OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Records of the Federal Convention of 1787/Volume 3/Appendix A/CLXXXVI

​ⅭⅬⅩⅩⅩⅥ. George Washington to La Fayette.
Mount Vernon February 7th. 1788
It appears to me, then, little short of a miracle, that the Delegates from so many different States (which States you know are also different from each other in their manners, circumstances and prejudices) should unite in forming a system of national Government, so little liable to well founded objections.
…Had I but slightly suspected (at the time when the late Convention was in session) that another Convention would not be likely to agree upon a better form of Government, I should now be confirmed in the fixed belief that they would not be able to agree upon any system whatever.
# The Records of the Federal Convention of 1787/Volume 3/Appendix A/CLXXXVIII

​ⅭⅬⅩⅩⅩⅧ. The Federalist. No. ⅬⅩⅡ. [Madison.]
2. It is equally unnecessary to dilate on the appointment of senators by the state legislatures. Among the various modes which ​might have been devised for constituting this branch of the government, that which has been proposed by the convention is probably the most congenial with the public opinion. It is recommended by the double advantage of favouring a select appointment, and of giving to the state governments such an agency in the formation of the federal government, as must secure the authority of the former, and may form a convenient link between the two systems.
3. The equality of representation in the senate is another point, which, being evidently the result of compromise between the opposite pretensions of the large and the small states, does not call for much discussion.
# The Night-piece, to Julia

First published in Hesperides (1648).
* "The Night-piece, to Julia" in Hesperides, published in The Hesperides & Noble Numbers (ed.) by Alfred Pollard (1898).
* "The Night-piece: To Julia" in Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900 (ed.) by Arthur Quiller-Couch (1931).
# The Night Before Christmas

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Night Before Christmas."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
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.
* A Visit from St. Nicholas, also known as The Night Before Christmas, generally attributed to Clement Moore, possibly by Henry Livingston
* The Night Before Christmas, a 1905 film directed by Edwin Stanton Porter
# The Sad Years/The Sea-Mew

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE SEA-MEW
I had loved the pretty birds that by my window sung— The gentle thrush that had his nest the perfumed pines among; The chaffinch with his sudden note, his song so clear and bold; The sad rhyme of the robin, too, that came when winds grew cold;
The happy lark whose benison fell from the sunny sky; The blackbird with his golden lute that serenaded by: The nightingale that through the night told his low rosary; The finches, with their little tunes, were all beloved by me.
I leaned to hear each lovely note through each enchanted day! And thought no minstrelsy so fine, while all content I lay,
When to my ear, across the sky, I heard a sea-bird's scream, And, flapping slow across the blue, I saw him flash and gleam.
I cared not then for singing birds, I loved the sun no more. I heard the plashing of the waves upon a far-off shore, And lonely, lonely cried my heart in answer to its call— Ah, best I held the sea-mew's note that had no song at all!
# The Sad Years/The Two Prayers

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE TWO PRAYERS
Lord! when they came and stood upon my way, With “One is dead,” I paused awhile to pray, In brief thanksgiving that I still did live On the good earth that had so much to give. Through my sweet garden softly did I go To lift some lily's head that hung too low, Or bind a rebel rose that sought to stray Across my path. More dear were they to-day When I did live who might as he be dead. “Was ever world so fair,” I whisp'ring said. “Thank God for eyes, for ears, for strength, for breath, All that he hath not who hath tasted death.”
But when they went in silence, to my heart Their pity pierced. Then came the poisoned dart, With “He is dead.” I flung me low to pray. “Lord, I have watched through the uncertain day When he was far, and ev'ry throbbing hour, Half lost in fear the joy of bird or flower. And new alarm I found did some sharp cry
Come from the street, or did a foot pass by Swift in its going. All did threaten him. Hear me, O Lord, who sip at sorrow's brim. Take thou these eyes, these ears, this strength, this breath. All that he hath not, who hath tasted death.”
# The Sad Years/The Road of the Refugees

