OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# To George B. Cheever

* related authors: George Barrell Cheever.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
So spake Esaias: so, in words of flame, Tekoa's prophet-herdsman smote with blame The traffickers in men, and put to shame, All earth and heaven before, The sacerdotal robbers of the poor.
All the dread Scripture lives for thee again, To smite like lightning on the hands profane Lifted to bless the slave-whip and the chain. Once more the old Hebrew tongue Bends with the shafts of God a bow new-strung!
Take up the mantle which the prophets wore; Warn with their warnings, show the Christ once more Bound, scourged, and crucified in His blameless poor; And shake above our land The unquenched bolts that blazed in Hosea's hand!
Not vainly shalt thou cast upon our years The solemn burdens of the Orient seers, And smite with truth a guilty nation's ears. Mightier was Luther's word Than Seckingen's mailed arm or Hutton's sword!
# To Giulia Grisi

When the rose is brightest,  Its bloom will soonest die; When burns the meteor brightest,  'T will vanish from the sky. If Death but wait until delight  O'errun the heart like wine, And break the cup with brimming quite, I die—for thou has poured to-night  The last drop into mine.
# To H. W. L.

The addressee in this poem is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
On his birthday, 27th February 1867
I need not praise the sweetness of his song,  Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he wrong The new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along,  Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds.
With loving breath of all the winds his name  Is blown about the world, but to his friends A sweeter secret hides behind his fame, And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim  To murmur a God bless you! and there ends.
As I muse backward up the checkered years  Wherein so much was given, so much was lost, Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen tears,— But hush! this is not for profaner ears;  Let them drink molten pearls not dream the cost.
Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core,  As naught but nightshade grew upon earth's ground; Love turned all his to heart's-ease, and the more Fate tried his bastions, she but forced a door  Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound.
Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade  Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with sun, So through his trial faith translucent rayed Till darkness, half disnatured so, betrayed  A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun.
Surely if skill in song the shears may stay  And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss, If our poor life be lengthened by a lay, He shall not go, although his presence may,  And the next age in praise shall double this.
Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet  As gracious natures find his song to be; May Age steal on with softly-cadenced feet Falling in music, as for him were meet  Whose choicest verse is harsher-toned than he!
# The event was directly behind Him

The event was directly behind Him Yet He did not guess Fitted itself to Himself like a Robe Relished His ignorance. Motioned itself to drill Loaded and Levelled And let His Flesh Centuries from His soul.
# The evolution of British cattle and the fashioning of breeds

THE EVOLUTION OF
BRITISH CATTLE
AND
THE FASHIONING OF BREEDS
BY
JAMES WILSON, M.A., B.Sc.
PROFESSOR OF AGRICULTURE IN
THE ROYAL COLLEGE OF SCIENCE FOR IRELAND, DUBLIN
LONDON
VINTON & COMPANY, Ltd.
8, Bream's Buildings, Chancery Lane, E.C.
1909
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 1941, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 82 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 evils that beset our path

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
Vanity of Life by John Newton
    The evils that beset our path
    Who can prevent or cure?
    We stand upon the brink of death
    When most we seem secure.
    If we today sweet peace possess,
    It soon may be withdrawn;
    Some change may plunge us in distress,
    Before tomorrow's dawn.
    Disease and pain invade our health
    And find an easy prey;
    And oft, when least expected, wealth
    Takes wings and flies away.
    A fever or a blow can shake
    Our wisdom's boasted rule;
    And of the brightest genius make
    A madman or a fool.
    The gourds, from which we look for fruit,
    Produce us only pain;
    A worm unseen attacks the root,
    And all our hopes are vain.
    I pity those who seek no more
    Than such a world can give;
    Wretched they are, and blind, and poor,
    And dying while they live.
    Since sin has filled the earth with woe,
    And creatures fade and die;
    Lord wean our hearts from things below,
    And fix our hopes on high.
# The year's at the spring/De la Mare, Walter

Arabia
FAR are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon; And so dark is that vaulted purple Flowers in the forest rise And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars Pale in the noonday skies.
Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the demi-silked, dark-haired Musicians In the brooding silence of night.
They haunt me—her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I see But shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me: ​Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say— "He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away."
WALTER DE LA MARE
Full Moon
ONE night as Dick lay half asleep, Into his drowsy eyes A great still light began to creep From out the silent skies. It was the lovely moon's, for when He raised his dreamy head, Her rays of silver filled the pane And streamed across his bed. So, for awhile, each gazed at each— Dick and the solemn moon— Till, climbing slowly on her way, She vanished, and was gone.
WALTER DE LA MARE
Nod
SOFTLY along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew, Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.
His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold, To where the sun's last beam leans low On Nod the shepherd's fold.
The hedge is quick and green with briar, From their sand the conies creep; And all the birds that fly in heaven Flock singing home to sleep.
His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, Yet, when night's shadows fall, His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, Misses not one of all.
​His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no-more-pain, His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, "Rest, rest, and rest again."
WALTER DE LA MARE
The Song of the Mad Prince
WHO said, "Peacock Pie"? The old King to the sparrow: Who said, "Crops are ripe"? Rust to the harrow: Who said, "Where sleeps she now? Where rests she now her head, Bathed in eve's loveliness"? That's what I said.
Who said, "Ay, mum's the word"? Sexton to willow: Who said, "Green dusk for dreams, Moss for a pillow"? Who said, "All Time's delight Hath she for narrow bed; Life's troubled bubble broken"? That's what I said.
WALTER DE LA MARE
# The year's at the spring/Eden, Helen Parry

