OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems for our Children/The Boy, the Bee, and the Butterfly

THE BOY, THE BEE, AND THE BUTTERFLY.
A FABLE.
One morning when the sky was fair, And softly breathed the balmy air, And little birds were on the wing, And little lambs were frolicking, And little boys, a cheerful throng, Were tripping merrily along, The school-house garden stands, and there, With book in satchel, they repair, The bell rings loud!—away, away! No truant now may stop to play. —But Edward was an idle lad, He loved to play, and he was sad To hear the bell ring loud—he sighed— Just then a butterfly he spied, All powdered o'er with gold, its form Was bright as rainbow 'mid the storm: From flower to flower it lightly flew, ​And sipped and sipped the silver dew— Young Edward gazed—'I wish that I Was happy as that butterfly.' A Bee, that on a floweret lay, And there had toiled since peep of day, And now her sack with honey filled, Her legs with yellow wax concealed, Was just preparing home to steer, But Edward's wish had thrilled her ear, And thus she answered—(bees you know Can work, perhaps they reason too—) 'Edward, if happiness you prize Think not 't is found with butterflies— They sport around while summer shines, But when the gaudy day declines, And whistling winds are keen and rude, They have no home, no friends, no food— You 'll see this idle butterfly Then shiver, stiffen, sink and die! For me, 't is true I labor hard, But then my cells are built and stored, And 'mid cold winter's fiercest storm, I live so snug—and lie so warm— ​My honey-cups I gaily quaff, With friends I sing, and sport, and laugh— 'T is spring's and summer's industry Makes winter hours so sweet to me. Edward, from my example's truth, Improve the golden days of youth, In books, or business steadily Engage, then like the busy bee, Should age, or want, or weakness come You 'll find resources, friends and home. But if, like yonder fluttering thing, You waste your time in rioting, A heedless, helpless, useless drone, You 'll have to fly or fall alone.'
So spoke the bee and homeward flew, Young Edward heard, and thanked her too; Quoth he, 'with speed to school I 'll hie, I will not be a butterfly.'
# Poems for our Children/The Bright Hearth

THE BRIGHT HEARTH.
Now the gloomy winter days, Clouds and storms are coming on, But our cheerful hearth doth blaze Brighter than the summer sun.
​Here, my mother, we can stay With thee, in this pleasant room; Who would ask abroad to play, When so cheerful is their home?
Soft the song of summer bird, Sweet the breath of summer flower, But a kind, a loving word Comes with sweeter, softer power.
Mother, when thy loving voice Checks or cheers we will obey, And be silent, or rejoice Through this stormy, gloomy day.
And when evening shades appear, Brighter still will glow our hearth, Then our father will be here, And his smile will join our mirth.
# Poems (Kennedy)/Guynemer

GUYNEMER
(Guynemer, the famous French aviator, is said to have brought down the unprecedented number of 52 enemy airplanes before he was himself killed. The French people have asked that he be buried in the Pantheon, or Church of St. Genevieve, where are the tombs of many illustrious Frenchmen, and over the doors of which is carved the line: " Au grandes hommes la patrie reconnaissante.")
# Poems (Mitford)/To the Evening Primrose

TO
THE EVENING PRIMROSE.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 1/View from the Top of Black Comb

V.
VIEW FROM THE TOP OF
BLACK COMB.
This Height a ministering Angel might select: For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range Of unobstructed prospect may be seen That British ground commands:—low dusky tracts, Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian Hills To the south-west, a multitudinous show; And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, The hoary Peaks of Scotland that give birth To Tiviot's Stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde;— Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth Gigantic Mountains rough with crags; beneath, Right at the imperial Station's western base, Main Ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched Far into silent regions blue and pale;— And visibly engirding Mona's Isle ​That, as we left the Plain, before our sight Stood like a lofty Mount, uplifting slowly, (Above the convex of the watery globe) Into clear view the cultured fields that streak Its habitable shores; but now appears A dwindled object, and submits to lie At the Spectator's feet.—Yon azure Ridge, Is it a perishable cloud? Or there Do we behold the frame of Erin's Coast? Land sometimes by the roving shepherd swain, Like the bright confines of another world Not doubtfully perceived.—Look homeward now! In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene The spectacle, how pure!—Of Nature's works, In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, A Revelation infinite it seems; Display august of man's inheritance, Of Britain's calm felicity and power.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 1/We are Seven

