OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From Jonathan Swift to John Temple - 1

TO JOHN TEMPLE, ESQ.
THE letter which I had the favour to receive from you, I read to your cousin, Mrs. Dingley, who lodges in my neighbourhood. She was very well pleased to hear of your welfare; but a little mortified that you did not mention or inquire after her. She is quite sunk with years and unwieldiness; as well as a very scanty support. I sometimes make her a small present, as my abilities can reach; for I do not find her nearest relations consider her in the least.
Jervas told me that your aunt's picture is in sir Peter Lely's best manner, and the drapery all in the same hand. I shall think myself very well paid for it, if you will be so good, as to order some mark of your favour to Mrs. Dingley. I do not mean a pension, but a small sum to put her for once out of debt: and if I live any time, I shall see that she keeps herself clear of the world; for she is a woman of as much piety and discretion as I have known.
I am sorry to have been so much a stranger to the ​state of your family. I know nothing of your lady or what children you have, or any other circumstances; neither do I find that Mr. Hatch can inform me in any one point. I very much approve of your keeping up your family house at Moor park. I have heard it is very much changed for the better, as well as the gardens. The tree on which I carved those words, factura nepotibus umbram, is one of those elms that stand in the hollow ground just before the house: but I suppose the letters are widened and grown shapeless by time.
I know nothing more of your brother, than that he has an Irish title (I should be sorry to see you with such a feather) and that some reason or other drew us into a correspondence, which was very rough. But I have forgot what was the quarrel.
This letter goes by my lord Castledurrow, who is a gentleman of very good sense and wit. I suspect, by taking his son with him, that he designs to see us no more. I desire to present my most humble service to your lady with hearty thanks of her remembrance of me.
I am, sir,
your most humble faithful servant,
J. SWIFT.
* ↑ Picture of lady Giffard, sister of sir William Temple.
* ↑ Nephew to Mr. Temple; his father having married Mary, the fourth daughter of sir John Temple.
* ↑ Henry, created viscount Ashbrook, Sept. 30, 1751.
* ↑ Mr. Temple was the nephew, and his lady the grandaughter, of sir William Temple, by his only son, who died young. Mr. Temple died at Moor park, in Feb. 1752.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From Jonathan Swift to John Boyle - 1

TO THE EARL OF ORRERY.
IT is some time since Mrs. Ball gave me, enclosed and directed to me, your lordship's verses, in your own hand, with the alterations you were pleased to make, for which I have long deferred my acknowledgments; and if I were to follow the course of my own nature, the delay should be longer: because, although I believe no man has a more grateful sense of a real honour done him than myself, yet no man is in more confusion how to express it. Although I had not the least hand in publishing those verses (which would have ill become me) yet I will not be so affected as to conceal the pride I have in seeing them abroad, whatever enmity they may procure ​against your lordship, for publickly favouring one so obnoxious to present powers, and turning their hatred into envy; which last, as it is more tormenting to the owners, will better gratify my revenge. And of this advantage I shall make the proper use, leaving your lordship to shift for yourself, without the least grain of pity for what you may suffer.
In the mean time, I beg you to accept my most humble thanks for the honour done me by so excellent a performance, on so barren a subject; by which words I wisely anticipate the censure of all those who love me not: in spite of whom it will be said, in future ages, That one of lord Orrery's first essays in poetry were these verses on Dr. Swift. That your lordship may go on to be the great example, restorer, and patron, of virtue, learning, and wit, in a most corrupt, stupid, and ignorant age and nation, shall be the constant wish, hope, and prayer of, my lord, your most obedient, obliged, and most humble servant,
J. SWIFT
# The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats/Imitation of Spenser