To Betsey-Jane, on her Desiring to go Incontinently to Heaven
MY Betsey-Jane, it would not do, For what would Heaven make of you, A little, honey-loving bear, Among the Blessèd Babies there?
Nor do you dwell with us in vain Who tumble and get up again And try, with bruisèd knees, to smile— Sweet, you are blessèd all the while
And we in you: so wait, they'll come To take your hand and fetch you home, In Heavenly leaves to play at tents With all the Holy Innocents.
HELEN PARRY EDEN
# The year's at the spring/Flecker, James E

Brumana
OH shall I never never be home again? Meadows of England shining in the rain Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts green With briar fortify, with blossom screen Till my far morning—and O streams that slow And pure and deep through plains and playlands go, For me your love and all your kingcups store, And—dark militia of the southern shore, Old fragrant friends—preserve me the last lines Of that long saga which you sung me, pines, When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree I listened, with my eyes upon the sea.
[Continued] JAMES ELROY FLECKER
The Dying Patriot
DAY breaks on England down the Kentish hills, Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, Day of my dreams, O day! I saw them march from Dover, long ago, With a silver cross before them, singing low, Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break in foam, Augustine with his feet of snow.
Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town, —Beauty she was statue cold—there's blood upon her gown: Noon of my dreams, O noon! Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago, With her towers and tombs and statues all arow, With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there, And the streets where the great men go.
​Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales, When the first star shivers and the last wave pales: O evening dreams! There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago, Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow, And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead Sway when the long winds blow.
Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar Your children of the morning are clamorous for war: Fire in the night, O dreams! Though she send you as she sent you, long ago, South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow, West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the young Star-captains glow.
JAMES ELROY FLECKER
November Eves
NOVEMBER Evenings! Damp and still They used to cloak Leckhampton hill, And lie down close on the grey plain, And dim the dripping window-pane, And send queer winds like Harlequins That seized our elms for violins And struck a note so sharp and low Even a child could feel the woe.
Now fire chased shadow round the room; Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom: We crept about like mice, while Nurse Sat mending, solemn as a hearse, And even our unlearned eyes Half closed with choking memories.
Is it the mist or the dead leaves, Or the dead men—November eves?
JAMES ELROY FLECKER
# The year's at the spring/Fyleman, Rose

Alms in Autumn
SPINDLE-WOOD, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray, A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way? The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen, And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again. Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light To find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night.
Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please, Throw me down a slender branch of russet-gold keys. I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be shut so fast That nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past. I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go along My heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song.
​Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task, A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask: A pocketful of berries to thread in golden strands (I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands). So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright, They'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight.
ROSE FYLEMAN
I Don't Like Beetles
I DON'T like beetles, tho' I'm sure they're very good, I don't like porridge, tho' my Nanna says I should; I don't like the cistern in the attic where I play, And the funny noise the bath makes when the water runs away.
I don't like the feeling when my gloves are made of silk, And that dreadful slimy skinny stuff on top of hot milk; I don't like tigers, not even in a book, And, I know it's very naughty, but I don't like Cook!
ROSE FYLEMAN
Wishes
I WISH I liked rice pudding, I wish I were a twin, I wish some day a real live fairy Would just come walking in.
I wish when I'm at table My feet would touch the floor, I wish our pipes would burst next winter, Just like they did next door.
I wish that I could whistle Real proper grown-up tunes, I wish they'd let me sweep the chimneys On rainy afternoons.
I've got such heaps of wishes, I've only said a few; I wish that I could wake some morning And find they'd all come true!
ROSE FYLEMAN
# The year's at the spring/Chesterton, G. K

The Donkey
WHEN fishes flew and forests walked And figs grew upon thorn, Some moment when the moon was blood Then surely I was born;
With monstrous head and sickening cry And ears like errant wings, The devil's walking parody On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth, Of ancient crooked will; Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour; One far fierce hour and sweet: There was a shout about my ears, And palms before my feet.
G. K. CHESTERTON
# The year's at the spring/Coleridge, Mary E