IX.
WE ARE SEVEN.
———A simple child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad.
​"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.
Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be?"
Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree."
​"You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.
My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit— I sit and sing to them.
And often after sun-set, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.
The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away.
​So in the church-yard she was laid; And all the summer dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.
And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side."
"How many are you then," said I, "If they two are in Heaven?" The little Maiden did reply, "O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away: for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/Small Miseries

CHAPTER II.
PUBLISHING.
Life's smallest miseries are, perhaps, its worst:
Great sufferings have great strength: there is a pride
In the bold energy that braves the worst,
And bears proud in the bearing; but the heart
Consumes with those small sorrows, and small shames,
Which crave, yet cannot ask for sympathy.
They blush that they exist, and yet how keen
The pang that they inflict!
Blanchard’s title is:
SMALL MISERIES
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/Self-blindness

CHAPTER VI.
GAIETIES AND ABSURDITIES.
LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH.
What Shakspeare said of lovers, might apply
To all the world—" 'Tis well they do not see
The pretty follies that themselves commit."
Could we but turn upon ourselves the eyes
With which we look on others, life would pass
In one perpetual blush and smile.
The smile, how bitter!—for 'tis scorn's worst task
To scorn ourselves; and yet we could not choose
But mock our actions, all we say or do,
If we but saw them as we others see.
 Life's best repose is blindness to itself.
Blanchard’s title is:
SELF-BLINDNESS
The Shakespeare quote is from The Merchant of Venice
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Coronation

CHAPTER I.
THE CORONATION.
What memories haunt the venerable pile!
It is the mighty treasury of the past,
Where England garners up her glorious dead.
The ancient chivalry are sleeping there—
Men who sought out the Turk in Palestine,
And laid the crescent low before the cross.
 The sea has sent her victories: those aisles
Wave with the banners of a thousand fights.
There, too, are the mind's triumphs—in those tombs
Sleep poets and philosophers, whose light
Is on the heaven of our intellect.
The very names inscribed on those old walls
Make the place sacred.
In Blanchard
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The Father’s Love

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
RETURN HOME.
'Tis not my home—he made it home
 With earnest love and care;
How can it be my own dear home,
 And he no longer there?
I asked to meet my father's eyes,
 But they were closed for me;
My father, would that I were laid
 In the dark grave with thee.
Where shall I look for constant love,
 To answer unto mine?
Others have many kindred hearts,
 But I had only thine.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE FATHER’S LOVE
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The First Doubt

CHAPTER V.
THE FIRST DOUBT.
Youth, love, and rank, and wealth—all these combined,
Can these be wretched? Mystery of the mind,
Whose happiness is in itself; but still
Has not that happiness at its own will.
She felt too wretched with the sudden fear—
Had she such lovely rival, and so near?
Ay, bitterest of the bitter this worst pain,
To know love's offering has been in vain;
Rejected, scorn'd, and trampled under foot,
Its bloom and leaves destroyed, but not its root.
"He loves me not!"—no other words nor sound
An echo in the lady's bosom found:
It was a wretchedness too great to bear,
She sank before the presence of despair!
In Blanchard
Adapted from The Rose in The Golden Violet
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/Pride in Trifles

CHAPTER XXVII.
AN INTERVIEW.
Why, life must mock itself to mark how small
Are the distinctions of its various pride.
‘Tis strange how we delight in the unreal;
The fanciful and the fantastic make
One half our triumphs. Not in mighty things—
The glorious offerings of our mind to fate—
Do we ask homage to our vanities,
One half so much as from the false and vain:
The petty trifles that the social world
Has fancied into grandeur.
Blanchard’s title is:
PRIDE IN TRIFLES
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/Presentiment

