OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/A Song of Swords

A SONG OF SWORDS
"A DROVE OF CATTLE CAME INTO A VILLAGE CALLED SWORDS, AND WAS STOPPED BY THE RIOTERS."-Daily Paper.
IN the place called Swords on the Irish road It is told for a new renown How we held the horns of the cattle, and how We will hold the horns of the devil now Ere the lord of hell, with the horn on his brow, Is crowned in Dublin town.
Light in the East and light in the West, And light on the cruel lords, On the souls that suddenly all men knew, And the green flag flew and the red flag flew, And many a wheel of the world stopped, too, When the cattle were stopped at Swords.
Be they sinners or less than saints That smite in the street for rage, We know where the shame shines bright; we know You that they smite at, you their foe, Lords of the lawless wage and low, This is your lawful wage.
​You pinched a child to a torture price That you dared not name in words; So black a jest was the silver bit That your own speech shook for the shame of it, And the coward was plain as a cow they hit When the cattle have strayed at Swords.
The wheel of the torment of wives went round To break men's brotherhood; You gave the good Irish blood to grease The clubs of your country's enemies; You saw the brave man beat to the knees: And you saw that it was good.
The rope of the rich is long and long— The longest of hangmen's cords; But the kings and crowds are holding their breath, In a giant shadow o'er all beneath Where God stands holding the scales of Death Between the cattle and Swords.
Haply the lords that hire and lend, The lowest of all men's lords, Who sell their kind like kine at a fair, Will find no head of their cattle there; But faces of men where cattle were: Faces of men—and Swords.
​And the name shining and terrible, The sternest of all man's words, Still mark that place to seek or shun, In the streets where the struggling cattle run— Grass and a silence of judgment done In the place that is called Swords.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/A Hymn for the Church Militant

A HYMN FOR THE CHURCH MILITANT
GREAT God, that bowest sky and star, Bow down our towering thoughts to thee, And grant us in a faltering war The firm feet of humility.
Lord, we that snatch the swords of flame, Lord, we that cry about Thy car, We too are weak with pride and shame, We too are as our foemen are.
Yea, we are mad as they are mad, Yea, we are blind as they are blind, Yea, we are very sick and sad Who bring good news to all mankind.
The dreadful joy Thy Son has sent Is heavier than any care; We find, as Cain his punishment, Our pardon more than we can bear.
Lord, when we cry Thee far and near And thunder through all lands unknown The gospel in to every ear, Lord, let us not forget our own.
​Cleanse us from ire of creed or class, The anger of the idle kings; Sow in our souls, like living grass, The laughter of all lowly things.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/A Song of Defeat

A SONG OF DEFEAT
THE line breaks and the guns go under, The lords and the lackeys ride the plain; I draw deep breaths of the dawn and thunder, And the whole of my heart grows young again. For our Chiefs said "Done," and I did not deem it; Our Seers said "Peace," and it was not peace; Earth will grow worse till men redeem it, And wars more evil, ere all wars cease. But the old flags reel and the old drums rattle, As once in my life they throbbed and reeled; I have found my youth in the lost battle, I have found my heart on the battlefield. For we that fight till the world is free, We are not easy in victory: We have known each other too long, my brother, And fought each other, the world and we.
And I dream of the days when work was scrappy, And rare in our pockets the mark of the mint, When we were angry and poor and happy, And proud of seeing our names in print. For so they conquered and so we scattered, When the Devil rode and his dogs smelt gold, And the peace of a harmless folk was shattered; When I was twenty and odd years old. ​When the mongrel men that the market classes Had slimy hands upon England's rod, And sword in hand upon Afric's passes Her last Republic cried to God. For the men no lords can buy or sell, They sit not easy when all goes well, They have said to each other what naught can smother, They have seen each other, our souls and hell.
It is all as of old; the empty clangour, The Nothing scrawled on a five-foot page, The huckster who, mocking holy anger, Painfully paints his face with rage. And the faith of the poor is faint and partial, And the pride of the rich is all for sale, And the chosen heralds of England's Marshal Are the sandwich-men of the "Daily Mail." And the niggards that dare not give are glutted, And the feeble that dare not fail are strong, So while the City of Toil is gutted, I sit in the saddle and sing my song. For we that fight till the world is free, We have no comfort in victory; We have read each other as Cain his brother, We know each other, these slaves and we.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/Africa

