY
Gather ye roses while ye may, Old time is still a-flying; A world where beauty fleets away Is no world for denying. Come lads and lasses, fall to play Lose no more time in sighing.
The very flowers you pluck today, Tomorrow will be dying; And all the flowers are crying, And all the leaves have tongues to say,— Gather ye roses while ye may.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Her name is as a word of old romance

HER NAME IS AS A WORD OF OLD ROMANCE—1875
This rondeau may very possibly have been written by Stevenson with Mrs. Sitwell in mind. That talented woman, who later became the wife of Sidney Colvin, one of the nearest and most loyal of all of Stevenson's friends, was long the recipient of Stevenson's confidences, and among the persons whom he most admired.
HER NAME IS AS A WORD OF OLD ROMANCE
Her name is as a word of old romance That thrills a careless reader out of sleep. Love and old art, and all things pure and deep Attend on her to honour her advance,— The brave old wars where bearded heroes prance, The courtly mien that private virtues keep,— Her name is as a word of old romance. Peer has she none in England or in France, So well she knows to rouse dull souls [from sleep] So deftly can she comfort those that weep And put kind thought and comfort in a glance. Her name is like a [word of old romance.]
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Far over seas an island is

FAR OVER SEAS AN ISLAND IS
(1889?)
The date of the manuscript is uncertain, but the contents would seem to indicate that it was written prior to Stevenson's setting forth upon his voyage to the islands of the Pacific. "Tossing palms" belong to the Southern Seas, and Stevenson was indeed "done with all," when he took up his abode in the far off island of Samoa. His recognition of the modes of restlessness which would assail him in a place so distant from all the friends and scenes of his past life, here leads him to call upon those resources of the spirit and of the imagination that are the mainstay of man in whatever abode. And so, after asking himself,—
Have I no castle then in Spain, No island of the mind?
he charges his soul to seek those enchanted islands and streams of desire that are not charted on any map.
FAR OVER SEAS AN ISLAND IS
Far over seas an island is Whereon when day is done A grove of tossing palms Are printed on the sun. And all about the reefy shore Blue breakers flash and fall. There shall I go, methinks, When I am done with all.
Have I no castle then in Spain, No island of the mind, Where I can turn and go again When life shall prove unkind? Up, sluggard soul! and far from here Our mountain forest seek; Or nigh enchanted island, steer Down the desired creek.
* ↑ In Stevenson's description of the South Sea Island of Tutuila he says: "Groves of cocoanut run high on the hills;" and on entering the bay of Oa, he exclaims, "At the first sight, my mind was made up; the bay of Oa was the place for me!"
* ↑ To these lines, which Stevenson wrote in one of his note books, he added the following verses which, although in a different meter, seem to be a continuation of the same thought. There, where I never was, There no moral laws, Pleasures as thick as haws Bloom on the bush! Incomes and honours grow Thick on the hills. O naught the iron horse avails, And naught the enormous ship.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/I am a hunchback, yellow-faced

I AM A HUNCHBACK, YELLOW FACED
(UNCERTAIN DATE)
This little poem may possibly belong to that juvenile period when Stevenson was somewhat under the influence of Heine. But while the German poet might easily have depicted hunchback and harlot as being of one class with the fellow mortal whom they accost, the "friendly hand" that Stevenson holds out as the poem closes is extended without that ironical gesture which Heine would have been inclined to make.
I AM A HUNCHBACK, YELLOW FACED
I am a hunchback, yellow faced,— A hateful sight to see,— 'T is all that other men can do To pass and let me be.
I am a woman,—my hair is white— I was a drunkard's lass; The gin dances in my head,— I stumble as I pass.
​I am a man that God made at first, And teachers tried to harm; Here hunchback, take my friendly hand,— Good woman take my arm.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Eh, man Henley, you're a Don

EH, MAN HENLEY, YOU'RE A DON!
1875
Discussion has been frequent upon Henley's attitude towards the Stevenson of later life, and the over-idealization of the Stevenson of posthumous fame. In the earlier days of their acquaintance, when both were struggling young poets, a very sympathetic friendship existed between them and their minds caught fire from the sparks of each other's conversations. Even their faults of temperament and character brought them closer together. It was only after the public began to set Stevenson on too high a pedestal of virtue that Henley's reaction found voice in expostulation and regret.
Here, in verses written several years before this friendship, from the point of view of literature, reached its consummation in various plays of collaboration, we have a witty and familiar little poem, full of all the tang of the vernacular, and of Stevenson's admiration for Henley; full, too, of encouragement. But in the retrospect, there is a touch of pathos in Stevenson's prophecy, never to be fulfilled, of the time when the whole world ​would cheer on his friend Henley. Henley was a born poet, and it is not to be wondered that he was able—to use Stevenson's term—to spit out admirable lines, lines whose wisdom entitled him to the appellation of "Don." But life was cruel to Henley; the world never "patted" his shoulders, as towards the end it patted the shoulders of Stevenson, and these verses, thus faulty in prophecy, have their value mainly as a bright jeu d' esprit dating from the younger days of the two men.
EH, MAN HENLEY, YOU'RE A DON!
Eh, man Henley, you're a Don! Man, but you're a deevil at it! This ye made an hour agone— Tht!—like that—as tho ye'd spat it,— Eh, man Henley.
Better days will come anon When you'll have your shoulders pattit, And the whole round world, odd rat it! Will cry out to cheer you on; Eh, man Henley, you're a Don!
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Good old ale, mild or pale

