OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Songs of a Savoyard/Would You Know?

From Princess Ida.
WOULD YOU KNOW?
WOULD you know the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a?
Eyes must be downcast and staid,
Cheeks must flush for shame-a!
She may neither dance nor sing,
But, demure in everything,
Hang her head in modest way,
With pouting lips that seem to say
"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
Though I die of shame-a,"
Please you, that's the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a!
When a maid is bold and gay
With a tongue goes clang-a,
Flaunting it in brave array,
Maiden may go hang-a!
Sunflower gay and hollyhock
Never shall my garden stock;
Mine the blushing rose of May,
With pouting lips that seem to say,
"Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
Though I die for shame-a!"
Please you that's the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a!
# Songs of a Savoyard/True Diffidence

From Ruddigore.
TRUE DIFFIDENCE.
MY boy, you may take it from me,
That of all the afflictions accurst
With which a man's saddled
And hampered and addled,
A diffident nature's the worst.
Though clever as clever can be—
A Crichton of early romance—
You must stir it and stump it,
And blow your own trumpet,
Or, trust me, you haven't a chance.
Now take, for example, my case:
I've a bright intellectual brain—
In all London city
There's no one so witty—
I've thought so again and again.
I've a highly intelligent face—
My features cannot be denied—
But, whatever I try, sir,
I fail in—and why, sir ?
I'm modesty personified!
As a poet, I'm tender and quaint—
I've passion and fervour and grace—
From Ovid and Horace
To Swinburne and Morris,
They all of them take a back place.
Then I sing and I play and I paint;
Though none are accomplished as I,
To say so were treason:
You ask me the reason?
I'm diffident, modest and shy!
# Songs of a Savoyard/When I First Put this Uniform On

From Patience.
WHEN I FIRST PUT THIS UNIFORM ON.
WHEN I first put this uniform on,
I said, as I looked in the glass,
"It's one to a million
That any civilian
My figure and form will surpass.
Gold lace has a charm for the fair,
And I've plenty of that, and to spare,
While a lover's professions,
When uttered in Hessians,
Are eloquent everywhere!"
A fact that I counted upon,
When I first put this uniform on!
I said, when I first put it on,
"It is plain to the veriest dunce
That every beauty
Will feel it her duty
To yield to its glamour at once.
They will see that I'm freely gold-laced
In a uniform handsome and chaste"—
But the peripatetics
Of long-haired æsthetics,
Are very much more to their taste—
Which I never counted upon
When I first put this uniform on!
# Songs of a Savoyard/Willow Waly

From Patience.
WILLOW WALY!
He.PRITHEE, pretty maiden—prithee, tell me true
(Hey, but I'm doleful, willow, willow waly!)
Have you e'er a lover a-dangling after you?
Hey, willow waly O!
I fain would discover
If you have a lover?
Hey, willow waly O!
She.Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free—
(Hey, but he's doleful, willow, willow waly!)
Nobody I care for comes a-courting me—
Hey, willow waly O!
Nobody I care for
Comes a-courting—therefore,
Hey, willow waly O!
He.Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me?
(Hey, but I'm hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
I may say, at once, I'm a man of propertee—
Hey, willow waly O!
Money, I despise it,
But many people prize it,
Hey, willow waly O!
She.Gentle sir, although to marry I design—
(Hey, but he's hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline.
Hey, willow waly O!
To other maidens go you—
As yet I do not know you,
Hey, willow waly O!
# Salomé

* related portals: Irish drama.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
Salomé is a one-act tragedy by Oscar Wilde. The original version of the play was published in French in 1893; an English translation was published the following year.
* Salomé (1904), edition the play illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley
* Salomé, a film directed by Charles Bryant, based on Wilde's play
* Salome, an opera by Richard Strauss, with libretto by Hedwig Lachmann, translated from Wilde's play

## See also

* Salome
# Saloy v. Bloch

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
136 U.S. 338
Saloy v. Bloch
E. H. McCaleb and Wm. A. Maury, for plaintiff in error.
C. W. Homer, W. S. Benedict, and Geo. A. Ring, for defendant in error.
BRADLEY, J.

## 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
# Salsburg v. Maryland

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.