AFRICA
A SLEEPY people, without priests or kings, Dreamed here, men say, to drive us to the sea: O let us drive ourselves! For it is free And smells of honour and of English things. How came we brawling by these bitter springs, We of the North?—two kindly nations—we? Though the dice rattles and the clear coin rings, Here is no place for living men to be. Leave them the gold that worked and whined for it, Let them that have no nation anywhere Be native here, and fat and full of bread; But we, whose sins were human, we will quit The land of blood, and leave these vultures there, Noiselessly happy, feeding on the dead.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/A Christmas Song for Three Guilds

A CHRISTMAS SONG FOR THREE GUILDS
TO BE SUNG A LONG TIME AGO—OR HENCE
THE CARPENTERS
ST. JOSEPH to the Carpenters said on a Christmas Day: "The master shall have patience and the 'prentice shall obey; And your word unto your women shall be nowise hard or wild: For the sake of me, your master, who have worshipped Wife and Child. But softly you shall frame the fence, and softly carve the door, And softly plane the table—as to spread it for the poor, And all your thoughts be soft and white as the wood of the white tree. But if they tear the Charter, let the tocsin speak for me! Let the wooden sign above your shop be prouder to be scarred Than the lion-shield of Lancelot that hung at Joyous Garde."
THE SHOEMAKERS
St. Crispin to the shoemakers said on a Christmas-tide: "Who fashions at another's feet will get no good of pride. They were bleeding on the Mountain, the feet that brought good news, The latchet of whose shoes we were not worthy to unloose. See that your feet offend not, nor lightly lift your head, Tread softly on the sunlit roads the bright dust of the dead. Let your own feet be shod with peace; be lowly all your lives. But if they touch the Charter, ye shall nail it with your knives. And the bill-blades of the commons drive in all as dense array As once a crash of arrows came, upon St. Crispin's Day."
THE PAINTERS
St. Luke unto the painters on Christmas Day he said: "See that the robes are white you dare to dip in gold and red; For only gold the kings can give, and only blood the saints; ​And his high task grows perilous that mixes them in paints. Keep you the ancient order; follov the men that knew The labyrinth of black and white, the maze of green and blue; Paint mighty things, paint paltry things, paint silly things or sweet. But if men break the Charter, you may slay them in the street. And if you paint one post for them, then . . . but you know it well, You paint a harlot's face to drag all heroes down to hell."
ALL TOGETHER
Almighty God to all mankind on Christmas Day said He: "I rent you from the old red hills and, rending, made you free. There was charter, there vas challenge; in a blast of breath I gave; You can be all things other; you cannot be a slave. You shall be tired and tolerant of fancies as they fade, But if men doubt the Charter, ye shall call on the Crusade— Trumpet and torch and catapult, cannon and bow and blade, Because it vas My challenge to all the things I made."
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/A Cider Song

A CIDER SONG
To F. S. M.
EXTRACT FROM A ROMANCE WHICH IS NOT YET WRITTEN AND PROBABLY NEVER WILL BE.
THE wine they drink in Paradise They make in Haute Lorraine; God brought it burning from the sod To be a sign and signal rod That they that drink: the blood of God Shall never thirst again.
The wine they praise in Paradise They make in Ponterey, The purple wine of Paradise, But we have better at the price; It's wine they praise in Paradise, it's cider that they pray.
The wine they want in Paradise They find in Plodder's End, The apple wine of Hereford, Of Hafod Hill and Hereford, Where woods went down to Hereford, And there I had a friend.
​The soft feet of the blessed go In the soft western vales, The road the silent saints accord, The road from Heaven to Hereford, Where the apple wood of Hereford Goes all the way to Wales.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/A Song of Gifts to God

