OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Persia/Chapter 13

CHAPTER II.
OF THE ADMINISTRATION OF JUSTICE.
Since religion serves as a foundation to the laws, the administration of justice is committed to magistrates, whom we may, without impropriety, term ecclesiastical.
The chief of these magistrates is the Sheik-ul-Islam, an appellation which signifies the elder, teacher, or high-priest, of the Mahometan religion. This title was created, in.1423, by the Turkish emperor, Mahomet II., to be conferred on the celebrated Djelalzadeh, whom he raised to the dignity of mufti and cadi of Constantinople. Shah Ismail, founder of the dynasty of the Sofis, having instituted a new religious dignity in Persia, gave to the person who filled it, the title of Sheik-ul-Islam: and this prelate is now regarded as the head of religion in that country.
The Sheik-ul-Islam, whose peculiar costume is represented in the opposite plate, is the judge of all civil causes, the decision of which is governed by the text of the divine law, or the Koran. He also determines all religious causes. The great cities of the empire, such as Ispahan, Shiraz, Tabreez, &c. have each a Sheik-ul-Islam: we believe, however, that they are not all of equal rank, but that the magistrate of the first of these cities is superior to the others.
The Cadi, whose authority was formerly very great, is subordinate to the Sheik-ul-Islam: his functions are of the same nature. Scrupulous Musulmaus apply in preference to the Cadi, in consideration of the antiquity of that dignity, which has existed ever since the time of the-first caliphs, whereas, that of Sheik is of modern creation.
The Mufti seems to be rather a lawyer than a magistrate, as is implied by his name, which is an Arabic participle, signifying “one who gives decisions founded on the Koran.” He seems, in fact, to combine the characters of doctor of divinity and doctor of laws; for he is consulted on litigated matters, on points relative 'to religious doctrines and ceremonies, or to morality, and in civil and criminal causes. In Persia, the Mufti enjoys respect rather than authority: the Sheik-ul-Islam, the Cadi, the ministers, and the king himself, defer to his decisions. The annexed plate exhibits a faithful representation of the Persian or doctor of divinity.
High Priest.
We have before adverted to the ourf, or common law. While the Sheik-ul-Islam and the Cadis decide according to the text of the Koran alone, the civil magistrates, such as the kelaunter, and the darogha, pronounce judgment in causes of minor importance, agreeably to the, common law. They even give their decisions in civil matter, here She text of the cheriet would not always be conformable with justice. It is often the case, that the two authorities, at of the. ecclesiastical magistrates and that of the civil magistrates, clash with one another; but the latter, having the effective force at their beck, carry their point without much difficulty.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/War

WAR
THE serpent-horror writhing in her hair, And crowning cruel brows bent o'er the ground That she would crimson now from many a wound, Medusa-like, I seem to see her there— War! with her petrifying eyes astare— And can no longer listen to the sound Of song-birds in the harvest fields around; Such prophecies do her mute lips declare.
Evils? Can any greater be than they That troop licentious in her brutal train? Unvindicated honour? She brings shame— Shame more appalling than men dare to name, Betraying them that die and them that slay, And making of this earth a hell of pain!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Wings

WINGS
THAT Love has wings the poets say; White wings where lights and shadows play, Swift wings, that sail from shore to shore, From sea to sea, or lightly soar To happy Edens far away.
Where'er they gleam the world grows gay, December smiles, and rosy May With fluttering transport feels once more That Love has wings.
But Youth is fond, and hearts are clay, And faults deceive, and doubts betray, And some forget the winning lore That drew the blessing to their door, And learn too late—ah, well-a-day!— That Love has wings.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Yesterday

YESTERDAY
MY soul is fain to drink of joy; Thy cup is full of tears. Ah, take it from me, nor destroy The dream of future years! Thy face is fair, but grief is there— And grief but wastes and sears.
We two have been companioned long; Now straightway let us part! Another and a dearer song, By some mysterious art, Draws young, sweet breath while thy lips of death Yet whisper to my heart.
Ah, joy it is a timid thing, And easily 't is slain; A tender firstling of the spring, It shrinks at touch of pain; Then haste away, dread Yesterday! Nor hither come again! ​So quickly? But who goes with thee, Unrecognized before? Are hope, alas! and memory Thus joined forevermore? Then must thou stay, O Yesterday! Lest joy, too, quit my door.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/You