Street Lanterns
COUNTRY roads are yellow and brown. We mend the roads in London Town.
Never a hansom dare come nigh, Never a cart goes rolling by.
An unwonted silence steals In between the turning wheels.
Quickly ends the autumn day, And the workman goes his way,
Leaving, midst the traffic rude, One small isle of solitude,
Lit, throughout the lengthy night, By the little lantern's light.
Jewels of the dark have we, Brighter than the rustic's be.
Over the dull earth are thrown Topaz, and the ruby stone.
MARY E. COLERIDGE
# The year's at the spring/Cornford, Frances

In France
THE poplars in the fields of France Are golden ladies come to dance; But yet to see them there is none But I and the September sun.
The girl who in their shadow sits Can only see the sock she knits; Her dog is watching all the day That not a cow shall go astray.
The leisurely contented cows Can only see the earth they browse; Their piebald bodies through the grass With busy, munching noses pass.
Alone the sun and I behold Processions crowned with shining gold— The poplars in the fields of France, Like glorious ladies come to dance.
FRANCES CORNFORD
The Ragwort
THE thistles on the sandy flats Are courtiers with crimson hats; The ragworts, growing up so straight, Are emperors who stand in state, And march about, so proud and bold, In crowns of fairy-story gold.
The people passing home at night Rejoice to see the shining sight, They quite forget the sands and sea Which are as grey as grey can be, Nor ever heed the gulls who cry Like peevish children in the sky.
FRANCES CORNFORD
# The year's at the spring/Davies, W. H

The Kingfisher
IT was the Rainbow gave thee birth, And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother's name was Tears, So runs it in thy blood to choose For haunts the lonely pools, and keep In company with trees that weep.
Go you and, with such glorious hues, Live with proud Peacocks in green parks; On lawns as smooth as shining glass, Let every feather show its mark; Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings Before the windows of proud kings.
Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; Thou hast no proud ambitious mind; I also love a quiet place That's green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a tree Sigh with her bosom over me.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
Sheep
WHEN I was once in Baltimore A man came up to me and cried, Come, I have eighteen hundred sheep, And we will sail on Tuesday's tide.
"If you will sail with me, young man, I'll pay you fifty shillings down; These eighteen hundred sheep I take From Baltimore to Glasgow town."
He paid me fifty shillings down, I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep; We soon had cleared the harbour's mouth, We soon were in the salt sea deep.
The first night we were out at sea Those sheep were quiet in their mind; The second night they cried with fear— They smelt no pastures in the wind.
​They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields, They cried so loud I could not sleep: For fifty thousand shillings down I would not sail again with sheep.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
# The year's at the spring/Drinkwater, John

A Town Window
BEYOND my window in the night Is but a drab inglorious street, Yet there the frost and clean starlight As over Warwick woods are sweet.
Under the grey drift of the town The crocus works among the mould As eagerly as those that crown The Warwick spring in flame and gold.
And when the tramway down the hill Across the cobbles moans and rings, There is about my window-sill The tumult of a thousand wings.
JOHN DRINKWATER
# The year's at the spring/Gibson, W. W

Sweet as the Breath of the Whin
SWEET as the breath of the whin Is the thought of my love— Sweet as the breath of the whin In the noonday sun— Sweet as the breath of the whin In the sun after rain.
Glad as the gold of the whin Is the thought of my love— Glad as the gold of the whin Since wandering's done— Glad as the gold of the whin Is my heart, home again.
WILFRID WILSON GIBSON
# Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 57/Number 5/Hatching a Volcano

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
   With all his craftiness, this wily adventurer found himself confronted by an appalling situation; tale of Havana and the Florida keys.
Hatching a Volcano
$^{By}$ Roland Ashford Phillips
(A COMPLETE NOVEL)
* I. Mostly Minus 1
* II. Playing Hide and Seek 3
* III. Outside the Law 6
* IV. Signposts of Adventure 10
* V. Finding Ways and Means 14
* VI. In a Web of Mystery 17
* VII. Written on the Stars 21
* VIII. Ready for Emergencies 25
* IX. Actors All 30
* X. No time for Dreaming 33
* XI. A Question of Time 36
* XII. An Unsuspected Peril 39
* XIII. With the Odds Against Him 43
* XIV. A Desperate Experience 45
* XV. The Greatest of All 49
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 1969, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 54 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
# Tixall Poetry/Celia

