OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/My Comforter

XX
MY COMFORTER
Well hast thou spoken, and yet not taught A feeling strange or new; Thou hast but roused a latent thought, A cloud-closed beam of sunshine brought To gleam in open view.
Deep down, concealed within my soul, That light lies hid from men; Yet glows unquenched—though shadows roll, Its gentle ray cannot control— About the sullen den.
Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways To walk alone so long? Around me, wretches uttering praise, Or howling o'er their hopeless days, And each with Frenzy's tongue;—
A brotherhood of misery, Their smiles as sad as sighs; Whose madness daily maddened me, Distorting into agony The bliss before my eyes! ​So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, And in the glare of Hell; My spirit drank a mingled tone, Of seraph's song, and demon's moan; What my soul bore, my soul alone Within itself may tell!
Like a soft air above a sea, Tossed by the tempest's stir; A thaw-wind, melting quietly The snow-drift on some wintry lea; No: what sweet thing resembles thee, My thoughtful Comforter?
And yet a little longer speak, Calm this resentful mood; And while the savage heart grows meek, For other token do not seek, But let the tear upon my cheek Evince my gratitude!
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/My ancient ship upon my ancient sea

LX
My ancient ship upon my ancient sea Begins another voyage—nay, they're gone; And whither wending? who is gone with thee? Since parted from thee I am left alone, Unknowing what my river's fate may be, Into its native world of tempests thrown. Lost like the spectres once my eye before, Which wilder visions muster'd to my mind; Lost and unnoticed far away the roar Of southern waters breaking to the wind, With thunder volleys rolling on before As the wild gale sweeps wilder on behind, And every vision of old Afric's shore As much forgot and vanished out of mind As the wild track thou makest so long ago From those eternal waves that surge below.
Gone!—'tis a word which through life's troubled waste Seems always coming, and the only one Which can be called the present. Hope is past, And hate and strife, and love and peace are gone Before we think them, for their rapid haste Scarce gives us time for one short smile or groan Ere that thought dies and new ones come between It, and our senses like to fleeting suns.
​And yet there is—or seems at least to be— A general scheme of thought that colours all; So though each one be different, all agree In the same melancholy shade-like pall; Even as the shadows look the same to me, Though cast, I know, from many a varying wall In this vast city—hut and temple sharing In the same light, and the same darkness wearing.
Not that I deem all life a course of shade, Nor all the world a waste of streets like these: From youth to age a mighty change is made As from this city to the southern seas. For years through youthful hope our course is laid, For years in sloth a sea without a breeze, For years within some silent, shapeless cave, Changing, and still the same, yet swiftly passing.
'Tis here 'tis there, 'tis nowhere—oh! my soul, Is there no rest from such a fruitless chasing Of the wild dreams that ever round me roll? Each as it comes the parting thought defacing, Yet all still hurrying to the self-same goal. Gone! Can I catch them? — but their path alone Stretching afar toward one for ever gone! What have I now? The star that brightly shone
​Now seems as nothing in the single cloud That shadows it and long has seemed to hover O'er all the crossing thoughts that overflowed. In this wrecked spirit, oh! my ocean, Well may'st thou plough the deep so free and proud: Thou bear'st the dim tie of ceaseless dreams, The fount, the confluence of a thousand streams.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Now trust a heart that trusts in you

XIII
Now trust a heart that trusts in you, And firmly say the word adieu; Be sure, wherever I may roam, My heart is with your heart at home;
Unless there be no truth on earth, And vows most true are nothing worth, And mortal man have no control Over his own unhappy soul;
Unless I change in every thought, And memory will restore me nought, And all I have of virtue die Beneath far Gondal's foreign sky.
The mountain peasant loves the heath Better than richest plains beneath; He would not give one moorland wild For all the fields that ever smiled.
And whiter brows than yours may be, And rosier cheeks my eyes may see, And lightning looks from orbs divine About my pathway burn and shine.
But that pure light, changeless and strong, Cherished and watched and nursed so long; That love that first its glory gave, Shall be my pole-star to the grave.
November 1837.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Mild the mist upon the hill