IMITATION OF SPENSER
Lord Houghton states, on the authority of the notes of Charles Armitage Brown, given to him in Florence in 1832, that this was the earliest known composition of Keats, and that it was written during his residence in Edmonton at the end of his eighteenth year, which would make the date in the autumn of 1813. The poem was included in the 1817 volume, which bore on its title-page this motto:—
What more felicity can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with liberty?
Fate of the Butterfly.—Spenser.
Now Morning from her orient chamber came, And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill; Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill; Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil, And after parting beds of simple flowers, By many streams a little lake did fill, Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.
There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright, Vying with fish of brilliant dye below; Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow: There saw the swan his neck of arched snow, And oar'd himself along with majesty; Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony, And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.
Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle That in that fairest lake had placed been, I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile; Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen: For sure so fair a place was never seen, Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye: It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen Of the bright waters; or as when on high, Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cœrulean sky.
And all around it dipp'd luxuriously Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide, Which, as it were in gentle amity, Rippled delighted up the flowery side; As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried, Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem! Haply it was the workings of its pride, In strife to throw upon the shore a gem Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem.
# The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats/Lines written in the Highlands after a Visit to Burns's Country

Lines written in the Highlands after a Visit to Burns's Country
In a letter to Benjamin Bailey from the Island of Mull, July 22, 1818.
There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain, Where patriot battle has been fought, where glory had the gain; There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been, Where mantles gray have rustled by and swept the nettles green; There is ⟨a⟩ Joy in every spot made known by times of old, New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told; There is a deeper Joy than all, more solemn in the heart, More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart, When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf, Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf, Toward the Castle or the Cot, where long ago was born One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn. Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away; Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,—the Sun may hear his Lay; ​Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear, But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear; Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks; Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in Caves and weedy creeks; Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the Air; Ring-doves may fly convuls'd across to some high-cedar'd lair; But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground, As Palmer's, that with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath found.
At such a time the soul 's a child, in childhood is the brain; Forgotten is the worldly heart—alone, it beats in vain.— Aye, if a Madman could have leave to pass a healthful day To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when first began decay, He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had gone forth To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the silent North. Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the bourn of Care, Beyond the sweet and bitter world,—beyond it unaware! Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a longer stay Would bar return, and make a man forget his mortal way: O horrible! to lose the sight of well remember'd face, Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow—constant to every place; Filling the Air, as on we move, with Portraiture intense; More warm than those heroic tints that pain a Painter's sense, When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old, Locks shining black, hair scanty gray, and passions manifold. No, no, that horror cannot be, for at the cable's length Man feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens in its strength:— One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall, But in the very next he reads his soul's Memorial:— He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he may sit down Upon rough marble diadem—that hill's eternal Crown. Yet be his Anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a prayer That man may never lose his Mind on Mountains black and bare; That he may stray league after league some great birthplace to find And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind.
# The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats/Lines: 'Unfelt, unheard, unseen'

LINES
First published, with the date 1817, in Life, Letters and Literary Remains. It is barely possible that this is the 'song' to which Keats refers in a letter to Benjamin Bailey, dated November 22, 1817, when he says: 'I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart's affections, and the truth of Imagination. What the Imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth​—whether it existed before or not—for I have the same idea of all our passions as of Love: they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty. In a word, you may know my favourite speculation by my first Book, and the little Song I sent in my last, which is a representation from the fancy of the probable mode of operating in these matters.'
Unfelt, unheard, unseen, I 've left my little queen, Her languid arms in silver slumber lying: Ah! through their nestling touch, Who—who could tell how much There is for madness—cruel, or complying?
Those faery lids how sleek! Those lips how moist!—they speak, In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds: Into my fancy's ear Melting a burden dear, How 'Love doth know no fulness, and no bounds.'
True!—tender monitors! I bend unto your laws: This sweetest day for dalliance was born! So, without more ado, I 'll feel my heaven anew, For all the blushing of the hasty morn.
# The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats/Lines on the Mermaid Tavern

LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN
In sending his Robin Hood verses to Reynolds (see next poem), Keats added the following, but from the tenor of his letter, it would appear that they had been written earlier and were sent at Reynolds's request. The poem was published by Keats in his Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems, 1820. The friends were then in full tide of sympathy with the Elizabethans, and would have been very much at home with Shakespeare, Jonson, and Marlowe at the Mermaid.
Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison? O generous food! Drest as though bold Robin Hood10 Would, with his maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away, Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new-old sign Sipping beverage divine,20 And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
# The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats/Lines to Fanny

