OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/The Problem

THE PROBLEM
I like a church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowlèd churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure?
Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle; Out from the heart of nature rolled ​The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below,— The canticles of love and woe: The hand that rounded Peter's dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew;— The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone, And Morning opes with haste her lids To gaze upon the Pyramids; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; For out of Thought's interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air; And Nature gladly gave them place, ​Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise,— The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines. His words are music in my ear, ​I see his cowlèd portrait dear; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/The Test

THE TEST
(Musa loquitur.)
I hung my verses in the wind, Time and tide their faults may find. All were winnowed through and through, Five lines lasted sound and true; Five were smelted in a pot Than the South more fierce and hot; These the siroc could not melt, Fire their fiercer flaming felt, And the meaning was more white Than July's meridian light. Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, Nor time unmake what poets know. Have you eyes to find the five Which five hundred did survive?
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/The Snow-Storm

THE SNOW-STORM
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit ​Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/The Violet

THE VIOLET
BY ELLEN LOUISA TUCKER
Why lingerest thou, pale violet, to see the dying year; Are Autumn's blasts fit music for thee, fragile one, to hear; Will thy clear blue eye, upward bent, still keep its chastened glow, Still tearless lift its slender form above the wintry snow?
Why wilt thou live when none around reflects thy pensive ray? Thou bloomest here a lonely thing in the clear autumn day. ​The tall green trees, that shelter thee, their last gay dress put on; There will be nought to shelter thee when their sweet leaves are gone.
O Violet, like thee, how blest could I lie down and die, When summer light is fading, and autumn breezes sigh; When Winter reigned I 'd close my eye, but wake with bursting Spring, And live with living nature, a pure rejoicing thing.
I had a sister once who seemed just like a violet; Her morning sun shone bright and calmly purely set; When the violets were in their shrouds, and Summer in its pride, She laid her hopes at rest, and in the year's rich beauty died.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/The Rhodora

THE RHODORA:
ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, ​Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/The River

THE RIVER
And I behold once more My old familiar haunts; here the blue river, The same blue wonder that my infant eye Admired, sage doubting whence the traveller came,— Whence brought his sunny bubbles ere he washed The fragrant flag-roots in my father's fields, And where thereafter in the world he went. Look, here he is, unaltered, save that now He hath broke his banks and flooded all the vales ​With his redundant waves. Here is the rock where, yet a simple child, I caught with bended pin my earliest fish, Much triumphing,—and these the fields Over whose flowers I chased the butterfly, A blooming hunter of a fairy fine. And hark! where overhead the ancient crows Hold their sour conversation in the sky:— These are the same, but I am not the same, But wiser than I was, and wise enough Not to regret the changes, tho' they cost Me many a sigh. Oh, call not Nature dumb; These trees and stones are audible to me, These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind, I understand their faery syllables, And all their sad significance. The wind, That rustles down the well-known forest road— It hath a sound more eloquent than speech. The stream, the trees, the grass, the sighing wind, All of them utter sounds of 'monishment And grave parental love. They are not of our race, they seem to say, And yet have knowledge of our moral race, And somewhat of majestic sympathy, Something of pity for the^puny clay, That holds and boasts the immeasurable mind. I feel as I were welcome to these trees After long months of weary wandering, Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs; ​They know me as their son, for side by side, They were coeval with my ancestors, Adorned with them my country's primitive times, And soon may give my dust their funeral shade.
Concord, June, 1827.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/The Romany Girl

THE ROMANY GIRL
The sun goes down, and with him takes The coarseness of my poor attire; The fair moon mounts, and aye the flame Of Gypsy beauty blazes higher.
Pale Northern girls! you scorn our race; You captives of your air-tight halls, Wear out indoors your sickly days, But leave us the horizon walls.
And if I take you, dames, to task, And say it frankly without guile, Then you are Gypsies in a mask, And I the lady all the while.
If on the heath, below the moon, I court and play with paler blood, Me false to mine dare whisper none,— One sallow horseman knows me good.
Go, keep your cheek's rose from the rain, For teeth and hair with shopmen deal; My swarthy tint is in the grain, The rocks and forest know it real.
​The wild air bloweth in our lungs, The keen stars twinkle in our eyes, The birds gave us our wily tongues, The panther in our dances flies.
You doubt we read the stars on high, Nathless we read your fortunes true; The stars may hide in the upper sky, But without glass we fathom you.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/The Summons