CHAPTER XVII.
PRESENTIMENT.
I feel the shadow on my brow,
 The sickness at my heart;
Alas! I look on those I love,
 And am so sad to part.
If I could leave my love behind,
 Or watch from yonder sky
With holy and enduring care,
 I were not loath to die.
But death is terrible to Love:
 And yet a love like mine
Trusts in the heaven from whence it came,
 And feels it is divine.
In Blanchard
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/Remembrance

CHAPTER XL.
THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD.
Pale Memory sits lone, brooding o'er the past,
That makes her misery. She looketh round,
And asks the wide world for forgetfulness:
She asks in vain; the shadow of past hours
Close palpable around her; shapes arise—
Shadows, yet seeming real; and sad thoughts,
That make a night of darkness and of dreams.
Her empire is upon the dead and gone;
With that she mocks the present, and shuts out
The future, till the grave, which is her throne,
Has absolute dominion.
Blanchard’s title is:
REMEMBRANCE
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/The False and the Unjust

Note: Chapter XXXI. is introduced by a quotation from Pope.
CHAPTER XXXII.
AN AUDIENCE.
Not with the world to teach us, may we learn
The spirit's noblest lessons. Hope and Faith
Are stars that shine amid the far off heaven,
Dimmed and obscured by vapours from below;
Impatient selfishness, and shrewd distrust,
Are taught us in the common ways of life;
Dust is beneath our feet, and at our side
The coarse and mean, the false and the unjust;
And constant contact makes us grow too like
The things we daily struggle with and scorn:
Only by looking up, can we see heaven.
Blanchard’s title is:
THE FALSE AND THE UNJUST
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume II/Music of Laughter

CHAPTER XIII.
CONFIDENCE.
She had that charming laugh which, like a song,
 The song of a spring-bird, wakes suddenly
When we least look for it. It lingered long
 Upon the ear, one of the sweet things we
Treasure unconsciously. As steals along
 A stream in sunshine, stole its melody,
As musical as it was light and wild,
The buoyant spirit of some fairy child;
Yet mingled with soft sighs, that might express
The depth and truth of earnest tenderness.
Blanchard’s title is:
MUSIC OF LAUGHTER
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Sonnet 3

SONNET.
Ah! now farewell, thou sweet and gentle maid,  Beside thy simple grave we oft shall mourn; And plant a willow where thy form is laid,  And then with flowers the weeping tree adorn. Oft shall we sing thy melancholy tale,  When all the shades of evening steal around; And oft assemble by the moonlight pale,  To linger near the consecrated ground. And oh! if spirits e'er on earth descend,  To hover o'er some chosen hallow'd spot; Around thy tomb shall airy bands attend,  And humble villagers shall weep thy lot. Ah! fair departed maid, thy placid mind Was calm in sorrow, and to Heaven resign'd.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Sonnet 4

SONNET.
I love to hail the mild the balmy hour,  When evening spreads around her twilight veil; When dews descend on every languid flower,  And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale. Then let me wander by the peaceful tide,  While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play; To hear the waters murmur as they glide,  To mark the fading smile of closing day. There let me linger, blest in visions dear,  Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas; While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear,  Of airy music floating on the breeze. For still when evening sheds the genial dews, That pensive hour is sacred to the muse.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Sonnet to a Dying Exotic

SONNET TO A DYING EXOTIC.
Ah! lovely faded plant, the blight I mourn,  That withered all thy blossoms fair and gay;  I saw thee blushing to the genial May, And now thy leaves are drooping and forlorn. I mark'd thy early beauty with a smile,  And saw with pride the crimson buds expand; They open'd to the sunbeam for a while,  By all the flattering gales of summer fann'd. Ah! faded plant, I raise thy languid head,  And moisten every leaf with balmy dew; But now thy rich luxuriant bloom is fled,  Thy foliage wears a pale autumnal hue; Too soon thy glowing colours have decay'd, Like thee the flowers of pleasure smile and fade.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Sonnet to the Muse of Pity