LINES TO FANNY
First published in Life, Letters and Literary Remains, and there dated October, 1819; their exact date seems to be indicated by a passage in a letter to Fanny Brawne, written October 13, 1819, intimating some work, and breaking out into: 'I cannot proceed with any degree of content. I must write you a line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my mind for ever so short a time.'
What can I do to drive away Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen, Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen! Touch has a memory. O say, love, say, What can I do to kill it and be free In my old liberty? When every fair one that I saw was fair, Enough to catch me in but half a snare, Not keep me there: When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things, My muse had wings, And ever ready was to take her course Whither I bent her force, Unintellectual, yet divine to me;— Divine, I say!—What sea-bird o'er the sea Is a philosopher the while he goes Winging along where the great water throes?
How shall I do To get anew Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more Above, above The reach of fluttering Love, And make him cower lowly while I soar? Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism, A heresy and schism, Foisted into the canon law of love;— No, wine is only sweet to happy men; More dismal cares Seize on me unawares,— Where shall I learn to get my peace again? To banish thoughts of that most hateful land, ​Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life; That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour, Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore, Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods; Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods, Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind; Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind, Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbaged meads Make lean and lank the starved ox while he feeds; There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song, And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.
O, for some sunny spell To dissipate the shadows of this hell! Say they are gone,—with the new dawning light Steps forth my lady bright! O, let me once more rest My soul upon that dazzling breast! Let once again these aching arms be placed, The tender gaolers of thy waist! And let me feel that warm breath here and there To spread a rapture in my very hair,— O, the sweetness of the pain! Give me those lips again! Enough! Enough! it is enough for me To dream of thee!
# The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats/In Answer to a Sonnet ending thus

WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A SONNET ENDING THUS:
'Dark eyes are dearer far Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell'
By J. H. Reynolds.
Dated by Lord Houghton 'February, 1818,' in Life, Letters and Literary Remains, where it was first printed.
Blue! 'T is the life of heaven,—the domain Of Cynthia,—the wide palace of the sun,— The tent of Hesperus, and all his train,— The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and dun. Blue! 'T is the life of waters—ocean And all its vassal streams, pools numberless, May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can Subside, if not to dark blue nativeness. Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest-green, Married to green in all the sweetest flowers,— Forget-me-not,—the blue bell,—and, that queen ​Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great, When in an Eye thou art, alive with fate!
# The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats/La Belle Dame sans Merci

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
Sent in a letter to George and Georgiana Keats, April 28, 1819, and printed by Leigh Hunt in The Indicator, May 10, 1820. Hunt says the poem was suggested by that title at the head of a translation from Alan Chartier at the end of Chaucer's works.
I
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.
II
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest 's done.
III
I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
IV
I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.
V
I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song.
VI
I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.
VII
She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said— 'I love thee true.'
VIII
She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gazed, and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild wild eyes So kiss'd to sleep.
IX
And there we slumber'd on the moss, And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill side.
X
I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried 'La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!'
XI
I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill side.
XII
And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Artemisia

This work was probably written by Alexander Pope. See The Works of Alexander Pope (1995). Wordsworth Edition Ltd. p. 10.
ARTEMISIA.
THOUGH Artemisia talks, by fits, Of councils, classicks, fathers, wits; Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke: Yet in some things, methinks, she fails; 'Twere well, if she would pare her nails, And wear a cleaner smock.
Haughty and huge as High Dutch bride; Such nastiness, and so much pride, Are oddly join'd by fate: On her large squab you find her spread, Like a fate corpse upon a bed, That lies and stinks in state.
She wears no colours (sign of grace) On any part except her face; All white and black beside: Dauntless her look, her gesture proud, Her voice theatrically loud, And masculine her stride.
So have I seen, in black and white, A prating thing, a magpie hight, Majestically stalk; A stately, worthless animal, That plies the tongue, and wags the tail, All flutter, pride, and talk.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Epigram - Bishop John Hough

This work was probably written by Alexander Pope. See The Works of Alexander Pope (1995). Wordsworth Edition Ltd. p. 396.
EPIGRAM.
A BISHOP by his neighbours hated Has cause to wish himself translated; But why should Hough desire translation, Lov'd and esteem'd by all the nation? Yet, if it be the old man's case, I'll lay my life I know the place: 'Tis where God sent some that adore him, And whither Enoch went before him.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Epigram from the French