YOU
IF you no more should love me?—you? It takes my breath, a thought so strange As that aught earthly could your spirit woo To change! Remote from doubt, I dwell secure In faith all minor faiths above, So do I trust, so live, in your Incomparable love!
I laugh for joy to think how much A question would your nature wrong, Whom Heaven created, with a noble touch, So strong! Nay; doubt, for me, new born were over. You will remain unchanged and true— Not, not that I am I, my lover, But just that you are you!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Youth and Age

YOUTH AND AGE
FOND Youth and Age met face to face, And each the other doubted sore. Age mourned: "Your follies grow apace More dangerous than of yore.
"Old standards trampled in the dust, Where you are wending who can tell?" Youth, wondering, smiled, at his distrust, And answered: "Nay; all's well!—
"Your day gone by, why fear that I Shall lack the strength for mine own hour? Each new demand of destiny Brings with it a new power.
"For you the past: for me the Now— The wonder-working Now divine! A weight too heavy for your brow The Fates transfer to mine."
Age, out of heart, impatient, sighed:— "I ask what will the Future be?" Youth laughed contentedly, and cried:— "The future leave to me!"
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Where Harold Sleeps

WHERE HAROLD SLEEPS
WHERE Harold sleeps the night is blest. In the Great Mother's easeful breast He lies the brave and sweet among Who, loved by the wise gods, die young— The goal achieved without the quest.
Though winds of Autumn from the West May rudely rock the unsheltered nest, Yet shall all joys of Spring be sung Where Harold sleeps;
And we, our human griefs confessed, We, too, by a dear hope caressed— Death's hope illimitable, sprung From nothing that to earth hath clung— Shall, waiting a new dawn, find rest Where Harold sleeps!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Who Walks the World with Soul Awake

WHO WALKS THE WORLD WITH SOUL AWAKE
WHO walks the world with soul awake Finds beauty everywhere; Though labor be his portion, Though sorrow be his share, He looks beyond obscuring clouds, Sure that the light is there!
And if, the ills of mortal life Grown heavier to bear, Doubt come with its perplexities And whisper of despair, He turns with love to suffering men— And, lo! God, too, is there.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Wouldst Thou Learn?

WOULDST THOU LEARN
WOULDST thou learn what coldness is, Seek it not where Hebrus flows, Shuddering, to the abyss; Nor where Hermon's gleaming snows, On its frozen heights, repose; But on such a morn as this, When no blade of grass is dumb, When the birds, low-twittering, build, And Earth's heart is passion-thrill'd,— Come to Love's deserted home!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Vita Nuova

VITA NUOVA
WHAT miracle is here— What vision of forgotten things and dear? The grass—how green it lies in coverts deep! The pussy-willows—sentinels of the wood— How slim, how fair, each 'neath its downy snood, They stand, new-waked from sleep!
And the enchantment cold That seemed as death? Could it no longer hold Against the glow that warmed the breast of Earth? Hearken! what myriad little lives once more Come knocking, knocking at the Mother's door, Importunate for birth!
The trees, that look so bare, Are conscious that the tender leaves are there— Folded, yet faintly stirring in the bud; And upward from each buried rootlet runs, The golden ichor, gift of vernal suns, On-swelling to the flood.
​And, oh! thrice loved of yore— Whence comes that note? It was not here before! The white-throat! By what blest magician's art— Flung out of silence, comes that clear appeal, To make the jaded and insensate feel New yearnings of the heart?
A something in the song Shall hardly to a later strain belong— A tremulous and naïve ecstasy That moves the soul; which, eager then to live, Petitions life: "Ah, stay awhile, and give A little heed to me!
"I, also, feel the Spring! I, also, long to spread my wings and sing, Unvexed by cares that canker and consume: To hope, to dream,—ere winter come, to capture The fleeting thrill, the fragrance and the rapture Of beauty in its bloom!"
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Winter-Song

WINTER-SONG
TO him who doth remember, June evermore is near: He breathes her rose amid the snows, And still he seems to hear The lark from wintry fields arise Into the blue of summer skies.
Both April and December Time doth to mortals bring, But in the seed, for future need, Eternal waits the Spring; And there be stars that never set, For him who knows not to forget.
# Poems of cabin and field/The Deserted Plantation