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE ROAD OF THE REFUGEES
Listen to the tramping! Oh, God of pity, listen! Can we kneel at prayer, sleep all unmolested, While the echo thunders?—God of pity, listen! Can we think of prayer—or sleep—so arrested?
Million upon million fleeing feet in passing Trample down our prayers—trample down our sleeping; How the patient roads groan beneath the massing Of the feet in going, bleeding, running, creeping!
Clank of iron shoe, unshod hooves of cattle, Pad of roaming hound, creak of wheel in turning, Clank of dragging chain, harness ring and rattle, Groan of breaking beam, crash of roof-tree burning.
Listen to the tramping!—God of love and pity! Million upon million fleeing feet in passing Driven by the war out of field and city, How the sullen road echoes to the massing!
Little feet of children, running, leaping, lagging, Toiling feet of women, wounded, weary guiding, Slow feet of the aged, stumbling, halting, flagging, Strong feet of the men loud in passion striding.
Hear the lost feet straying, from the roadway slipping, They will walk no longer in this march appalling; Hear the sound of rain dripping, dripping, dripping, Is it rain or tears? What, O God, is falling?
Hear the flying feet! Lord of love and pity! Crushing down our prayers, tramping down our sleeping, Driven by the war out of field and city, Million upon million, running, bleeding, creeping.
# The Sad Years/The Sinking Ship

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE SINKING SHIP
The ship is sinking, come ye one and all. Stand fast and so this weakness overhaul, Come ye strong hands and cheery voices call, “Stand by!”
The ship is sinking in a summer sea, Bless her but once for all she used to be, Who rode the billows once so proud and free, If you but loved a little, with a sigh, “Standby!”
Gone, all are gone, they neither hear or care, The sun shines on and life is ever fair. They shun the struggle, laughter lurks elsewhere. The ship is sinking, passing echoes cry, “Stand by!”
The little ships that pass her in the night, Speed from the darkness in their eager fright. From troubled dreams they take refuge in flight. Why should they then, who know they too must die, “Standby”?
Then get you gone, desert the sinking ship, O faithless friends, who on her pleasure-trip Clung close with gentle words and smiling lip, And still as ever on your own joys cry, “Stand by!”
The ship is sinking, parting in a smile, The sunset waters mark the last sad mile In dimpling play and in a little while The waters close, Death and his angels cry, “Stand by!”
# The Sad Years/The Sacred Fire

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE SACRED FIRE
They lit a fire within their land that long was ashes cold, With splendid dreams they made it glow, threw in their hearts of gold. They saw thy slowly paling cheek and knew thy failing breath, They bade thee live once more, Kathleen, who wert so nigh to death. And who dare quench the sacred fire, and who dare give them blame, Since he who draws too near the glow shall break into a flame? They lit a beacon in their land, built of the souls of men, To make thee warm once more, Kathleen, to bid thee live again.
# The Sad Years/The Secret

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE SECRET
I know of a thrush's nest, a pretty nest, a cosy nest, I know of a thrush's nest with three fine eggs of blue; It is in the perfumed pine, the tasselled pine, the swaying pine, It is in the cool dark wood that I have wandered through.
I know of a speckled trout, a noble trout, a shining trout, I know of a splendid trout, the biggest I have seen; It is by the lonely mill, the silent mill, the old spade mill, It is in the running brook, for I did look and lean.
I know of a pretty maid, a laughing maid, a happy maid, I know of a darling maid, oh, sweet she is and fair; She waits in a garden bower, a rosy bower, a hidden bower, What the way to this dear maid—is neither here nor there!
# The Sad Years/The Wreath

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE WREATH
Easter, 1917
Here on my path by some hard fate struck down, When life at last held out full hands to me. When the great dreams of younger years awoke And dear dead voices whispered “Liberty.” Ah, cruel blow, from which I stricken rise And blindly stagger for that path again, To wonder if 'tis worth the striving now, Thus robbed upon life's highway and half slain.
Here I awoke to fear again the dead, Whose tender faces held me as I slept. Ah, well I knew who leaned above me there, Into whose arms so pitiful I crept. And I awoke, for Spring did cry “Arise! For birds within the green woods carol clear.” Then Easter came with wreath of lilies pale, Placed on my heart the grief of yester-year.
# The Sad Years/The Sad Years

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE SAD YEARS
Thou hast encompassed us, indeed, O Lord, With these sad years. Where does the failure lie Of this Thy man, made to Thy likeness, since Within the golden mirror of the sun Thou gavest Thy sweet loveliness and didst Then gather dust to mould him to Thy shape, And stood him upright on Thy holy palm To view his form and praise Thy handiwork? Is this Thy likeness then, Thy perfect mould, Thy hands, Thy feet, Thy voice, Thy sacred heart, A god in miniature, of Eden made?
Hands, hands, hands, tearing, grasping, slaying, Cold, stiff, still, soothing, strangling, praying. Feet, feet, feet, running, toiling, stamping, Crushing, killing, falling, stumbling, tramping. Cries, cries, cries, brutal, broken, wailing, Sobbing, helpless, anguished, dying, failing. Hearts, hearts, hearts, loving, hating, seeking, Hearts of all Thy children, breaking, breaking.
Is this, indeed, Thy man, that Thou hast made,
Is this Thy likeness, and are these Thy ways?
Oh, Lord of pity, quench these flaming hours,
Restore to peace these sad and tortured years
Wherein Thou breakest the frail heart of man
—Or he the heart of God.
# The Sad Years/The Swallow