A SONG OF GIFTS TO GOD
WHEN the first Christmas presents came, the straw where Christ was rolled Smelt sweeter than their frankincense, burnt brighter than their gold, And a wise man said, "We will not give; the thanks would be but cold."
"Nay," said the next, "To all new gifts, to this gift or another, Bends the high gratitude of God; even as He now, my brother, Who had a Father for all time, yet thanks Him for a Mother.
"Yet scarce for Him this yellow stone or prickly smells and sparse, Who holds the gold heart of the sun that fed these timber bars, Nor any scentless lily lives for One that smells the stars."
Then spake the third of the Wise Men; the wisest of the three: "We may not with the widest lives enlarge His liberty, Whose wings are wider than the world. It is not He, but we.
​"We say not He has more to gain, but we have more to lose. Less gold shall go astray, we say, less gold, if thus we choose, Go to make harlots of the Greeks and hucksters of the Jews.
"Less clouds before colossal feet redden in the underlight, To the blind gods from Babylon less incense burn to-night, To the high beasts of Babylon, whose mouths make mock of right."
Babe of the thousand birthdays, we that are young yet grey, White with the centuries, still can find no better thing to say, We that with sects and whims and wars have wasted Christmas Day.
Light Thou Thy censer to Thyself, for all our fires are dim, Stamp Thou Thine image on our coin, for Cæsar's face grows dim, And a dumb devil of pride and greed has taken hold of him.
​We bring Thee back great Christendom, churches and towns and towers, And if our hands are glad, O God, to cast them down like flowers, 'Tis not that they enrich Thine hands, but they are saved from ours.
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/A Word

A WORD
A WORD came forth in Galilee, a word like to a star; It climbed and rang and blessed and burnt wherever brave hearts are; A word of sudden secret hope, of trial and increase Of wrath and pity fused in fire, and passion kissing peace. A star that o'er the citied world beckoned, a sword of flame; A star with myriad thunders tongued: a mighty word there came.
The wedge's dart passed into it, the groan of timber wains, The ringing of the river nails, the shrieking of the planes; The hammering on the roofs at morn, the busy workshop roar; The hiss of shavings drifted deep along the windy floor; The heat-browned toiler's crooning song, the hum of human worth— Mingled of all the noise of crafts, the ringing word went forth.
​The splash of nets passed into it, the grind of sand and shell, The boat-hook's clash, the boat-oars' jar, the cries to buy and sell, The flapping of the landed shoals, the canvas crackling free, And through all varied notes and cries, the roaring of the sea, The noise of little lives and brave, of needy lives and high; In gathering all the throes of earth, the living word went by.
Earth's giants bowed down to it, in Empire's huge eclipse, When darkness sat above the thrones, seven thunders on her lips, The woes of cities entered it, the clang of idols' falls, The scream of filthy Cæsars stabbed high in their brazen halls, The dim hoarse floods of naked men, the world-realms snapping girth, The trumpets of Apocalypse, the darkness of the earth:
The wrath that brake the eternal lamp and hid the eternal hill, A world's destruction loading, the word went onward stil— ​The blaze of creeds passed into it, the hiss of horrid fires, The headlong spear, the scarlet cross, the hair-shirt and the briars, The cloistered brethren's thunderous chaunt, the errant champion's song, The shifting of the crowns and thrones, the tangle of the strong.
The shattering fall of crest and crown and shield and cross and cope, The tearing of the gauds of time, the blight of prince and pope, The reign of ragged millions leagued to wrench a loaded debt, Loud with the many-throated roar, the word went forward yet. The song of wheels passed into it, the roaring and the smoke The riddle of the want and wage, the fogs that burn and choke. The breaking of the girths of gold, the needs that creep and swell, The strengthening hope, the dazing light, the deafening evangel, Through kingdoms dead and empires damned, through changes without cease, With earthquake, chaos, born and fed, rose,—and the word was "Peace."
# Poems (Chesterton, 1915)/A Hymn

A HYMN
O GOD of earth and altar, Bow down and hear our cry, Our earthly rulers falter, Our people drift and die; The walls of gold entomb us, The swords of scorn divide, Take not thy thunder from us, But take away our pride.
From all that terror teaches, From lies of tongue and pen, From all the easy speeches That comfort cruel men, From sale and profanation Of honour and the sword, From sleep and from damnation, Deliver us, good Lord.
Tie in a living tether The prince and priest and thrall, Bind all our lives together, Smite us and save us all; In ire and exultation Aflame with faith, and free, Lift up a living nation, A single sword to thee.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/Sonnet (3)