THE SUMMONS
A sterner errand to the silken troop Has quenched the uneasy blush that warmed my cheek; I am commissioned in my day of joy To leave my woods and streams and the sweet sloth Of prayer and song that were my dear delight, To leave the rudeness of my woodland life, Sweet twilight walks and midnight solitude And kind acquaintance with the morning stars And the glad hey-day of my household hours, The innocent mirth which sweetens daily bread, Railing in love to those who rail again, ​By mind's industry sharpening the love of life— Books, Muses, Study, fireside, friends and love, I loved ye with true love, so fare ye well!
I was a boy; boyhood slid gayly by And the impatient years that trod on it Taught me new lessons in the lore of life. I 've learned the sum of that sad history All woman-born do know, that hoped-for days, Days that come dancing on fraught with delights, Dash our blown hopes as they limp heavily by. But I, the bantling of a country Muse, Abandon all those toys with speed to obey The King whose meek ambassador I go.
1826.
# Pauly v. State Loan Trust Company

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
165 U.S. 606
Pauly v. State Loan Trust Company
Edward Winslow Paige, for plaintiff in error.
W. P. Gardiner, for defendant in error.
Mr. Justice HARLAN delivered the opinion of the court.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Pauperization: cause and cure

* related portals: Poverty.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
PAUPERIZATION:
CAUSE AND CURE.
BY
SIR BALDWYN LEIGHTON, Bart.
Being two Papers read at the Social Science Congress at Leeds, October, 1871.
PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. SANDFORD, HIGH STREET, SHREWSBURY.
1871.
Price Sixpence.
page
​"The English are a dumb people. They can do great acts but not describe them. Like the old Romans, and some few others, their epic poem is written on the earth's surface: England her mark! … The spoken word, the written poem, is said to be an epitome of the man; how much more the done work. Whatsoever of morality and of intelligence; what of patience, perseverance, faithfulness, of method, insight, ingenuity, energy; in a word, whatsoever of strength the man had in him, will be written in the work he does."
Carlyle's "Past and Present."
PREFACE.
The two following papers, read at the Leeds Social Science Congress, October, 1871, having attracted more attention than could have been anticipated, and having already by private circulation contributed something towards an improved Poor Law administration, it has been suggested that they should be published. What value they may have arises entirely from their being a record of Fact; a description of the successful application of the simplest, and yet most neglected, economic truths to the condition of the poor: Thrift, Sympathy, and Work, instead of Improvidence, Cash-nexus, and Charity-doles, and it is certain that the same results as are exhibited here, incredible as to some they have appeared, may be attained elsewhere in town as well as country, if individuals informed and capable are forthcoming.
Of these results, the work of a life now gone, the present writer is but the recorder; but if these pages may set some to think and to work, or bring others together who should not bide apart, they will not have been written in vain.
BALDWYN LEIGHTON.
Loton Park, December, 1871.
* Poor law out-relief
* Landlords and labourers
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
# Poems (Stephens)/The lonely worshipper

THE LONELY WORSHIPPER.
It is related of Robert Thorn, a staunch old Quaker, that after his accustomed church had been almost depleted by death and removals, he continued to worship there, with no companion but his dog.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1833/Lines on the Bust of a Lady

LINES ON THE BUST OF A LADY.
BY L. E. L.
[The Sculptor, H. B. Burlowe.]
A face of perfect beauty, such as haunts
The poet's dream, what time the shadowy limes
Have their light leaves stirred by some gentle wind;
And their soft bloom, their small, pale yellow flowers,
Grow golden in the sunshine of the noon.
Then shapes are flitting round, which only wear
The likeness of our earth, but scarce its look;
So spiritual the light which gives a soul
To each fair face, and to each starry eye.
This face is such a one: the open brow
(The parted hair obscures it not) is proud,
As if unconscious of life's meaner things;
And on the lip is scorn—but generous scorn—
Which blends with sweetness; and the loveliest smile,
So soft, so gracious, and so feminine,
Is on the dimpled cheek. Methinks the sculptor's skill
Has caught, most happily, the fine ideal
Both of the heart and mind.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1835/The Proposal