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE SWALLOW
How I hate the sparrows, the sparrows, the sparrows. In and out and round the house all the live-long day, Chirping shrill and fussy birds, with their silly petty minds, Chittering and chattering, yet having naught to say.
How I love the swallows, the swallows, the swallows, Coming from a far land of minaret and dome. I have got a small room, like a clinging cosy nest, Built upon the gable-end of my country home.
On its wall the swallows house, who can find its secret door? Such a cunning nursery, made with Eastern art. I can hear the baby ones, in their first, swift, troubled flight, Giving little frightened cries as they swoop and dart.
And I hear the swallow-folk telling tales of foreign climes, In a low sweet lullaby long before the day.
Little brothers of the wind, children of the summer time, Lovers of the summer sky, swift you fly away!
I will dream the lone long hours, sick sad days, and weary nights; If I should grow well again I will follow too, See their distant happy homes, built with their strange Eastern art; I shall seek but smiling lands, skies forever blue.
And when swallows come again over all the changing sea, Back to where their empty nests still do cling and stay, I shall have a cabin, too, hidden 'neath its golden thatch, Snow-white on a mountain side, built of Irish clay.
I will leave the sparrows here, all the silly noisy birds, In and out and round the home all the live-long day, Chirping shrill and fussy ones, with their shallow sparrow minds, Chittering and chattering, yet having naught to say.
# The Sad Years/The Tree Uprooted

From The Sad Years (1918).
THE TREE UPROOTED
The earth-bound giant now is free, is free; The last fight over, and the last moan still; No tale of snow-clad heights where great dreams be, His exile heart can thrill.
Ah, how he cried with groaning branch and bough! For that far land beyond the sunshine morn, For that lost joy tilled earth will not allow, That land where he was born.
Ah! how his heart that fought for freedom pined; His leaves, like restless fingers, tried to hold The trailing garments of the passing wind, His struggle manifold.
The four winds heard and strove with mighty hands To bear him back to that far northern height Where he was born; loosed from his earthly bands, He poised, a moment's flight.
Then to the wind in passionate embrace His branches moved—out sung his parting breath. He leaned to freedom from his prison place, Whose freedom was but death.
Better so lie, from this dire bondage free, O heart who knew the silence of the snows! Than stand alone, O solitary tree, Where English greenwood grows.
Better to die than live in dull disgrace, O soul that dreamed the glory of the dream! To be for sparrows but a resting place, Who heard the eagle scream.
# The Savage

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Savage."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, taxonomy, Wikidata item.
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 Savage, a novel by Mikhail Petrovich Artsybashev
* "The Savage", a short story by William Surrey Hart
* The Savage, a play by Chief Piomingo
# The Savior must have been

The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman — To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen —
The Road to Bethlehem Since He and I were Boys Was leveled, but for that 'twould be A rugged billion Miles —
# The Sausage Man

Broadside published in Birmingham, England in the early 19th century. The 'Civet Cat' was a coffee house or pub.
The Sausage Man.
Printed and Sold by E. Watts, 14, Snow Hill, Birmingham.
Tune....“Mother Dear”
There is a place called Birmingham, The population great, The toy-shop of the world, ’tis said, With artizans elate. Theres New street and a street called High, You know ’tis fashions stroll, There’s one that’s sure to meet your eye, He calls out “Sausage Roll.” “Sausuage Roll Sausuage Roll” He calls out “Sausuage Roll.”
His apron ’tis as white as snow, His whiskers they are red, To all he makes a courteous bow, And so he earns his bread. He’s cap’d clean shirted, polish’d shoe, As black as any coal, His jacket strip’d with pink or blue. He calls out “Sausage Roll.” “Sausage Roll, Sausage Roll” He calls out “Sausage Roll.”
Benson no more can please the taste, The Civet Cat may close, And Milliners and Drapers cast Aw⟨ay⟩ Gloves, Lace and Hose. The ladies have withdrawn from these, They have upon my soul, And patronise, yes, (if you please,) This man with Sausage Roll. “Sausage Roll, Sausage Roll,” This man with Sausage Roll.
A pretty Miss with her mamma, You cannot help the whim; However dutiful some are, Their fancies will begin. To take an Ice, or Jelly Tart, Mamma sought to control, But nothing pleased the maiden fair Like this man’s Sausage Roll. Sausage Roll, Sausage Roll, Like this man’s Sausage Roll.
I cannot tell if quantity Effects so much his sale, Or if it be the quality, Or if his pleasing tale, I cannot tell the reason why This man he should not stroll, And, male or female passing by, Present his Sausage Roll. Sausage Roll, Sausage Roll, Present his Sausage Roll,
If mammas will fastidious be, If Pappas would be blest, If daughters do not always see, Their truest interest, If I now ask what can be right, For ladies, on the whole, I’d say don’t stop out late at night, Or sigh for Sausage Roll. Sausage Roll, Sausage Roll, Or sigh for Sausage Roll
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Poetical Works of the Right Hon. George Granville, Lord Lansdowne/97