SONNET TO THE MUSE OF PITY.
Oh! mistress of the melancholy song,  I love to bend before thy sacred shrine; To thee my fondest early vows belong,  For pity's melting tenderness is thine. Thine is the harp of wild expressive tone,  ‘Tis thine to touch it with entrancing art;  Till all thy numbers vibrate on the heart, And sympathy delights thy powers to own. Oh! sweetest muse of pity and of love,  In artless song thy plaintive lyre I hail;  Be mine to weep with thee o'er sorrow's tale, And oft thy pleasing visions may I prove.  "Thou mistress of the melancholy song,  "To thee my fondest early vows belong."
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Stanzas, addressed to the Right Honourable Lady Viscountess Kirkwall

STANZAS,
ADDRESSED
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LADY VISCOUNTESS KIRKWALL.
What tho' with feeble hand I strike the lyre,  I will not sigh to gain the poet's bays; Or soar with Genius on the wing of fire,  If gentle bosoms prize my artless lays.
For still, inspir'd by soft affection's glow,
 Or true to melting gratitude sincere, "Warm from the heart," my native measures flow,  Unknown to fame, yet still to friendship dear.
Fair patroness of my untutor'd strain,  Oh! if the numbers please thy feeling breast, These wild effusions are not pour'd in vain,  My song is honor'd, and my muse is blest.
When early led by nature's charms divine,  My youthful vows to Poesy I paid; And bending low at fancy's rural shrine,  Of opening buds a fragrant offering made;
Thy hand with laurel crown'd my infant head,  Thy cheering kindness fann'd my rising flame, And oh! whate'er the future path I tread,  My grateful heart shall ever love thy name.
May pleasure wing thy lightly fleeting hours,  And health attend thee on thy smiling way! May hope and joy unite, congenial pow'rs,  To gild thy prospect with propitious ray!
The muse for thee a votive wreath shall twine,  Sweeter than vernal roses bath'd in dews; For there the flowers of gratitude combine,  Of simple beauty, but of lasting hues.
F. D. B. aged 13.
Gwrych, 1st Oct. 1807.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Exile

THE EXILE.
Why memory recal the chearful hours,  The tranquil time that never can return; When gaily wandering in my native bowers,  I once was smiling as the summer morn.
And why recal my early friendships dear,  Why lead my thoughts to fond illusions past: They claim the plaintive tribute of a tear;  I weep for dreams of joy that fled so fast.
Ah! still will Fancy all the scenes revive,  The favorite scenes that charm'd my youthful breast; She bids them now in softer colours live,  And paints the cottage of domestic rest.
When pleasure lighted up my sparkling eye,  And on swift pinions flew the social day; Ah! then I pour'd the simple melody,  To hail the brilliance of the matin ray.
Ah! still retentive only to my woe,  Will memory trace the picture of my cot; And while in vain the tears of sorrow flow,  I rove in fancy to the sacred spot:
There fragrant woodbines form'd a mantling bower;  And there I planted the luxuriant vine; There love and friendship bless'd the festive hour,  While every rural happiness was mine.
Ah! thus will "sadly-pleasing" memory dwell  On all the hopes, the fond illusions o'er; And still with touching power she loves to tell,  Of happy moments to return no more.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Alpine Shepherd

THE ALPINE SHEPHERD.
In scenery sublime and rude, In wild romantic solitude, Where awful summits crown'd with snow, In soft and varied colours glow; There, in some grassy shelter'd spot, The Alpine shepherd forms his cot; And there, beside his peaceful home, The fairest mountain-flowerets bloom; There oft his playful children climb The rock fantastic and sublime, And cull the mantling shrubs that creep, And sweetly blossom o'er the steep. 'Tis his to mark the morning ray, Upon the glittering scenery play; To watch the purple evening shade, In sweet and mellow tinges fade; And hail the sun's departing smile, That beams upon the hills a while: And oft, at moonlight hour serene, He wanders thro' the shadowy scene: And then his pipe with plaintive sound Awakes the mountain-echoes round.
How dear to him the shelter'd spot, The waving pines that shade his cot; His pastoral music wild and gay, May charm his simple cares away; And never will he sigh to roam, Far from his native mountain-home.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The April Morn