Celia.
by Mr Fanshawe.
That you may see how Mr Fanshaw has spent his time here, I have sent you these verses, which are of his making, sence his coming hither, and hee presented them to my sister and mee. The first were made upon this occasion: Wee wer all walking in the owld halle, and looking upon Trent, and I was speaking how you used to course your boy Dick about that medow, and talking of many such things. But the next morning he came out with these verses, which I doe not think but you will like very well, for methinks they are very prity ones, if they had bin made of better subjectes. Wee made him beleeve that you should fight with him when he came into Spaine againe, for abusing your sisters so, in flattering of them so infinightly as he has don in these verses. But now to come to speeke of these other verses of his, which are made in particular to my sister Gatt. The occasion of making of them was this: We had bin one eavening at bowles, and when we caime in, my sister was opening her hayre with her fingers, and bid him tell you that she would not curie her hayer no otherwaies than it curled itselfe till she saw you againe. Uppon which theame he made these other verses, which are much admired by all here, and by the Thimelbyes. I have sent you a lettle picture which you did love much when you were here, and then I could not get one for you, but sence having got one for you, I was most willing to send it you. Once more, my dear brother, adieu.
# Tixall Poetry/Cruelty in Love

IV.
Cruelty in Love.
# Tixall Poetry/Contented Poverty

Contented Poverty.
You that are worldly wise, and vanely boast Whose full cramm'd coffers may be valew'd most, Come, and behold how happily agree (United by contented povertie) This unrepenting paire; five yeares are fled, (Such hast makes time that ioy hath perfected,) Since these possess'd so absolute a calme, Love only knowes, who gives the soveraigne balme: Cures all distempers, even wishes vaine, When each from other all thats wish'd obtaine. Tis not your wealth can such a purchace make; Leave then to brag, and he are new lessons take. Your heap'd up riches doe but make you poore, You feare their losse, or els you wish for more; So that your thoughts can never be at ease, Whilest that the patient doates on his disease. But if unpartially you both survay, From them no doubt you may, the only way,
Learne to prevent your fatal destinye, Your present trouble, horrour when you dy. For if them, as your mammon, you despise, Youle live in peace, and at your setting rise.
# Tixall Poetry/Belinda

LXVIII.
Belinda.
# Tixall Poetry/Concealed Love ("Deare love…")

I.
Concealed Love.
# Tixall Poetry/Concealed Love ("My life is now a burden grown…")

LXIII.
Concealed Love.
# Tixall Poetry/Conscience

Conscience.
# Tixall Poetry/Cruelty

Cruelty.
# Tixall Poetry/Concealed Love ("I feed a flame within…")

XXXI.
Concealed Love.
# Travels to Discover the Source of the Nile/Volume 2/Book 4/Chapter 11

HANNES II.
1769.
HANNES, a man past seventy years of age, made his entry into Gondar the 3d of May 1769. He was brother to Bacuffa, and having in his time escaped from the mountain, and being afterwards taken, his hand was cut off by order of the king his brother, and he was sent back to the place of his confinement.
It is a law of Abyssinia, as we have already observed, derived from that of Moses, that no man can be capable either of the throne or priesthood, unless he be perfect in all his limbs; the want of a hand, therefore, certainly disqualified Hannes, and it was with that intent it had been cut off. When this was objected to him in council, Michael laughed violently, and turned it into ridicule; "What is it that a king has to do with his hands? Are you afraid he shall not be able to saddle his own mule, or load his own ​baggage? Never fear that; when he is under any such difficulty, he has only to call upon me, and I will help him."
Hannes, besides his age, was very feeble in body; and having had no conversation but with monks and priests, this had debilitated his mind as much as age had done his body. He could not be persuaded to take any share in government. The whole day was spent in psalms and prayers; but Ras Michael had brought from the mountain with him two sons, Tecla Haimanout the eldest, a prince of fifteen years of age, and the younger, called George, about thirteen.
Guebra Denghel, a nobleman of the first family in Tigré had married a daughter of Michael by one of his wives in that province. By her he had one daughter, Welleta Selassé, whom Michael in the beginning, while Joas and he were yet friends, had destined to be queen, and to be married to him. Hannes was of the age only to need a Shunnamite; and Welleta Selassé, young and beautiful, and who merited to be something more, was destined as this sacrifice to the ambition of her grandfather. A kind of marriage, I believe, was therefore made, but never consummated. She lived with Hannes some months in the palace, but never took any state upon her. She was a wife and a queen merely in name and idea. Love had in that frozen composition as little share as ambition, and those two great ​temptations, a crown and a beautiful mistress, could not animate Hæzé Hannes to take the field to defend them. Every possible method was taken by Michael to overcome his reluctance, and do away his fears. All was vain; he wept, hid himself, turned monk, demanded to be sent again to Wechné, but absolutely refused marching with the army.
Michael, who had already seen the danger of leaving a king behind him while he was in the field, and finding Hannes inexorable, had recourse to poison, which was given him in his breakfast; and the Ras, by this means, in less than six months became the deliberate murderer of two kings.