The Deserted Plantation
# Poems of the Great War/Commandeered

COMMANDEERED
LAST year he drew the harvest home Along the winding upland lane; The children twisted marigolds And clover flowers, to deck his mane. Last year—he drew the harvest home!
To-day—with puzzled, patient face, With ears a-droop, and weary feet, He marches to the sound of drums, And draws the gun along the street. To-day—he draws the guns of war!
L. G. MOBERLY
# Poems of the Great War/France

FRANCE
BECAUSE for once the sword broke in her hand,  The words she spoke seemed perished for a  space; All wrong was brazen, and in every land  The tyrants walked abroad with naked face.
The waters turned to blood, as rose the Star  Of evil fate denying all release. The rulers smote, the feeble crying "War!"  The usurers robbed, the naked crying "Peace!"
And her own feet were caught in nets of gold,  And her own soul profaned by sects that squirm, And little men climbed her high seats and sold  Her honour to the vulture and the worm.
And she seemed broken and they thought her dead,  The Over-Men, so brave against the weak. Has your last word of sophistry been said,  O cult of slaves? Then it is hers to speak.
Clear the slow mists from her half-darkened eyes,  As slow mists parted over Valmy fell, And once again her hands in high surprise  Take hold upon the battlements of Hell.
CECIL CHESTERTON
# Poems of cabin and field/Lullaby

Lullaby
# Poems of the Great War

* related portals: Poetry.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Note by Rudyard Kipling
POEMS OF THE GREAT WAR
DUTY
Give gladly you rich—'tis no more than you owe— For the weal of your Country, your wealth's  overflow!
Even I that am poor am performing my part;
I am giving my brain, I am giving my heart.
WILLIAM WATSON
POEMS OF THE
GREAT WAR
PUBLISHED ON BEHALF OF THE
PRINCE OF WALES'S NATIONAL
RELIEF FUND
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1914
NOTE
THIS collection of War Poems, the net profits from which will be given to the Prince of Wales's Fund, represents the free offering of English poets to the cause of National Relief.
Most of the poems have appeared recently in the Press. Mr. Robert Bridges' opening contribution, Mr. Henry Newbolt's, Mr. Maurice Hewlett's, Mr. R. E. Vernéde's, Mr. Binyon's, were all printed in the Times during the few days immediately following the declaration of war, as also was the sonnet by Mr. William Watson. Sir Owen Seaman's poem came out originally in Punch, "The Hour" in the Daily Telegraph, "The United Front" in the Daily Mail. "We Willed it Not" is reprinted from the Sphere, "Duty" and "Commandeered" from the Westminster Gazette, and the poems by Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Cecil Chesterton from the New Witness. The New Weekly published the verses by Mr. John Freeman, and the Daily Chronicle those by Mr. Harold Begbie. The two hymns which close the collection are reprinted, by special permission of their authors, from volumes previously published.
The publishers desire also to record their thanks to Mr. William Nicholson for the design which appears on the cover.
CONTENTS
| | | PAGE |
| "Wake up, England" | Robert Bridges | 7 |
| The Vigil | Henry Newbolt | 9 |
| To the Troubler of the World | William Watson | 11 |
| To England: To Strike Quickly | Maurice Hewlett | 12 |
| Fourth of August | Laurence Binyon | 13 |
| The United Front | Alfred Noyes | 15 |
| England to the Sea | R. E. Vernéde | 18 |
| The Hour | J. B. Fagan | 21 |
| The Wife of Flanders | G. K. Chesterton | 23 |
| The Stars in their Courses | John Freeman | 25 |
| Commandeered | L. G. Moberly | 29 |
| The Man who Keeps his Head | Harold Begbie | 30 |
| France | Cecil Chesterton | 32 |
| We Willed it Not | John Drinkwater | 33 |
| Pro Patria | Owen Seaman | 35 |
| Hymn before Action | Rudyard Kipling | 37 |
| Hymn in War Time | Robert Bridges | 39 |
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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
# Poems of cabin and field/Signs of the Times

Signs of the Times
# Poems of the Great War/Fourth of August

THE FOURTH OF AUGUST
NOW in they splendour go before us,  Spirit of England, ardent-eyed! Enkindle this dear earth that bore us,  In the hour of peril purified.
The cares we hugged drop out of vision,  Our hearts with deeper thoughts dilate. We step from days of sour division  Into the grandeur of our fate.
For us the glorious dead have striven;  They battled that we might be free. We to that living cause are given,  We arm for men that are to be.
Among the nations nobliest chartered,  England recalls her heritage. With her is that which is not bartered,  Which force can neither quell nor cage.
For her immortal stars are burning,  With her, the hope that's never done, The seed that's in the Spring's returning,  The very flower that seeks the sun.
We fight the fraud that feeds desire on  Lies, in a lust to enslave or kill, The barren creed of blood and iron,  Vampire of Europe's wasted will.
Endure, O Earth! and thou, awaken,  Purged by this dreadful winnowing-fan, O wronged, untameable, unshaken  Soul of divinely suffering man!
LAURENCE BINYON
# Poems of the Great War/Hymn before Action