GOOD OLD ALE, MILD OR PALE—(1880?)
Again a point of interrogation must follow the date offered as the probable period of composition. At any rate, Stevenson was away from England or Scotland; and it is amusing to find his mind reverting not—as so often in other poems written in America or the South Seas—to home folks and sentimental aspects of early life, but to the ales and beers of his native land. The extent of his thirst is indicated in one of the most whimsical of all his lines, "give me a vat to swim a whale," which may echo the thoughts of not a few latter-day American readers.
GOOD OLD ALE, MILD OR PALE
Good old ale, mild or pale, India ale and Burton, Give me a vat to swim a whale. When far along the verdant dale The far off spire appears, The mind reverts to Burton's ale And dreams of different beers.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Here he comes, big with statistics

HERE HE COMES, BIG WITH STATISTICS—1874
Stevenson took his law studies seriously enough to get his degree as Advocate after creditably passing his examinations for the Bar in 1875; but in the course of taking notes at law lectures he would now and then indulge in verse as a pastime; and the present lines are a very amusing example of his skill in such unacademic performances. We do not know the name of the professor who is here lampooned, but we do know the type, and can well understand Stevenson's contemptuous pity so deftly worded in the last two lines.
HERE HE COMES, BIG WITH STATISTICS
Here he comes, big with statistics, Troubled and sharp about fac's. He has heap of the Form that is thinkable— The stuff that is feeling, he lacks.
Do you envy this whiskered absurdity, With pince-nez and clerical tie? Poor fellow, he's blind of a sympathy! I'd rather be blind of an eye.
# Poems translated from the French of Madame de la Mothe Guion/Love increased by suffering

LOVE INCREASED BY SUFFERING.
Vol. 3, Cantique 98.
"I love the Lord," is still the strain This heart delights to sing; But I reply,—your thoughts are vain, Perhaps 'tis no such thing.
Before the pow'r of Love divine, Creation fades away; Till only God is seen to shine In all that we survey.
In gulphs of awful night we find The God of our desires; ​'Tis there he stamps the yielding mind, And doubles all its fires.
Flames of encircling Love invest, And pierce it sweetly through; 'Tis fill'd with sacred joy, yet press'd With sacred sorrow too.
Ah Love! my heart is in the right— Amidst a thousand woes, To thee, its ever new delight, And all its peace, it owes.
Fresh causes of distress occur, Where'er I look or move; The comforts, I to all prefer, Are solitude and love.
Nor exile I, nor prison fear; Love makes my courage great; I find a Saviour ev'ry where, His grace, in ev'ry state.
Nor castle walls, nor dungeons deep, Exclude his quick'ning beams; There I can sit, and sing, and weep, And dwell on heav'nly themes.
There, sorrow, for his sake, is found A joy beyond compare; There, no presumptuous thoughts abound, No pride can enter there.
​A Saviour doubles all my joys, And sweetens all my pains, His strength in my defence employs, Consoles me, and sustains.
I fear no ill, resent no wrong: Nor feel a passion move, When malice whets her sland'rous tongue; Such patience is in Love.
# Poems on Various Subjects (Coleridge)/To the Rev. W. J. H.

TO THE
Rev. W. J. H.
WHILE TEACHING A YOUNG LADY SOME SONG-TUNES
ON HIS FLUTE.
I.
Again, dear Harmonist! again
Thro' the hollow of thy flute
Breathe that passion-warbled strain:
Till Memory each form shall bring The loveliest of her shadowy throng; And Hope, that soars on sky-lark wing, Carol wild her gladdest song!
II.
The thrilling tones, that concentrate the soul! Breathe thro' thy flute those tender notes again, While near thee sits the chaste-eyed Maiden mild; And bid her raise the Poet's kindred strain In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild.
III.
Where Toil and Health with mellow'd Love shall dwell,
Far from folly, far from men, In the rude romantic glen, Up the cliff, and thro' the glade, Wand'ring with the dear-lov'd maid, I shall listen to the lay, And ponder on thee far away! Still, as she bids those thrilling notes aspire ("Making my fond attuned heart her lyre") Thy honor'd form, my Friend! shall re-appear, And I will thank thee with a raptur'd tear.
# Poems translated from the French of Madame de la Mothe Guion/Happy Solitude—Unhappy men

HAPPY SOLITUDE—UNHAPPY MEN
Vol. 2, Cantique 89.
MY heart is easy, and my burden light; I smile, though sad, when thou art in my sight: The more my woes in secret I deplore, I taste thy goodness, and I love, the more.
There, while a solemn stillness reigns around, Faith, Love, and Hope, within my soul abound; And while the world suppose me lost in care, The joys of angels, unperceiv'd, I share.
Thy creatures wrong thee, O! thou sov'reign Good! Thou art not lov'd, because not understood; This grieves me most, that vain pursuits beguile Ungrateful men, regardless of thy smile.
Frail beauty, and false honor, are ador'd; While Thee they scorn, and trifle with thy word; Pass, unconcern'd, a Saviour's sorrows by; And hunt their ruin, with a zeal to die.
# Poems on Various Subjects (Coleridge)/To a Young Lady with a Poem