SONNET.
ii.
What is there in the great sphere of the earth, And range of evil between death and birth, That I should fear,—if I were loved by thee? All the inner, all the outer world of pain Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine, As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, Fresh-water-springs come up through bitter brine. 'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand-in-hand with thee, To wait for death—mute—careless of all ills, Apart upon a mountain, though the surge Of some new deluge from a thousand hills Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge Below us, as far on as eye could see.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/Sonnet (6)

SONNET.
As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood, And ebb into a former life, or seem To lapse far back in a confusèd dream To states of mystical similitude; If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair, Ever the wonder waxeth more and more, So that we say, "All this hath been before, All this hath been, I know not when or where." So, friend, when first I looked upon your face, Our thought gave answer, each to each, so true, Opposèd mirrors each reflecting each— Altho' I knew not in what time or place, Methought that I had often met with you, And each had lived in the other's mind and speech.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/The Death of the Old Year

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
i.
And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the churchbell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. ⁠Old year, you must not die. ⁠You came to us so readily, ⁠You lived with us so steadily, ⁠Old year, you shall not die.
ii.
He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true truelove, And the Newyear will take 'em away. ⁠Old year, you must not go. ⁠So long as you have been with us, ⁠Such joy as you have seen with us, ⁠Old year, you shall not go.
iii.
A jollier year we shall not see. But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, And tho' his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. ⁠Old year, you shall not die. ⁠We did so laugh and cry with you, ⁠I've half a mind to die with you, ⁠Old year, if you must die.
iv.
But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride posthaste, But he'll be dead before. ⁠Every one for his own. ⁠The night is starry and cold, my friend, ⁠And the Newyear blithe and bold, my friend, ⁠Comes up to take his own.
v.
I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly one o'clock. ⁠Shake hands, before you die. ⁠Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. ⁠What is it we can do for you— ⁠Speak out before you die.
vi.
Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, ⁠And waiteth at the door. ⁠There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, ⁠And a new face at the door, my friend, ⁠A new face at the door.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/The May Queen

THE MAY QUEEN.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/The Hesperides

THE HESPERIDES.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/The Miller's Daughter

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/Sonnet (4)

SONNET.
WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE OUTBREAK OF THE POLISH INSURRECTION.
Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar The hosts to battle: be not bought and sold. Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold; Break through your iron shackles—fling them far. O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar Grew to this strength among his deserts cold; When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled The growing murmurs of the Polish war! Now must your noble anger blaze out more Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan, The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before— Than when Zamoysky smote the Tatar Khan; Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore Boleslas drove the Pomeranian.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/Sonnet (5)

SONNET.
ON THE RESULT OF THE LATE RUSSIAN INVASION OF POLAND.
How long, O God, shall men be ridden down, And trampled under by the last and least Of men? The heart of Poland hath not ceased To quiver, though her sacred blood doth drown The fields; and out of every smouldering town Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be increased, Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East Transgress his ample bound to some new crown:— Cries to Thee, "Lord, how long shall these things be? How long shall the icyhearted Muscovite Oppress the region?" Us, O Just and Good, Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three; Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right— A matter to be wept with tears of blood!
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Lwonesomeness

LWONESOMENESS.
As I do zew, wi’ nimble hand,  In here avore the window’s light, How still do all the housegear stand  Around my lwonesome zight. How still do all the housegear stand Since Willie now ’ve a-left the land.
The rwose-tree’s window-sheädèn bow  Do hang in leaf, an’ win’-blow’d flow’rs, Avore my lwonesome eyes do show  Theäse bright November hours. Avore my lwonesome eyes do show Wi’ nwone but I to zee em blow.
The sheädes o’ leafy buds, avore  The peänes, do sheäke upon the glass, An’ stir in light upon the vloor,  Where now vew veet do pass, An’ stir in light upon the vloor, Where there’s a-stirrèn nothèn mwore.
This win’ mid dreve upon the maïn,  My brother’s ship, a-plowèn foam, But not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn,  At her now happy hwome. But not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn, Where she is out o’ pain.
Zoo now that I’m a-mwopèn dumb,  A-keepèn father’s house, do you Come of’en wi’ your work vrom hwome,  Vor company. Now do. Come of’en wi’ your work vrom hwome, Up here a-while. Do come.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Married Peäir's Love-walk

