OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Seven Bridges of Königsberg/Section 13

Every route must, of course, start in some one region, thus from the number of bridges that lead to each region I determine the number of times that the corresponding letter will occur in the expression for the entire route as follows: When the number of the bridges is odd I increase it by one and divide by two; when the number is even I simply divide it by two. Then if the sum of the resulting numbers is equal to the actual number of bridges plus one, the journey can be accomplished, though it must start in a region approached by an odd number of bridges. But if the sum is one less than the number of bridges plus one, the journey is feasible if its starting point is a region approached by an even number of bridges, for in that case the sum is again increased by one.
# The Service of High Mass for the Dead on the Day of Burial

THE SERVICE OF
High Mass for the Dead
ON THE DAY OF BURIAL
PUBLISHED WITH THE APPROBATION OF THE MOST REV. C. H. GAUTHIER, D.D. ARCHBISHOP OF OTTAWA
1911 Ottawa Council, Knights of Columbus
SHORT INSTRUCTION ON HOLY MASS
Holy Mass is the most solemn act of the worship of God. It is now more than eighteen hundred years since our Lord Jesus Christ hung for three long hours on the Cross on Mount Calvary, and then died on it for our salvation—that is, to save us from sin and hell.
Mass is the same sacrifice as that of Calvary; the manner only in which it is offered is different: so that when you assist at it, you may think you are standing with our Blessed Lady and St. John at the foot of the cross.
The bread and wine are changed by the Priest in the middle of the Mass, at the Consecration, into the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ, who then offers Himself again to his Eternal Father for the salvation of mankind. The graces obtained for us by the shedding of our Lord's Blood on Calvary are given in an especial manner to those who hear Holy Mass devoutly.
You know that Our Lord died once only, on Good Friday. But in the Mass His death on the Cross is commemorated by the separate Consecration of the Bread and Wine. He cannot really die again. His Body and Blood cannot really be separated, for His glorious risen Body cannot suffer any more—it is immortal. But in the Mass the Bread is first changed into our Lord's Body, and then the Wine is changed into His Blood. Thus it looks as though the Body and Blood were separated, and this recalls the real separation, the real shedding of our Lord's Blood on Mount Calvary. Then He really died for us. In the Mass His death is represented, or "shown forth," as St. Paul says. Both on Mount Calvary and in the Mass the victim (that which is offered) is the same—the Body and Blood of Christ; and the Priest is the same—Christ our Lord, who offered Himself on Calvary through the executioners who put Him to death, and who offers Himself in the Mass on the altar through His priests, who say the words of Consecration. So the sacrifice of Calvary and the Mass are the same sacrifice, only the manner in which they are offered is different. On Calvary our Lord's Blood was really shed, and He really died; in the Mass His Blood appears to be shed, and His death is represented. Thus Our Lord offers Himself for us every time Mass is said.
To pray well during Mass is the best way to worship God and to obtain His blessing, for Jesus Christ Himself then prays with us and for us and His sacrifice is offered for us.
The Priest at the foot of the Altar, begins, saying,
Then, joining his hands and humbly bowing down, he says the confiteor.
Then the Priest with his hands joined, says:
Signing himself with the sign of the cross, he says:
Then, bowing down, he proceeds:
Ascending to the altar, he says secretly:
Bowing down over the altar, he says:
The Introit.
The Kyrie.
The Collect, or Prayer.
The Epistle. 1 Thess. 4.
The Sequence.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soft Side (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1900)/The Great Condition

* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
* Chapter 6
* Chapter 7
# The Soft Side (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1900)/The Given Case

* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
* Chapter 6
* Chapter 7
# The Soul Of A Century/Fragments of life

Poem no. XXXI from the collection Cosmic Songs (Písně kosmické)
FRAGMENTS OF LIFE (Cosmic Songs)
Green star above, in Zenith’s heights, Shine cheerfully from afar. From time to time, I stop to think What dear old friends we are.
’Twas years ago, you heard me shout In a mirthful, joyous whirl, When for the first time I embraced A sweet and lovely girl.
’Twas years ago you saw my face Turn deathly pale one night, When to my lips I raised and kissed Her dead cold hand, in fright.
These are just fragments out of life, Just bubbles in life’s streams. From time to time, in course of years, Man thinks of them and dreams.
We’ll live through sorrow and through joys, We’ll live through all, some how. Why does this sudden tear appear When nothing pains me now?
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Frantisek Gellner