PROLOGUE TO THE BRITISH ENCHANTERS.
Poets by obſervation find it true ’T is harder much to pleaſe themſelves than you: To weave a plot, to work and to refine A labour’d ſcene, to poliſh ev’ry line, Judgment muſt ſweat, and feel a mother’s pains.5 Vain Fools! thus to diſturb and rack their brains, When, more indulgent to the writer’s eaſe, You are too good to be ſo hard to pleaſe: No ſuch convulſive pangs it will require To write the pretty things which you admire.10
Our author then, to pleaſe you in your way, Preſents you now a bauble of a play; In gingling rhyme, well fortify’d and ſtrong, He fights entrench’d o’er head and ears in ſong. If here and there ſome evil-fated line15 Should chance, thro’ inadvertency, to ſhine, Forgive him, Beaus! he means you no offence, But begs you, for the love of ſong and dance, To pardon all the poetry and ſenſe.19
# The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/A Farewell to Connecticut

A FAREWELL TO CONNECTICUT.
turned a last look to my dear native mountain, As the dim blush of sunset grew pale in the sky; All was still, save the music that leaped from the fountain, And the wave of the woods to the summer-wind’s sigh.
Far around, the gray mist of the twilight was stealing, And the tints of the landscape had faded in blue, Ere my pale lip could murmur the accents of feeling, As it bade the fond scenes of my childhood adieu.
Oh! mock not that pang, for my heart was retracing Past visions of happiness, sparkling and clear: My heart was still warm with a mother’s embracing, My cheek was still wet with a fond sister’s tear.
Like an infant’s first sleep on the lap of its mother, Were the days of my childhood—those days are no more; And my sorrow’s deep throb I had struggled to smother Was that infant’s wild cry when its first sleep was o’er.
Years have gone by, and remembrance now covers, With the tinge of the moonbeam, the thoughts of that hour; Yet still in his day-dream the wanderer hovers Round the cottage he left and its green woven bower.
And Hope lingers near him, her wildest song breathing, And points to a future day, distant and dim, When the finger of sunset, its eglantine weaving, Shall brighten the home of his childhood for him.
# The Poetical Works of the Right Hon. George Granville, Lord Lansdowne/Preface

THE PREFACE.
At my return, after near ten years’ abſence, I found ſeveral editions had been publiſhed of Verſes and Poems, &c. under my name, but ſo maimed and imperfect as would have put me out of countenance, had not the public received them with ſuch diſtinguiſhing candour, even under all thoſe diſadvantages.
As it is plain, from their ſeveral ſubjects, that they were compoſed, for the moſt part, in the earlieſt time of my appearance in the world, I can attribute that indulgence to no other conſideration but a generous connivance at youthful follies.
So favourable a reception, however, led me, in this time of leiſure and retirement, to examine upon what foundation I had been ſo much obliged to the public, and in that examination I have diſcovered ſuch ſtrange variations from the original writing, as can no way be accounted for but From the negligence, ignorance, or conceitedneſs of different tranſcribers from ſurreptitious copies: many things attributed to myſelf of which, by not belonging to me, it would be unjuſt to aſſume the merit; and as many attributed to others which, by belonging to me, would be as much unjuſt to leave them to the cenſure.
To rectify therefore all paſt miſtakes, and to prevent all future impoſitions, I have been prevailed upon to give way to this preſent publication; diſowning ​whatever has been or may hereafter be publiſhed in my name, but what has the ſanction of being printed by Mr. Jacob Tonſon and Mr. Lawton Gilliver, excepting two comedies, entitled Once a Lover and Always a Lover, and The Jew of Venice, altered from Shakeſpeare.
As theſe Poems ſeem to begin where Mr. Waller lest off, though far unequal and ſhort of ſo inimitable an original, they may, however, be permitted to remain to poſterity as a faithful regiſter of the reigning beauties in the ſucceeding age.
Upon that merit alone the Author preſumes to recommend them to the patronage of the fair ſex.
LANSDOWNE.
# The Poetical Works of the Right Hon. George Granville, Lord Lansdowne/96