## Dissenting Opinion

    Douglas
United States Supreme Court
346 U.S. 545
Salsburg v. Maryland
Argued: Oct. 20, 1953. --- Decided: Jan 11, 1954
Mr. Herbert Myerberg, Baltimore, Md., for appellant.
Mr. Ambrose T. Hartman, Baltimore, Md., for appellee, pro hac vice, by special leave of Court.
Mr. Justice BURTON 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
# Salsburg v. Maryland/Dissent Douglas

* Court Documents
* Case Syllabus
* Opinion of the Court
* Dissenting Opinion Douglas
United States Supreme Court
346 U.S. 545
Salsburg v. Maryland
Argued: Oct. 20, 1953. --- Decided: Jan 11, 1954
Mr. Justice DOUGLAS, dissenting.
I am still of the view, expressed on other occasions (see Wolf v. People of State of Colorado, 338 U.S. 25, 40, 41, 69 S.Ct. 1359, 1367, 1368, 93 L.Ed. 1782; Schwartz v. State of Texas, 344 U.S. 199, 205, 73 S.Ct. 232, 236) that the Fourteenth and the Fourth Amendments preclude the use in any criminal prosecution of evidence obtained by the lawless action of police officers who, in disregard of constitutional safeguards, ransack houses or places of business without search warrants issued under the strict surveillance which the Constitution commands.

## 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
# Salomons v. Graham

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
82 U.S. 208
Salomons v. Graham

## 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
# Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems/The Fountain of Oblivion

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.
"Implora pace!"
One draught, kind Fairy! from that fountain deep, To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast, And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest; And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave— One draught of that sweet wave!
Yet, mortal, pause!—within thy mind is laid Wealth, gather'd long and slowly; thoughts divine Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine; —Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear A pyramid so fair?
Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd, So it but sweep along the torrent's trace, And fill the hollow channels of the past; And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf, Rase the one master-grief!
Yet pause once more!—all, all thy soul hath known, Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade! Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made? No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall? —Think—wouldst thou part with all?
Fill with forgetfulness!—there are, there are Voices whose music I have loved too well; Eyes of deep gentleness—but they are far— Never! oh—never, in my home to dwell! Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul— Fill high th' oblivious bowl!
Yet pause again!—with memory wilt thou cast The undying hope away, of memory born? Hope of re-union, heart to heart at last, No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn? Wouldst thou erase all records of delight That make such visions bright?
Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!—yet stay— —'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright band: —Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill, I must remember still.
For their sake, for the dead—whose image nought May dim within the temple of my breast— For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought May shake or trouble with its own unrest, Though the past haunt me as a spirit,—yet I ask not to forget.
# Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems/The Guerilla Leader's Vow

THE GUERILLA LEADER'S VOW.
All my pretty ones! Did you say all? ———— Let us make medicine of this great revenge, To cure this deadly grief! Macbeth.
My battle-vow!—no minster walls  Gave back the burning word, Nor cross nor shrine the low deep tone  Of smother'd vengeance heard: But the ashes of a ruin'd home  Thrill'd, as it sternly rose, With the mingling voice of blood that shook  The midnight's dark repose.
I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs,  But where my children lay, And the startled vulture, at my step,  Soar'd from their precious clay. I stood amidst my dead alone—  I kiss'd their lips—I pour'd, In the strong silence of that hour,  My spirit on my sword.
The roof-tree fall'n, the smouldering floor,  The blacken'd threshold-stone, The bright hair torn, and soil'd with blood,  Whose fountain was my own; These, and the everlasting hills,  Bore witness that wild night; Before them rose th' avenger's soul,  In crush'd affection's might.
The stars, the searching stars of heaven,  With keen looks would upbraid,
If from my heart the fiery vow,  Sear'd on it then, could fade. They have no cause!—Go, ask the streams  That by my paths have swept, The red waves that unstain'd were born—  How hath my faith been kept?
And other eyes are on my soul,  That never, never close, The sad, sweet glances of the lost—  They leave me no repose. Haunting my night-watch 'midst the rocks,  And by the torrent's foam, Through the dark-rolling mists they shine,  Full, full of love and home!
Alas! the mountain eagle's heart,  When wrong'd, may yet find rest; Scorning the place made desolate,  He seeks another nest.
But I—your soft looks wake the thirst  That wins no quenching rain; Ye drive me back, my beautiful!  To the stormy fight again!
# Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems/The Last Tree of the Forest