XLII
Mild the mist upon the hill, Telling not of storms to-morrow; No, the day has wept its fill, Spent its store of silent sorrow.
Oh, I'm gone back to the days of youth, I am a child once more, And 'neath my father's sheltering roof And near the old hall door,
I watch this cloudy evening fall, After a day of rain; Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall The horizon's mountain chain.
The damp stands in the long, green grass As thick as morning's tears; And dreamy scents of fragrance pass That breathe of other years.
July 27, 1839.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Month after month, year after year

LIV
Month after month, year after year, My harp has poured a dreary strain; At length a livelier note shall cheer, And pleasure tune its chords again.
What though the stars and fair moonlight Are quenched in morning dull and grey? They are but tokens of the night, And this, my soul, is day.
June 18, 1839.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/None of my kindred now can tell

XLVI
None of my kindred now can tell The features once beloved so well Those dark brown locks that used to deck A snowy brow in ringlets small, Now wildly shade my sunburnt neck, And streaming down my shoulders fall.
The pure, bright red of noble birth Has deepened to a gipsy glow, And care is quenched the smile of mirth, And tuned my heart to welcome woe.
Yet you must know in infancy Full many an eye watched over me, Sweet voices to my slumber sung, My downy couch with silk was hung.
And music soothed me when I cried, And when I laughed they all replied; And 'rosy Blanche,' how oft was heard In hall and bower that well-known word.
Through gathering summers still caress'd, In kingly courts a favourite guest, A Monarch's hand would pour for me The richest gifts of royalty.
​But clouds will come: too soon they came; For not through age, and not through crime, Is Blanche a now forgotten name; True heart and brow unmarked by time, These treasured blessings still are mine.
June 1838.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Now—but one moment—let me stay

X
Now—but one moment—let me stay One moment, ere I go To join the ranks whose bugles play On Eversham's woody brow.
One calm hour on the brink of life Before I dash amid the strife That sounds upon my ear; That sullen sound whose sullen roll Bursts over many a parting soul— That deep-mouthed voice of war!
Here am I standing lonely 'neath The shade of quiet trees, That scarce can catch a single breath Of this sweet evening breeze. And nothing in the twilight sky Except its veil of clouds on high, All sleeping calm and grey; And nothing on the summer gale But the sweet trumpet's solemn wail Slow sounding far away.
That and the strange, uncertain sound Scarce heard, yet heard by all; A trembling through the summer ground, A murmuring round the wall.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/No Coward Soul Is Mine

The following are the last lines my sister Emily ever wrote.
XVIII
No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life—that in me has rest, As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!
Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts: unutterably vain; Worthless as withered weeds, Or idle froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by Thine infinity; So surely anchored on The stedfast rock of immortality.
With wide-embracing love Thy spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. ​Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes ceased to be, And Thou were left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou—Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
# The Bony lad

Dated from period of activity of publisher and external evidence.
THE
Bony Lad,
Jamie the Rover,
AND
The Roving Maids
of Aberdeen.
Falkirk, Printed by T. Johnston.
* The Bony lad
* Jamie the Rover
* The Roving Maids of Aberdeen
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 Bony lad/The Bony lad

Dated from period of activity of publisher and external evidence.
THE BONNY LAD.
As Jamie Gay gang’d blyth his way, along the river Tweed, A bonny laſs, as e’er was Teen, came tripping o’er the wead: The hearty swain, untaught to feign, the buxom nymph survey’d, And full of glee, as lad could be, besp ke the pretty maid:
Dear laſſie tell why by thyſell thou hast’ly wand’rest here? My ewes, she cry’d, are straying wide, canst tell me, laddie, where? To town I’ll hie, he made reply, some mekle sport to see; But thou’rt so sweet, so trim and neat. I’ll seek the ewes with thee.
She ga’m her hnd, n'r made a stand, but lik’d the youth’s intent: O’er hill and dale, o’er plain and vale, right merrily they went. The birds sang sweet, the pair to greet, and flowers bloom’d around! ​And as they walk’d, of love they talk’d, and joys which lovers crown'd.
And now the sun had rose to noon, the zenith of his power, When to a shade their steps they made, to pass the mid-day hour. The bonny lad row’d in his plaid the lass, who scorn’d to frown; the soon forgot the ewes she ſought, and he to gang to town.
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 Book of Abraham