* THE PROPOSAL
* Painted by H. WyattEngraved by Charles Rolls
THE PROPOSAL.
BY L. E. L.
The summer sun looks laughing through the bough
Thick with the clustering leaves; a thousand flowers
Open their bright eyes to the fanning wind;
Songs are upon the air—a general song,
Many in one—the linnet and the thrush
Join with the blackbird in sweet unison.
All places are now fair, but far most fair
Is a lone garden by the river's side—
A garden of the ancient times, adorned
With quaint devices; branches cut in shapes
Of courtly fashion; and with terraces
Where foreign plants are ranged, and greenhouse flowers:
The white camelia in soft ivory carved— The cactus, like a shining serpent, wreathed
With a red crown of rubies—orange trees
With small gold fruits, and buds that are like snow.
On such a terrace stands the maiden here:
So fair a face must love and be beloved
By summer flowers; each has so much of each
In either's nature. She is standing now
With eyes downcast and blue; the violet hides
So its deep colours and its dew from noon.
The rose is on her cheek; an unquiet bloom
That comes and goes, then settles down at last
In one rich flash of pleasure. What a smile!
A heartfelt conscious smile, scarce parts the lips
That seem as if they sighed; the deep-drawn sigh
Of anxious happiness, which builds on hope.
A scroll is in her hand; it bears the words
Of one who loves her—dear as his own life.
What will her answer be? A down-cast eye,
A blush, a smile—What can their answer be?
Yes!—only "Yes!"
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1833/The Gentle Student

* THE GENTLE STUDENT
* Painted by G. S. NewtonEngraved by Charles Rolls
THE GENTLE STUDENT.*
Bend, gentle student, o'er the page,
Although thine be a joyous age—
An age, when hope lifts up its eyes,
And sees but summer in the skies;
And youth leads on its sunny hours,
Like painted ones, whose links are flowers.
Yet bend thy sweet and earnest look
Above that old and holy book.
For there will come another time,
When hope will need a faith sublime,
To lead it on the thorny path
That weary mortal ever hath.
When vain delights have left behind
A fevered and exhausted mind,
And life, with few and wasted years,
Treads mournfully its vale of tears.
Bend o'er the leaf thy graceful brow,
For every word thou readest now
Will sink within thine inmost heart,
Like good seed, never to depart: A glorious and a great reward,
A sacred and eternal guard,
A sun amid our earthly gloom,
That sets to rise beyond the tomb!
L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1833/The Lute

This poem was set to music as a ballad by Jerome B. Capps
THE LUTE.
BY L .E. L.
Oh! sing again that mournful song,
 That song of other times!
The music bears my soul along,
 To other, dearer climes.
I love its low and broken tone;
 The music seems to me
Like the wild wind when singing lone
 Over a twilight sea.
It may not sound so sweet to you,
 To you it cannot bring
The valleys where your childhood grew,
 The memories of your spring.
My father's house, my infancy,
 Rise present to my mind,
As if I had not crossed the sea,
 Or left my youth behind.
I heard it, at the evening's close,
 Upon my native shore;
It was a favourite song with those
 Whom I shall see no more.
How many worldly thoughts and cares
 Have melted at the strain!
‘Tis fraught with early hopes and prayers—
 Oh, sing that song again!
* Drawn by H. Liverseege Engraved by S. Sangster
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1835

Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1835
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Festa of Madonna dei Fiori
* The Proposal
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
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1836/Le Chapeau Noir