THE APRIL MORN.
Now a smile, and now a frown; Brightening now, and now cast down; Now 'tis cheerful, now it lowers; Yet sunshine in the midst of showers.
Now the sky is calm and clear; Now the frowning clouds appear: Evanescent soon they fly; Calm and clear again the sky.
Such the face which April wears, Now in smiles, and now in tears; Like the life we lead below, Full of joy, and full of woe.
Lovely prospects now arise; Vanish now before our eyes: Yet, amid the clouds of grief, Still a sun-beam sheds relief. Like the face which April wears, Now in smiles, and now in tears.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Bee

THE BEE.
INSCRIBED TO MY SISTER.
Mark how the neat assiduous bee, Pattern of frugal industry,  Pursues her earnest toil; All day the pleasing task she plies, And to her cell at evening hies,  Enrich'd with golden spoil.
She warns us to employ the hours, In gathering stores from learning's flowers;  For these will ever last: These mental charms will fill the place Of every beauty, every grace,  When smiling youth is past.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Dream of Joy

THE DREAM OF JOY.
In life's young morn, with fairy wiles, Hope cheats the soul, and Fancy smiles; They lull with flattering dreams of joy, Ah! why must truth the dreams destroy?
Those halcyon days too soon are past, The lovely visions will not last; The golden dream of frolic joy, Alas! ere long will truth destroy.
The glowing scene by fancy spread, Gay hope by youthful ardour led, The flattering dream of frolic joy, Ah! soon, too soon will truth destroy.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 16/March 1880/The Matamata

Layout 4
* THE MATAMATA.
By E. SAUVAGE.
PIERRE BARRÈRE, in an essay on the natural history of the equatorial possessions of France, written in 1741, described a tortoise of a singular form which the Indians of Guiana called the raparara. It had, he said, a long, wrinkled neck, from which hung small membranes, ragged or slashed like a fringe; its head was flattened and triangular, and ended in a kind of trunk shaped like a ​quill-pen; and the upper part of the shell was furrowed and marked "with large knobs. This concise description gives a fair idea of the principal features of the tortoise which is illustrated in the cut. It is hard to tell which most attracts attention, the large, triangular, depressed head,
The Matamata (Chelys matamata).
the mouth extending behind the ears, or the doubly furrowed back with its three knobbed ridges. The head ends in a small, movable snout; the eyes are very small and set far forward; the sharp jaws are covered with a horny sheath. The neck is thick and bristles with tubercles, and from each side of it hang the ragged membranes which float in the water. The scales of the carapace are raised into ​prominent knobs, and from the tip of each knob furrows radiate in every direction. The tail is short and obtuse. The long and hooked claws are attached to paws which are somewhat palmated and of moderate length. The carapace is beveled to give play to the hinder limbs, and the cuirass is narrow and hollowed by a deep furrow in its after part. The upper part of the body is for the most part of a brick-red; the cuirass, not so deeply colored, is marked by blackish marblings. According to M. Spix, who has observed the living animal, the scales of the carapace are of a maroon brown, with radiating streaks, and the lower part of the head and the most of the members are of a greenish yellow pricked with brown. This tortoise is a native of the Guianas, and lives in stagnant waters and half-dried marshes. Except at the time of laying its eggs, it hardly ever goes to the land. Immersed in the mud, which it is not unlike in color, it lies in wait for the creatures which are imprudent enough to swim near it. The ragged membranes, floating in the water like worms, attract fish seeking for food. When a suitable prey passes within reach, the head which has been bent to one side instantly darts out as if it were hurled by a spring, and the victim is quickly buried in the huge throat of the reptile.
This tortoise, described by Barrère as the raparara, has been called by Schneider the Sinibrian tortoise. Bruguibre, in his "Journal d'Histoire Naturel de Paris," has given it the name of matamata, which is generally accepted by modern zoölogists. The only species from which the genus Chelys has been formed lives in the Guianas; and the individual, which is now to be seen in a living state in the museum at Paris, was captured there by the French explorer, M. J. Crevaux.