Religious text of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and of some other Latter Day Saint denominations
* The Book of Abraham in the first (1851) edition of the Pearl of Great Price.
* The Book of Abraham in the 1913 edition of the Pearl of Great Price.
# The Bony lad/Jamie the Rover

Dated from period of activity of publisher and external evidence.
-+o———o———o———o+-
JAMIE THE ROVER.
Of all the days that’s in the year, The tenth of June I love most dear ; And for his sake these robes I’ll wear, For he alone is all my care, Young Jamie you call the Rover.
The fairest flowers of white and blue, I’ll wear a robe of that same hue, All this and mere for him I’ll do. Young Jamie you call the Rover.
​My maidens all shall wear the same, Six boys in white shail bear his train, While I alone his praise proclaim, The titles of Jamie the Rover.
All in tartan my love shall be drest, With a diamond star upon his bread. And of the rest I’ll count him the best, Young Jamie you call the Rover.
Tho’ some call him a bricklayer’s son, But I say he is nobly born, For to the royal he does belong. Young Jamie you call the Rover.
I need not strange at Nature’s change, Tho’ he abroad be forc’d to range, I'll find him out where he remains, Young Jamie you call the Rover.
It is not in England I delight, But over to Flanders I’ll take my flight, And there I'll ramble both day and night, With Jamie you call the Rover.
O if I were on the top of yon tree, Where none they would hear nor see, Then I would sing right cheerfully, With Jamie you call the Rover.
​To foreign lands I’ll straight repair. For to find out my dearest dear. For he alone is ail my care, Young Jamie you call the Rover.
The lillies white shall be my bed, Tartans bright my coverlid, To sing of my love I’m not afraid, Young Jamie you call the Rover.
In his royal arms I will lay me down, In remembrance of the tenth of June, That all my pleasure I will crown With Jamie you call the Rover.
Thro’ foreign lands with him I’ll rove, Thro’ every plain and shady grove, For he’s the man I prize above, Young Jamie you call the Rover.
Tho’ all my friends should me despise, Yet to his praise my voice I’ll raise, For he’s a jewel in my eyes, Young Jamie you call the Rover.
I and S, I must confess, The thistle and crown bis motto is; Of all the swains he deserves the praise, Young Jame you call the Rover.
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 Bonny Scot

First published in Rmansay's Tea-Table Miscellany
* "The Bonny Boatman" in Two Favourite Songs (n.d., probably 1840s)
* "The Bonnie Scot" in The Book of Scottish Song (1843)
# The Bony lad/The Roving Maids of Aberdeen