HYMN BEFORE ACTION
THE earth is full of anger,  The seas are dark with wrath, The Nations in their harness  Go up against our path: Ere yet we loose the legions—  Ere yet we draw the blade, Jehovah of the Thunders,  Lord God of Battles, aid!
High lust and froward bearing,  Proud heart, rebellious brow— Deaf ear and soul uncaring,  We seek Thy mercy now! The sinner that forswore Thee,  The fool that passed Thee by, Our times are known before Thee—  Lord, grant us strength to die!
From panic, pride and terror,  Revenge that knows no rein, Light haste and lawless error,  Protect us yet again,
Cloak Thou our undeserving,  Make firm the shuddering breath, In silence and unswerving  To taste Thy lesser death!
Ah! Mary, pierced with sorrow,  Remember, reach and save The soul that comes to-morrow  Before the God that gave; Since each was born of woman,  For each at utter need— True comrade and true foeman—  Madonna, Intercede!
E'en now their vanguard gathers,  E'en now we face the fray— As Thou didst help our fathers,  Help Thou our host to-day! Fulfilled of signs and wonders,  In life, in death made clear— Jehovah of the Thunders,  Lord God of Battles, hear!
RUDYARD KIPLING
# Poems of cabin and field/Time to Tinker Round

Time to Tinker 'Roun'
# Poems of the Great War/England to the Sea

ENGLAND TO THE SEA
HEARKEN, O Mother, hearken to thy daughter!  Fain would I tell thee what men tell to me, Saying that henceforth no more on any water  Shall I be first or great or loved or free,
But that these others—so the tale is spoken—  Who have not known thee all these centuries By fire and sword shall yet turn England broken  Back from thy breast and beaten from thy seas,
Me—whom thou barest where they waves should  guard me,  Me—whom thou suckled'st on thy milk of foam, Me—whom thy kisses shaped what while they  marred me,  To whom thy storms are sweet and ring of  home.
"Behold," they cry, "she is grown soft and  strengthless,  All her proud memories changed to fear and  fret." Say, thou, who hast watched through ages that are  lengthless,  Whom have I feared, and when did I forget?
What sons of mine have shunned thy words and  races?  Have I not reared for thee time and again And bid go forth to share thy fierce embraces  Sea-ducks, sea-wolves, sea-rovers, and sea-men?
Names that thou knowest—great hearts that thou  holdest,  Rocking them, rocking them in an endless  wake— Captains the world can match not with its boldest,  Hawke, Howard, Grenville, Frobisher, Drake?
Nelson—the greatest of them all—the master  Who swept across thee like a shooting star, And, while the Earth stood veiled before disaster,  Caught Death and slew him—there—at Tra-  falgar?
Mother, they knew me then as thou didst know  me;  Then I cried, Peace, and every flag was furled: But I am old, it seems, and they would show me  That never more my peace shall bind the world.
Wherefore, O Sea, I, standing thus before thee,  Stretch forth my hands unto thy surge and say: "When they come forth who seek this empire o'er  thee,  And I go forth to meet them—on that day
"God grant to us the old Armada weather,  The winds that rip, the heavens that stoop and  lour— Not till the Sea and England sink together,  Shall they be masters! Let them boast that  hour!"
R. E. VERNÈDE
# Persian Letters/Letter 14
#### Letter 14