MARRIED PEÄIR’S LOVE WALK.
Come let’s goo down the grove to-night; The moon is up, ’tis all so light As day, an’ win’ do blow enough To sheäke the leaves, but tiddèn rough. Come, Esther, teäke, vor wold time’s seäke, Your hooded cloke, that’s on the pin, An’ wrap up warm, an’ teäke my eärm, You’ll vind it better out than in. Come, Etty dear; come out o’ door, An’ teäke a sweetheart’s walk woonce mwore.
How charmèn to our very souls, Wer woonce your evenèn maïden strolls, The while the zettèn zunlight dyed Wi’ red the beeches’ western zide, But back avore your vinger wore The weddèn ring that’s now so thin; An’ you did sheäre a mother’s ceäre, To watch an’ call ye eärly in. Come, Etty dear; come out o’ door, An’ teäke a sweetheart’s walk woonce mwore.
An’ then ageän, when you could slight The clock a-strikèn leäte at night, The while the moon, wi’ risèn rim, Did light the beeches’ eastern lim’. ​When I’d a-bound your vinger round Wi’ thik goold ring that’s now so thin, An’ you had nwone but me alwone To teäke ye leäte or eärly in. Come, Etty dear; come out o’ door, An’ teäke a sweetheart’s walk woonce mwore.
But often when the western zide O’ trees did glow at evenèn-tide, Or when the leäter moon did light The beeches’ eastern boughs at night, An’ in the grove, where vo’k did rove The crumpled leaves did vlee an’ spin, You couldèn sheäre the pleasure there: Your work or childern kept ye in. Come, Etty dear, come out o’ door, An’ teäke a sweetheart’s walk woonce mwore.
But ceäres that zunk your oval chin Ageän your bosom’s lily skin, Vor all they meäde our life so black. Be now a-lost behind our back. Zoo never mwope, in midst of hope, To slight our blessèns would be sin. Ha! ha! well done, now this is fun; When you do like I’ll bring ye in. Here, Etty dear; here, out o’ door, We’ll teäke a sweetheart’s walk woonce mwore.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/May

MAY.
Come out o’door, ’tis Spring! ’tis Maÿ The trees be green, the vields be gaÿ; The weather’s warm, the winter blast, Wi’ all his traïn o’ clouds, is past; The zun do rise while vo’k do sleep. To teäke a higher daily zweep, Wi’ cloudless feäce a-flingèn down His sparklèn light upon the groun’.
The aïr’s a-streamèn soft,—come drow The windor open; let it blow ​In drough the house, where vire, an’ door A-shut, kept out the cwold avore. Come, let the vew dull embers die, An’ come below the open sky; An’ wear your best, vor fear the groun’ In colours gaÿ mid sheäme your gown: An’ goo an’ rig wi’ me a mile Or two up over geäte an’ stile, Drough zunny parrocks that do leäd, Wi’ crooked hedges, to the meäd, Where elems high, in steätely ranks, Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks, An’ birds do twitter vrom the spraÿ O’ bushes deck’d wi’ snow-white maÿ; An’ gil’cups, wi’ the deäisy bed, Be under ev’ry step you tread.
We’ll wind up roun’ the hill, an’ look All down the thickly-timber’d nook, Out where the squier’s house do show His grey-wall’d peaks up drough the row O’ sheädy elems, where the rook Do build her nest; an’ where the brook Do creep along the meäds, an’ lie To catch the brightness o’ the sky; An’ cows, in water to theïr knees, Do stan’ a-whiskèn off the vlees.
Mother o’ blossoms, and ov all That’s feäir a-vield vrom Spring till Fall, The gookoo over white-weäv’d seas Do come to zing in thy green trees, An’ buttervlees, in giddy flight, Do gleäm the mwost by thy gaÿ light. Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes Shall shut upon the vields an’ skies, ​Mid zummer’s zunny days be gone, An’ winter’s clouds be comèn on: Nor mid I draw upon the e’th, O’ thy sweet aïr my leätest breath; Alassen I mid want to staÿ Behine’ for thee, O flow’ry May!