Dated from period of activity of publisher and external evidence.
THE
ROVING MAIDS OF ABERDE
The roving maids of Aberdeen, they are so brisk and airy, They make the young men laugh at them, their heads so high they carry. Fal-de-ral-lal-de-ral.
Now to behold these pretty maids, as they walk on the causey, With ruffle cuffs and capuchines, and w w but they be saucy.
With fine net-hoods upon their heads, each dame a buckling-comb O, Which mounted is with silver bright, and set with Bristo’-stone'O.
Their lockets fine, that bright do shine, a glancing broach below it; Their bravery full well you ſee, how proud they are to show it.
With new-fashion caps of different shapes, that are so monstrous high O! Suoh florey piggs, upon their heads, are frightful to the eye O!
​The other night I got such fright, I bless'd from all evil, When a lady came in shining robes, I thought it was the Devil!
With a cap more high than granad and hair drest in such order She appeared like sweet Marg’ret’s ghost, Coin’d from the Stygian border.
With silken hose, and fine pink shoes, they are all trim’d and ready ; It is not easy for to know a scodgie by a lady.
There’s lasses bright turns out at night, their sign is a white apron ; All in the dark to seek a spark, and wha but our Miss Kathrine.
Some lasses then, I do offend, in telling of your knavery, For that’s the way, I’m bold to ſay, that you’ve won all your bravery,
The roving maids of Aberdeen, when they go to the dancing, The young men all admire the sport. they are so neat and handsome.
​It is well kent, their face they paint, they are so vain and idle; To bulk and dress, more time they pass, than they do on their Bible.
With muffs and frils, and cardinals, made of the finest scarlet, They worn are, I do declare, by many a common harlot.
Their qualitie, come show to me, you’ll not know’t by their cleeding, Dear neighbour, then, I’ll tell you plain, you’ll find it by their breeding.
They curse and swear, and dominier, and scold like any randy ; Their morning drink, I really think, is whisky, gin or brandy.
And if they chance to prove with child, or lose their reputation, O then sets up a tipling-house, and that’s their occupation.
Such conduct leads from whores to thieves but ’mark the dismal story! By hangy’s hands their lives they end, and that’s call’d Tyburn’s glory. Fal-de-ral-lal de-ral.
FINIS.
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 Book of Abraham, Its Authenticity Established...

This is a historical document which defends the authenticity of the controversial Book of Abraham, part of the canonical Pearl of Great Price. The Book of Abraham was purportedly translated from an Egyptian manuscript purchased by the Mormons from a travelling show in 1835, long before their trek to Utah. Joseph Smith quickly produced a translation of this document, claiming it was written by Abraham in his own hand. Since modern knowledge of the Egyptian writing system was in its infancy at this time, there was no way to verify this claim.
The manuscript disappeared for many years until it resurfaced in 1967 in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. At that time Egyptian experts verified that it was actually a papyrus of a portion of the Book of the Dead.
Notwithstanding, the Book of Abraham is still considered part of the Pearl of Great Price and is held to be authentic by devout Mormons. This does not invalidate Mormon doctrine; any sacred text which has have signficance for the faithful should be considered valid on its own terms.
Title Page
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
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 Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Poems Published in 1846

EARLY POEMS
Reprinted from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.
London: Aylott and Jones, 8 Paternoster Row. 1846.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Privately Printed Poems

PRIVATELY PRINTED POEMS
Of these 67 poems, the copyright of the Editors, 110 copies were Privately Printed by Dodd, Mead and Company of New York in 1902.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Retirement

XI
RETIREMENT
O let me be alone awhile! No human form is nigh; And I may sing and muse aloud, No mortal ear is by.
Away! ye dreams of earthly bliss, Ye earthly cares begone! Depart! ye restless, wandering thoughts, And let me be alone!
One hour, my spirit, stretch thy wings And quit this joyless sod; Bask in the sunshine of the sky, And be alone with God!
Sunday, December 13, 1840.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Self-Interrogation

XV
SELF-INTERROGATION
'The evening passes fast away, 'Tis almost time to rest; What thoughts has left the vanished day, What feelings in thy breast?'
'The vanished day? It leaves a sense Of labour hardly done; Of little gained with vast expense— A sense of grief alone!
'Time stands before the door of Death, Upbraiding bitterly; And Conscience, with exhaustless breath, Pours black reproach on me:
'And though I've said that Conscience lies, And Time should Fate condemn; Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes, And makes me yield to them!'
'Then art thou glad to seek repose? Art glad to leave the sea, And anchor all thy weary woes In calm Eternity? ​'Nothing regrets to see thee go— Not one voice sobs 'farewell'; And where thy heart has suffered so, Canst thou desire to dwell?'
'Alas! the countless links are strong That bind us to our clay; The loving spirit lingers long, And would not pass away!
'And rest is sweet, when laurelled fame Will crown the soldier's crest; But a brave heart, with a tarnished name, Would rather fight than rest.'
'Well, thou hast fought for many a year, Hast fought thy whole life through, Hast humbled Falsehood, trampled Fear; What is there left to do?'
''Tis true, this arm has hotly striven, Has dared what few would dare; Much have I done, and freely given, But little learnt to bear!'
'Look on the grave where thou must sleep, Thy last, and strongest foe; It is endurance not to weep, If that repose seem woe. ​'The long war closing in defeat— Defeat serenely borne,— Thy midnight rest may still be sweet, And break in glorious morn!'
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Redbreast, early in the morning