Usbek to the Same
As their numbers increased every day, the Troglodites thought it behoved them to elect a king. They judged it wise to confer the crown upon the justest man among them; and their thoughts turned to one, venerable by reason of his age and his long career of virtue. He, however, had refused to attend the meeting, and withdrew to his house, oppressed with grief.
When deputies were sent to him to announce his election, “The Gods forbid,” cried he, “that I should wrong the Troglodites by permitting them to believe that there is one man among them more just than I! You offer me the crown; and if you insist upon it absolutely, I cannot but take it. Remember, however, that I shall die of sorrow, having known the Troglodites freemen, to behold them subjected to a ruler.” Having said this, he burst into a torrent of tears. “Unhappy day!” he exclaimed. “Why have I lived to see it?” Then he upbraided them. “I see,” he cried, “O Troglodites, what moves you to this; uprightness becomes a burden to you. In your present condition, having no head, you are constrained in your own despite to be virtuous; otherwise your very existence would be at stake, and you would relapse into the wretched state of your ancestors. But this seems to you too heavy a yoke; you would rather become the subjects of a king, and submit to laws of his framing-laws less exacting than your present customs. You know that then you would be able to satisfy your ambition, and while away the time in slothful luxury; and that, provided you avoided the graver crimes, there would be no necessity for virtue.” He ceased speaking for a little, and his tears fell faster than ever. “And what do you expect of me? How can I lay commands upon a Troglodite? Would one act more nobly because I ordered him? You forget that a Troglodite without any command does what is right from natural inclination?”
“O Troglodites, my days are nearly done, my blood is frozen in my veins, I shall soon join your blessed ancestors; why would you have me carry them the sad news that you have submitted to another law than that of virtue?”
Erzeroum, the 10th of the second moon of Gemmadi, 1711.
# Persian Letters/Letter 133
#### Letter 133

Rica to * * *
The other day I visited a great library in a convent of dervishes, to whose care it has been entrusted, and who are obliged to admit all comers at certain hours.
On entering I saw a grave-looking man, who walked up and down in the midst of a prodigious number of volumes which surrounded him. I approached him, and asked him to tell me what books those were which I saw better bound than others. “Sir,” he replied, “I live here in a strange land, where I know no one. Many people ask me similar questions; but you can easily understand how I cannot read all these books to satisfy them; my librarian will tell you all you wish, for he employs himself night and day in deciphering all you see here; he is a good-for-nothing, and is a great expense to us, because he does no work for the convent. But I hear the refectory bell. Those who, like me, are at the head of a community, ought to be foremost in all its exercises.” With that, the monk pushed me out, shut the door, and vanished from my sight as if he would have flown.
Paris, the 21st of the moon of Rhamazan, 1719.
# Persian Letters/Letter 137
#### Letter 137

Rica to the Same
Next morning he took me to another room. “Here,” he said, “we have the poets; that is to say, those authors whose business it is to shackle common sense, and to smother reason with embellishment, as women were formerly buried under their ornaments and jewellery. You must know them; they are not uncommon in the east, where a hotter sun seems to give new heat even to the imagination.”
“There are the epic poems.” “Ah! And what are epic poems?” Indeed,” said he, “I don’t know; critics say that there were never more than two, and that the others, which go by the name, are not epics: that, too, I know nothing about. They say, besides, what is still more surprising, that it is impossible to make more.
“Here are the dramatic poets, which are, in my opinion, the best of all, and the masters of passion. There are two kinds: the comic dramatists, who move us so agreeably, and the tragic dramatists, who rouse our passions and shake our dispostions.
“And here are the lyric poets, whom I despise as much as I esteem the others, and who have reduced art to the production of melodious nonsense.
“Then come the authors of idylls and eclogues, which charm even courtiers, who imagine that they receive from them a feeling of serenity which they do not possess, and that they are brought face to face with the pastoral life.
“But of all the authors we have passed in review, here are the most dangerous: those, namely, who forge epigrams, little, sharp darts, which make a deep and incurable wound.
“Here you see the romances, whose authors are a sort of poets, and who are as extravagant in their wit as they are outrageous in their treatment of passion: they spend their lives seeking nature and never finding it: their heroes are about as natural as winged dragons and hippogriffs.”
“I have seen,” said I, “some of your romances, and if you could see ours, you would be yet more disgusted. They are as unnatural as yours, and, on account of our manners, excessively tedious; it takes ten years of devotion before a lover may be allowed as much as to see the face of his mistress. Yet the authors are compelled to conduct their readers through these wearisome preliminaries. As it is impossible that incidents should be endlessly varied, they have recourse to an artifice worse than the evil they would remedy; I mean the introduction of prodigies. I am sure you would not approve of a sorceress causing an army to spring out of the earth, or of a hero destroying single-handed a hundred thousand men. Yet such are our romances; the repetition of these dull adventures tires us out, and these absurd marvels disgust us.”
Paris, the 6th of the moon of Chalval, 1719.