* THE CHAPEAU NOIR
* Painted by Henry WyattEngraved by W. H. Simmons
LE CHAPEAU NOIR.
BY L. E. L.
A courtly beauty—one whose life  Has been perhaps a pleasant dream, The shadow of a flower cast  Upon a sunny stream.
Upon her brow there are no lines,
 Upon her face there is no care; But such soft pensiveness as oft  The young and happy wear.
The plumes that play around her head  The fan within her fairy hand; The pearls that circle that white neck,  With a scarce whiter band,
Are soft, and light, and fair as she  Who weareth them as wears a queen The crown that from her infancy  Upon her head has been.
Her beauty is a pride and power,  The right divine around a throne; It is the triumph of her eyes,  To make all hearts her own.
She steppeth with a silvery step  A sweet yet stately grace; She doth not wait to see who marks  The sunshine of her face.
But there will come another time,  Its coming is beside her now; I read it on the parted lip,  And on the gentle brow.
When those sweet eyes will seek the ground,  Or, raised, will only seek to see, What language, till that hour unknown,  In other eyes can be.
That cheek will wear a deeper rose,  Whose crimson colours never glow But when they speak instead of words,  For the full heart below.
Pause lady, on thy present time,  It is life's brightest and its best; Pause ere thou lettest love disturb  Thy spirit's sunny rest.
For never yet came Love alone,  Companions strange and sad has he, Doubts, fears, regrets, and withering tears;—  And must these be for thee?
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1833/The Evening Star

* THE EVENING STAR
* Painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence P.R.A.Engraved by J. C. Edwards
THE EVENING STAR.
BY L. E. L.
How beautiful the twilight sky,
 Whose starry worlds now spread,
Amid the purple depths of eve,
 Their glory o'er my head!
And there is one—a radiant one—
 Amid the rest shines he,
As if just risen from his sleep,
 Within the mighty sea.
The clouds fall off in glittering flakes
 Before his shining brow;
So moves a ship that flings the waves
 In bright foam from its prow.
I marvel not in former days,
 Ere purer light was given,
That men fell down and worshipped thee,
 A spirit-king in heaven.
But now that knowledge great and high
 Is kindled in man's soul,
We know thee but the glorious part
 Of a more glorious whole.
Oh, mysteries of night! that fill
 The mind with awe and love!
How visibly the power of God
 Is manifest above!
Oh! might and majesty that reign
 Upon the midnight sky!—
Creed of my hope! I feel thy truth
 Whene'er I gaze on high.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1833/The Youthful Mariners

* THE YOUNG NAVIGATORS
* Painted by W. MulreadyEngraved by Charles Fox
THE YOUTHFUL MARINERS.
BY L. E. L.
How now, my youthful mariners!
 Where will ye sail to-day?
Seek ye the southern latitudes,
 And Spice Isles far away?
Manilla and the Philippines,
 To have your canvass fanned
By a thousand fragrant odours
 Before you see the land?
With Sindbad for your guide-book,
 Will ye go sailing on,
To gather cinnamon, and pearls,
 And nutmegs in Ceylon?
Or are ye for a bolder quest,
 Upon the Northern Seas;
And, on your passage to the pole,
 See even ocean freeze?
And watch the restless waters
 Turned into solid stone,
Like granite, and like porphyry,
 In wild confusion thrown?
Or do ye bear a battle-flag,
 And thunder at your side,
So that the foreign foe may quail,
 Where'er your navies ride?
I cannot tell what enterprise
 Might haunt that childish crew—
What, with their little fairy ships,
 It was their dream to do:
But be what will the enterprise,
 That carries men afar,
Through danger, death, through calm and storm,
 For commerce, science, war;
They could not go more heart in hand,
 Their purpose to fulfil,
Than launched those boyish mariners
 Their fleet upon the rill.
The sunbeam glittered on the waves,
 And danced within their eyes:
Whose bark shall reach yon willow first,
 His is the victor's prize.
And each one lends his voice and breath,
 To urge the tiny sail;
No sailor in a calm e'er watched
 More anxious for a gale.
And though they are but paper boats,
 Launched on a village brook;
How earnest is each beating heart!
 How eager is each look!
Oh, happy age! that thus can find,
 In trifles and in toys,
The pleasure of a new delight—
 The freshness that enjoys!
Oh! why should life bring weariness,
 And languor, and disdain?
Ah! would to God that I could be
 An eager child again!