THE LAST TREE OF THE FOREST.
Whisper, thou Tree, thou lonely Tree,  One, where a thousand stood! Well might proud tales be told by thee,  Last of the solemn wood!
Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,  With leaves yet darkly green? Stillness is round, and noontide glows—  Tell us what thou hast seen.
"I have seen the forest shadows lie  Where men now reap the corn; I have seen the kingly chase rush by,  Through the deep glades at morn.
"With the glance of many a gallant spear,  And the wave of many a plume, And the bounding of a hundred deer,  It hath lit the woodland's gloom.
"I have seen the knight and his train ride past,  With his banner borne on high; O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast  From his gleaming panoply.
"The Pilgrim at my feet hath laid  His palm branch 'midst the flowers, And told his beads, and meekly pray'd,  Kneeling, at vesper-hours.
"And the merry-men of wild and glen,  In the green array they wore, Have feasted here with the red wine's cheer,  And the hunter's song of yore.
"And the minstrel, resting in my shade,  Hath made the forest ring With the lordly tales of the high Crusade,  Once loved by chief and king.
"But now the noble forms are gone,  That walk'd the earth of old; The soft wind hath a mournful tone,  The sunny light looks cold.
"There is no glory left us now,  Like the glory with the dead:— I would that where they slumber low  My latest leaves were shed!"
Oh! thou dark Tree, thou lonely Tree,  That mournest for the past! A peasant's home in thy shades I see,  Embower'd from every blast.
A lovely and a mirthful sound  Of laughter meets mine ear; For the poor man's children sport around  On the turf, with nought to fear.
And roses lend that cabin's wall  A happy summer-glow; And the open door stands free to all,  For it recks not of a foe.
And the village bells are on the breeze,  That stirs thy leaf, dark Tree! How can I mourn, 'midst things like these,  For the stormy past, with thee?
# Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems/The Lyre's Lament

THE LYRE'S LAMENT.
A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its melancholy music to the wind—but no human being was to be seen. Salathiel.
A deep-toned Lyre hung murmuring  To the wild wind of the sea: "O melancholy wind," it sigh'd,  "What would thy breath with me?
"Thou canst not wake the spirit  That in me slumbering lies, Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire  Of buried melodies.
"Wind of the dark sea-waters!  Thou dost but sweep my strings Into wild gusts of mournfulness,  With the rushing of thy wings.
"But the spell—the gift—the lightning—  Within my frame conceal'd, Must I moulder on the rock away,  With their triumphs unreveal'd?
"I have power, high power, for freedom  To wake the burning soul! I have sounds that through the ancient hills  Like a torrent's voice might roll.
"I have pealing notes of victory  That might welcome kings from war; I have rich deep tones to send the wail  For a hero's death afar.
"I have chords to lift the pæan  From the temple to the sky, Full as the forest-unisons  When sweeping winds are high.
"And Love—for Love's lone sorrow  I have accents that might swell Through the summer air with the rose's breath,  Or the violet's faint farewell:
"Soft—spiritual—mournful—  Sighs in each note enshrined— But who shall call that sweetness forth?  Thou canst not, ocean-wind!
"I pass without my glory,  Forgotten I decay— Where is the touch to give me life?  —Wild fitful wind, away!"
So sigh'd the broken music  That in gladness had no part— How like art thou, neglected Lyre,  To many a human heart!
# Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems/The Image in the Heart

THE IMAGE IN THE HEART.
TO ****.
True, indeed, it is, That they whom death has hidden from our sight, Are worthiest of the mind's regard; with them The future cannot contradict the past— Mortality's last exercise and proof Is undergone. Wordsworth.
The love where death has set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow. Byron.
I call thee blest!—though now the voice be fled, Which, to thy soul, brought dayspring with its tone, And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, Eyes that ne'er look'd on thine but light was thrown Far through thy breast:
And though the music of thy life be broken, Or changed in every chord, since he is gone, Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone! I call thee blest!
For in thy heart there is a holy spot, As 'mid the waste an Isle of fount and palm, For ever green!—the world's breath enters not, The passion-tempests may not break its calm; 'Tis thine, all thine!
Thither, in trust unbaffled, mayst thou turn, From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes, Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn, That, fill'd with waters of sweet memory, lies In its own shrine.
Thou hast thy home!—there is no power in change To reach that temple of the past;—no sway,
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange, To sweep the still transparent peace away From its hush'd air!
And oh! that glorious image of the dead! Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest, And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed Its high gifts fearlessly!—I call thee blest, If only there!
Blest, for the beautiful within thee dwelling, Never to fade!—a refuge from distrust, A spring of purer life, still freshly welling, To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust With flowers divine.
And thou hast been beloved!—it is no dream, No false mirage for thee, the fervent love, The rainbow still unreach'd, the ideal gleam, That ever seems before, beyond, above, Far off to shine.
But thou, from all the daughters of the earth Singled and mark'd, hast known its home and place; And the high memory of its holy worth, To this our life a glory and a grace For thee hath given.
And art thou not still fondly, truly loved? Thou art!—the love his spirit bore away, Was not for death!—a treasure but removed, A bright bird parted for a clearer day,— Thine still in Heaven!
# Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems/The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey

THE HEART OF BRUCE
IN
MELROSE ABBEY.
Heart! that didst press forward still,* Where the trumpet's note rang shrill, Where the knightly swords were crossing, And the plumes like sea-foam tossing, Leader of the charging spear, Fiery heart!—and liest thou here? May this narrow spot inurn Aught that so could beat and burn?
Heart! that lovedst the clarion's blast, Silent is thy place at last; Silent,—save when early bird Sings where once the mass was heard; Silent—save when breeze's moan Comes through flowers or fretted stone; And the wild-rose waves around thee, And the long dark grass hath bound thee,— —Sleep'st thou, as the swain might sleep, In his nameless valley deep?
No! brave heart!—though cold and lone, Kingly power is yet thine own! Feel I not thy spirit brood O'er the whispering solitude? Lo! at one high thought of thee, Fast they rise, the bold, the free, Sweeping past thy lowly bed, With a mute, yet stately tread.
Shedding their pale armour's light Forth upon the breathless night, Bending every warlike plume In the prayer o'er saintly tomb.
Is the noble Douglas nigh, Arm'd to follow thee, or die? Now, true heart, as thou wert wont, Pass thou to the peril's front! Where the banner-spear is gleaming, And the battle's red wine streaming, Till the Paynim quail before thee, Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee;— —Dreams! the falling of a leaf Wins me from their splendours brief; Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not, Thou that seek'st the holy spot; Nor, amidst its lone domain, Call the faith in relics vain!
# Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems/The Indian with his Dead Child

THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD CHILD.
In the silence of the midnight  I journey with my dead; In the darkness of the forest-boughs,  A lonely path I tread.
But my heart is high and fearless,  As by mighty wings upborne;
The mountain eagle hath not plumes  So strong as Love and Scorn.
I have raised thee from the grave-sod,  By the white man's path defiled; On to th' ancestral wilderness,  I bear thy dust, my child!
I have ask'd the ancient deserts  To give my dead a place, Where the stately footsteps of the free  Alone should leave a trace.
And the tossing pines made answer—  "Go, bring us back thine own!" And the streams from all the hunters' hills,  Rush'd with an echoing tone.
Thou shalt rest by sounding waters  That yet untamed may roll;
The voices of that chainless host  With joy shall fill thy soul.
In the silence of the midnight  I journey with the dead, Where the arrows of my father's bow  Their falcon flight have sped.
I have left the spoiler's dwellings,  For evermore, behind; Unmingled with their household sounds,  For me shall sweep the wind.
Alone, amidst their hearth-fires,  I watch'd my child's decay, Uncheer'd, I saw the spirit-light  From his young eyes fade away.
When his head sank on my bosom,  When the death-sleep o'er him fell,
Was there one to say, "A friend is near?"  There was none!—pale race, farewell!
To the forests, to the cedars,  To the warrior and his bow, Back, back!—I bore thee laughing thence,  I bear thee slumbering now!
I bear thee unto burial  With the mighty hunters gone; I shall hear thee in the forest-breeze,  Thou wilt speak of joy, my son!
In the silence of the midnight  I journey with the dead; But my heart is strong, my step is fleet,  My father's path I tread.
# Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems/The King of Arragon's Lament for his Brother

THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER.
If I could see him, it were well with me! Coleridge's Wallenstein.
There were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquish'd city's halls, As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls;
And the conquerors fill'd the wine-cup high, after years of bright blood shed; But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the triumph, wail'd the dead.
He look'd down from the fortress won, on the tents and towers below, The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets,—and a gloom came o'er his brow: The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal's tone; But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.
And he cried, "Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea! But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee?
—I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll, And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is mournful to my soul.
"My brother! oh! my brother! thou art gone,—the true and brave, And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave; There are many round my throne to stand, and to march where I lead on; There was one to love me in the world,—my brother! thou art gone!
"In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's wrath, We stood together, side by side; one hope was ours,—one path;
Thou hast wrapp'd me in thy soldier's cloak, thou hast fenced me with thy breast; Thou hast watch'd beside my couch of pain—oh! bravest heart, and best!
"I see the festive lights around;—o'er a dull sad world they shine; I hear the voice of victory—my Pedro! where is thine? The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found reply!— Oh! brother! I have bought too dear this hollow pageantry!
"I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my glory and my sway, And chiefs to lead them fearlessly;—my friend hath pass'd away!
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart may thirst in vain, And the face that was as light to mine—it cannot come again!
"I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the offering for a crown; With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased cold renown; How often will my weary heart 'midst the sounds of triumph die, When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of chivalry!
"I am lonely—I am lonely! this rest is even as death! Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle-trumpet's breath;
Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal banner wave— But where art thou, my brother? where?—in thy low and early grave!"
And louder swell'd the songs of joy through that victorious night, And faster flow'd the red wine forth, by the stars' and torches' light; But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the conqueror's moan— "My brother! oh! my brother! best and bravest! thou art gone!"