This work was probably written by Alexander Pope. See The Works of Alexander Pope (1995). Wordsworth Edition Ltd. p. 391.
EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH.
SIR, I admit your gen'ral rule, That ev'ry poet is a fool: But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Ay and No; a Fable

While this work is included within The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift and is not attributed to anyone other than Jonathan Swift, it may have been written by another member of the Scriblerus Club. The club, which was founded in 1714, included Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, John Gay, John Arbuthnot, Henry St John, and Thomas Parnell.
AY AND NO.
A FABLE.
IN fable all things hold discourse; Then words, no doubt, must talk of course. Once on a time, near Channel row, Two hostile adverbs, Ay and No, Were hastening to the field of fight, And front to front stood opposite. Before each gen'ral join'd the van, Ay, the more courteous knight, began:
* Stop, peevish particle, beware!
* I'm told you are not such a bear,
* But sometimes yield, when offer'd fair.
Suffer yon folks a while to tattle; 'Tis we who must decide the battle. Whene'er we war on yonder stage With various fate and equal rage, The nation trembles at each blow, That No gives Ay, and Ay gives No: Yet, in expensive, long contention, We gain nor office, grant, or pension: Why then should kinsfolk quarrel thus? (For two of you make one of us.) ​To some wise statesman let us go, Where each his proper use may know: He may admit two such commanders, And make those wait who serv'd in Flanders. Let's quarter on a great man's tongue, A treas'ry lord, not master Y——g. Obsequious at his high command, Ay shall march forth to tax the land. Impeachments No can best resist, And Ay support the Civil List: Ay, quick as Cæsar wins the day; And No, like Fabius, by delay. Sometimes, in mutual sly disguise, Let Ayes seem Noes, and Noes seem Ayes; Ayes be in courts denials meant, And Noes in bishops give consent. Thus Ay proposed — and for reply No for the first time answer'd Ay. They parted with a thousand kisses, And fight e'er since for pay, like Swisses.
* ↑ Channel row is a dirty street, near the parliament house, Westminster.
* ↑ In English, two negatives make an affirmative.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Ballad on Nelly

While this work is included within The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift and is not attributed to anyone other than Jonathan Swift, it may have been written by another member of the Scriblerus Club. The club, which was founded in 1714, included Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, John Gay, John Arbuthnot, Henry St John, and Thomas Parnell.
BALLAD.
OF all the girls that e'er were seen, There's none so fine as Nelly, For charming face and shape and mien, And what's not fit to tell ye: Oh! the turn'd neck, and smooth white skin Of lovely dearest Nelly! For many a swain it well had been Had she ne'er pass'd by Calai-.
For when, as Nelly came to France (Invited by her cousins) Across the Tuilleries each glance Kill'd Frenchmen by whole dozens; The king, as he at dinner sate, Did beckon to his hussar, And bid him bring his tabby cat, For charming Nell to buss her.
The ladies were with rage provok'd To see her so respected: The men look'd arch, as Nelly strok'd, And puss her tail erected. But not a man did look employ, Except on pretty Nelly: Then said the duke de Villeroy, Ah! qu'elle est bien jolie!
But who's that grave philosopher, That carefully looks a'ter? By his concern it should appear, The fair one is his daughter. ​Ma foy! (quoth then a courtier sly) He on his child does leer too; I wish he has no mind to try What some papas will here do.
The courtiers all with one accord Broke out in Nelly's praises, Admir'd her rose, and lys sans farde (Which are your termes françoises.) Then might you see a painted ring Of dames that stood by Nelly: She, like the pride of all the spring, And they like fleurs de palais.
In Marli's gardens, and St. Clou, I saw this charming Nelly, Where shameless nymphs, expos'd to view, Stand naked in each alley: But Venus had a brazen face, Both at Versailles and Meudon, Or else she had resign'd her place, And left the stone she stood on.
Were Nelly's figure mounted there, 'Twould put down all th' Italian: Lord! how those foreigners would stare! But I should turn Pygmalion: For, spite of lips, and eyes, and mien, Me nothing can delight so, As does that part that lies between Her left toe and her right toe.
# The Work of Her that went

The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done — In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
# The Words of Guru

* "The Words of Guru," in Stirring Science Stories (June 1941)
* "The Words of Guru," in Avon Fantasy Reader (05) (March 1948)