PROLOGUES.
PROLOGUE. TO THE SHE-GALLANTS: OR, ONCE A LOVER AND ALWAYS A LOVER.
As quiet monarchs, that on peaceful thrones, In ſports and revels, long had reign’d like drones, Rouſing at length, reflect, with guilt and ſhame, That not one ſtroke had yet been giv’n for fame; Wars they denounce, and, to redeem the paſt,5 To bold attempts and rugged labours haſte: Our poet ſo, with like concern, reviews The youthful follies of a love-ſick Muſe: To am’rous toils, and to the ſilent grove, To Beauty’s ſnares, and to deceitful Love,10 He bids farewell; his ſhield and lance prepares, And mounts the ſtage to bid immortal wars. Vice, like ſome monſter, ſuff’ring none t’ eſcape, Has ſeiz’d the Town, and varies ſtill her ſhape. Here, like ſome general, ſhe ſtruts in ſtate,15 While crowds in red and blue her orders wait: There, like ſome penſive ſtateſman, treads demure, And ſmiles, and hugs, to make deſtruction ſure: Now under high commodes, with looks erect, Barefac’d devours, in gaudy colours deck’d;20
Then in a vizard, to avoid grimace, Allows all freedom but to ſee the face. In pulpits and at bar ſhe wears a gown, In camps a ſword, in palaces a crown. Reſolv’d to combat with this motley beaſt,25 Our poet comes to ſtrike one ſtroke at leaſt. His glaſs he means not for this jilt or beau, Some features of you all he means to ſhow; On choſen heads nor lets the thunder fall, But ſcatters his artillery—at all.30 Yet to the fair he fain would quarter ſhow; His tender heart recoils at ev’ry blow: If unawares he gives too ſmart a ſtroke, He means but to correct, and not provoke.34
# The Poetical Works of the Right Hon. George Granville, Lord Lansdowne/98

PROLOGUE To Mr. Bevil Higgons’ excellent Tragedy, called THE GENEROUS CONQUEROR.
Your comic writer is a common foe; None can intrigue in peace, or be a beau; Nor wanton wife nor widow can be ſped, Not even Ruſſel can inter the dead, But ſtraight this cenſor, in his whim of wit,5 Strips and preſents you naked to the pit. Thus critics ſhould, like theſe, be branded foes, Who for the poiſon only ſuck the roſe; Snarling and carping, without wit or ſenſe, Impeach mistakes, o’erlooking excellence,10
As if to ev’ry fop it might belong, Like ſenators, to cenſure right or wrong. But gen’rous minds have more heroic views, And love and honour are the themes they chuſe. From yon bright heav’n our author fetch’d his fire,15 And paints the paſſions that your eyes inſpire; Full of that flame, his tender ſcenes he warms, And frames his goddeſs by your matchleſs charms.18
* ↑ A famous undertaker for funerals, alluding to a comedy written by Sir Richard Steele, entitled The Funeral.
* ↑ To the ladies.
# The Poetical Works of the Right Hon. George Granville, Lord Lansdowne/99

EPILOGUES.
EPILOGUE TO THE SHE-GALLANTS. SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE IN MEN’S CLOTHES.
I who have been the poet’s ſpark to-day, Will now become the champion of his play. Know all, who would pretend to my good grace, I mortally diſlike a damning face. Pleas’d or diſpleas’d, no matter, now ’t is paſt,5 The firſt who dares be angry breathes his laſt: Who ſhall preſume to doubt my will and pleaſure, Him I defy to ſend his weapon’s meaſure. Is war you chuſe, and blood muſt needs be ſpilt here, By Jove! let me alone to match your tilter;10 I ’ll give you ſatisfaction if I can: ’S death! ’t is not the firſt time I ’ve kill’d my man. On pain of being poſted to your ſorrow, Fail not, at four, to meet me here to-morrow.14