TO A
YOUNG LADY
WITH
A POEM
ON
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
MUCH on my early youth I love to dwell, Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell, Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale, I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale! Yet tho' the hours flew by on careless wing, Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing. Aye as the star of evening flung its beam In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo! o'er thy tomb. Where'er I wander'd, Pity still was near, Breath'd from the heart and glisten'd in the tear: No knell that toll'd, but fill'd my anxious eye, And suff'ring Nature wept that one should die!
Thus to sad sympathies I sooth'd my breast Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West: When slumb'ring Freedom rous'd by high Disdain With giant fury burst her triple chain! Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd; Her Banners, like a midnight Meteor, flow'd; Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes!
Then Exultation wak'd the patriot fire And swept with wilder hand th' Alcœan lyre: Red from the Tyrants' wound I shook the lance, And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!
In ghastly horror lie th' Oppressors low, And my heart akes, tho' Mercy struck the blow. With wearied thought once more I seek the shade, Where peaceful Virtue weaves the Myrtle braid. And ô! if Eyes, whose holy glances roll, The eloquent messengers of the pure soul; If smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien, Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen Shaping celestial forms in vacant air; If these demand th' empassion'd Poet's care— If Mirth, and soften'd Sense, and Wit refin'd, The blameless features of a lovely mind;
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine. Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse—— Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues: No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings From Flatt'ry's night-shade: as he feels, he sings.
* ↑ Note 1.
* ↑ Note 2.
# Poems on Various Subjects (Coleridge)/To a Friend with an unfinished Poem

The 'unfinished poem' referred to in the title is Religious Musings, which Coleridge began on Christmas Eve, 1794
EFFUSION XXII.
TO
A FRIEND
TOGETHER WITH
AN UNFINISHED POEM.
THUS far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse, Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know) From business wand'ring far and local cares, Thou creepest round a dear-lov'd Sister's bed
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look, Soothing each pang with fond solicitude, And tenderest tones medicinal of love. I too a Sister had, an only Sister—— She lov'd me dearly, and I doted on her! To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows, (As a sick Patient in his Nurse's arms) And of the heart those hidden maladies That shrink asham'd from even Friendship's eye. O! I have woke at midnight, and have wept, Because she was not!—Cheerily, dear Charles! Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year: Such warm presages feel I of high Hope. For not uninterested the dear maid I've view'd—her soul affectionate yet wise, Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories,
That play around a sainted infant's head. He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees, Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love Aught to implore were impotence of mind) That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne, Prepar'd, when he his healing ray vouchsafes, To pour forth thanksgiving with lifted heart, And praise Him Gracious with a Brother's Joy!
# Poems translated from the French of Madame de la Mothe Guion/Living water

LIVING WATER.
Vol. 4, Cantique 81.
THE fountain in its source, No drought of summer fears; The farther it pursues its course, The nobler it appears.
​But shallow cisterns yield A scanty, short supply; The morning sees them amply fill'd, The ev'ning finds them dry.
# Poems of the Great War/The Hour

THE HOUR
WE'VE shut the gates by Dover Straits, And North, where the tides run free, Cheek by jowl, our watchdogs prowl, Grey hulks in a greyer sea. And the prayer that England prays to-night— O Lord of our destiny!— As the foam of our plunging prows, is white; We have stood for peace, and we war for right, God give us victory!
Now slack, now strung, from the mainmast flung, The flag throbs fast in the breeze; Strained o'er the foam, like the hearts at home That beat for their sons on the seas. For mothers and wives are praying to-night— O Lord of our destiny!— But we've no time, for our lips are tight, Our fists are clenched, and we're stripped to fight. God give us victory!
The west winds blow in the face of the foe— Old Drake is beating his drum—
They drank to "The Day," for "The Hour" we  pray. The day and the hour have come. The sea-strewn Empire prays to-night— O Lord of our destiny!— Thou didst give the seas into Britain's might, For the freedom of Thy seas we smite. God give us victory!
JAMES BERNARD FAGAN
# Poems of the Great War/To the Troubler of the World

TO THE TROUBLER OF THE WORLD
AT last we know you, War-lord. You, that flung  The gauntlet down, fling down the mask  you wore,  Publish your heart, and let its pent hate pour, You that had God for ever on your tongue. We are old in war, and if in guile we are young,  Young also is the spirit that evermore  Burns in our bosom ev'n as heretofore, Nor are these thews unbraced, these nerves unstrung. We do not with God's name make wanton play;  We are not on such easy terms with Heaven; But in Earth's hearing we can verily say,  "Our hands are pure; for peace, for peace we  have striven";  And not by Earth shall he be soon forgiven Who lit the fire accurst that flames to-day.
WILLIAM WATSON