FRANTISEK GELNER
(1881–?)
Frantisek Gellner represents a forerunner of truly modern poetry in Czechoslovakia, and at the same time, one of the tragedies of World War I. Gelner was born June 18, 1881, and died during the war, date and place unknown. Thus a truly great poet was lost before he had time to mature and develop to his fullest literary fructition. In addition to poetry, Gelner won recognition for his caricatures, both of which bear the stamp of his biting cynicism, satire and a sweeping disregard and contempt for petty fobbish society. Gelner’s poetic darts are directed against the vulnerable shield of small town smugness, shammed virtues and hollow praise and glory. Yet underneath this light veined critique one can detect a truly chivalrous devotion to the love of pure emotions, and a youthful worship of nature and freedom. In his style and subject Gelner shows the influence of Heine, while the simplicity and plasticity of his poetry brings Gelner steadily closer to the primitiveness of folklore ballads and ditties.
* My song
* Puberty
* The brimming cup
* The song of an adventurer
* Greetings to my native land
* Pathless journey
* After us .. the deluge
# The Soul Of A Century/Evening songs (4)

EVENING SONGS
Stilled is the whispering of the trees The leaves are barely breathing, The birds are dreaming pleasant dreams . . . So peaceful, so unheeding.
Upon the skies rose many stars, All seem so free, so sweeping, Only the bosom sighs with grief, ’round the heart a pain is creeping.
Within the goblets of the blooms, The cooling dew is glowing. Dear God, it seems as if this dew From my weary eyes were flowing.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/From destiny's hand

* related portals: Czech literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
FROM DESTINY’S HAND
From Destiny’s hand I took my lot and toil; Like a seed sown at random upon the black soil.
Like a seed of rich grain that grows 'neath a warm clime And leans towards the earth in the fullness of time.
It blossoms and grows, yields a seed and no more; Like a seed I too visit on earth’s fertile shore.
Thus lives each man, though a leader or slave; I relish my life and fear not the grave.
To earth that once bore it, the stalk bends in twain; In a heavenly garden, I will blossom again.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Evening songs (3)

EVENING SONGS
All slumbers now upon the world Except the beating heart; The Lord only knows why this alone Ne’er stops, again to start. Upon God’s world, all’s stilled and hushed Except the heart’s glad tones; The Lord only knows why this alone Ne’er with exhaustion groans.
Sleep overtakes the very thought, Night follows day’s loud din; Only the heart keeps e’er awake To guard our Love within.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Farewell

FAREWELL
At last I am parting with my youth, My joyous years have fled, My youthful days wave me a farewell; I refuse to turn my head.
No! No! I cannot stop to pause No matter how they call. And yet, I often see those days When the evening shadows fall.
And yet I often see those days With my weak and aged eyes, Waving a snow-white handkerchief, “Farewell” my childhood cries.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Evening songs (1)

EVENING SONGS
Spring fluttered in from distant lands To fill the world with yearning . . . All hastened forth to greet the sun From its lengthy dream returning.
The finches flew from out their nests The children from each shanty, Bright colored flowers in the fields Exhaled their scented plenty.
Upon each branch new leaves push forth, While the song birds chirp above In every youthful, joyous heart Sprout tender buds of love.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Evening songs (2)

EVENING SONGS
I dreamt that you had passed away, I heard the mournful knell And all about me weeping, sighs, Lamenting, rose and fell.
How queerly they prepared your bed; With stone upon your grave. They asked me that I write a verse For you there to engrave.
O people, people made of stone Here, take my heart instead. And what I did not sing as yet Engrave above her head.
You disbelieved my deepest love, My words met your disdain. Perhaps if this stone speaks to you It shall not speak in vain.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Frantisek Ladislav Celakovsky