XXVIII
Redbreast, early in the morning, Dark and cold and cloudy grey, Wildly tender is thy music, Chasing angry thought away.
My heart is not enraptured now, My eyes are full of tears, And constant sorrow on my brow Has done the work of years.
It was not hope that wrecked at once The spirit's calm in storm, But a long life of solitude, Hopes quenched, and rising thoughts subdued, A bleak November's calm.
What woke it then? A little child Strayed from its father's cottage door, And in the hour of moonlight wild Laid lonely on the desert moor.
I heard it then, you heard it too, And seraph sweet it sang to you; But like the shriek of misery That wild, wild music wailed to me.
February 1837.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Rosina

XLVII
ROSINA
Weeks of wild delirium past, Weeks of fevered pain; Rest from suffering comes at last; Reason dawns again.
It was a pleasant April day Declining to the afternoon; Sunshine upon her pillow lay As warm as middle June.
It told her unconsciously Early spring had hurried by; 'Ah! Time has not delayed for me,' She murmured with a sigh.
'Angora's hills have heard their tread, The crimson flag is planted there; Eldenna's waves are rolling red, While I lie fettered here!
'Nay, rather, Gondal's shaken throne Is now secure and free; And my king Julius reigns alone Debtless, alas! to me.' ​Loud was the sudden gust of woe From those who watch around; Rosina turned and sought to know Why burst that boding sound.
'What then, my dreams are false,' she said, Come, maidens, answer me; Has Almadore in battle bled! Have slaves subdued the free?
'I know it all; he could not bear To leave me dying far away; He fondly, madly lingered here And we have lost the day!
But check those coward sobs, and bring My robes, and smooth my tangled hair; A noble victory you shall sing For every hour's despair!
'When will he come? 'Twill soon be night; We'll come when evening falls; Oh! I shall weary for the light To leave my lonely halls!'
She turned her pallid face aside, As she would seek repose; But dark Ambition's thwarted pride Forbade her lips to close. ​And still on all who waited by Oppressive mystery hung; And swollen with grief was every eye, And chained was every tongue.
They whispered nought, but, ' Lady, sleep, Dear lady, slumber now! Had we not bitter cause to weep While you were laid so low?
'And hope can hardly deck the cheek With sudden signs of cheer, When it has worn through many a week The sting of anguish drear.'
Fierce grew Rosina's gloomy gaze; She cried, 'Dissembler, own Erina's arms in victory blaze, Brenzaida's crest is down.'
'Well, since it must be told, Lady, Brenzaida's crest is down; Brenzaida's sun is set, Lady, His empire overthrown!
'He died beneath his palace dome, True heart on every side; Among his guards, within his home Our glorious monarch died. ​'I saw him fall, I saw the gore From his heart's fountain swell, And mingling on the marble floor His murderer's life-blood fell.
'And now, 'mid northern mountains lone His desert grave is made; And, Lady, of your love alone Remains a mortal shade!'
September 1, 1841.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Rosina, this had never been

LVIII
Rosina, this had never been Except for you, my dearest queen! Except for you the billowy sea Would now be tossing under me. The wind's wild voice my bosom thrill And my glad heart bound wilder still.
Flying before the rapid gale, Those wondrous southern Isles to hail, Which wait for my companions free, But thank your passion—not for me!
You know too well—and so do I, Your naughty beauty's sovereignty, Yet have I read these falcon eyes, Have dived into their mysteries, Have studied long their glance and feel It is not love those eyes reveal.
They flash, they beam with lightning shine, But not with such fond fire as mine; The tender star fades faint and wan Before Ambition's scorching sun. So deem I now—and time will prove If I have wronged Rosina's love.
November 11, 1844.