FRANTISEK LADISLAV CELAKOVSKY
(1799–1852)
An influential contemporary of Kollar, Frantisek Ladislav Celakovsky was born March 7, 1799 in Strakonice, and died August 5, 1852 , in Prague. After completing his studies, Celakovsky spent his time as tutor, editor and as professor of Slavonic languages at Prague and elsewhere. Through his tutorship years with the Kinsky family, the versatile writer had ample opportunity for travel, and spent some time gathering material for his later day literary and pedagogic activities. Among his outstanding works are “The Hundred-Leaf Rose,” “Echoes of Russian Songs” and “Collected Poems”, all published between 1822 and 1840.
* Thy will be done
* From a hundred-leaf rose
* A short prayer
# The Soul Of A Century/From a hundred-leaf rose

Three poems from the collection Růže stolistá.
FROM A HUNDRED-LEAF ROSE
Let the ocean toss assunder My life’s sail upon its course, Let it cringe neath storm and thunder, Whipped by elements’ blind force.
On the voyage God has charted Bravely I am sailing forth, With a fearless soul I’ve started For that distant, blissful port.
And to light the deep, dark night In the triad of their might, Rising o’er me high above Linger Faith with Hope and Love.
Having spent the day in torment, I haste through the peaceful night Toward the brook, whose hillside torrent Glistens in the moon’s pale light.
Dreary, tear-stained eyes are blazing Where the foaming waters boom, While my saddened mind is gazing In that mirror of my doom.
Strange indeed! These dashing streams Yonder fall in sparkling beams, Here they turn to liquid fire As when tears blend with desire.
The home of my dreams is post yon stream Beneath a mountain, in a tree, Where high above, the tall oaks seem To weave a shady roof for me.
When the stillness, soft, appealing, Settles in yon airy height, When the passing day is stealing Over hill and dale in fright.
Holy stillness . . . nearer, nearer, O’er my head I hear it clearer, ’tis the flow of time that stole Through my languid, dreaming soul.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Principles of Masonic Law/Chapter XIII

Chapter III. Of the Rights of Fellow Crafts.
In ancient times there were undoubtedly many rights attached to the second degree which have now become obsolete or been repealed; for formerly the great body of the fraternity were Fellow Crafts, and according to the old charges, even the Grand Master might be elected from among them. The Master and Wardens of Subordinate Lodges always were. Thus we are told that no Brother can be Grand Master, "unless he has been a Fellow Craft before his election," and in the ancient manner of constituting a lodge, contained in the Book of Constitutions, it is said that "the candidates, or the new Master and Wardens, being yet among the Fellow Crafts, the Grand Master shall ask his Deputy if he has examined them," etc. But now that the great body of the Fraternity consists of Master Masons, the prerogatives of Fellow Crafts are circumscribed within limits nearly as narrow as those of Entered Apprentices. While, however, Apprentices are not permitted to speak or vote, in ancient times, and up, indeed, to a very late date. Fellow Crafts were entitled to take a part in any discussion in which the lodge, while open in the first or second degree, might engage, but not to vote. This privilege is expressly stated by Preston, as appertaining to a Fellow Craft, in his charge to a candidate, receiving that degree.
"As a Craftsman, in our private assemblies you may offer your sentiments and opinions on such subjects as are regularly introduced in the Lecture, under the superintendence of an experienced Master, who will guard the landmark against encroachment."
This privilege is not now, however, granted in this country to Fellow Crafts. All, therefore, that has been said in the preceding chapter, of the rights of Entered Apprentices, will equally apply, mutatis mutandis, to the rights of Fellow Crafts.

## Footnotes

* ↑ Edition of 1723, page 71 (U.M.L., vol. xv., book 1, p. 71).
* ↑ Preston, p. 48 (U.M.L., vol, iii., p. 40).
# The Sea said "Come" to the Brook—

The Sea said "Come" to the Brook — The Brook said "Let me grow" — The Sea said "Then you will be a Sea — I want a Brook — Come now"!
The Sea said "Go" to the Sea. The Sea said "I am he You cherished" — "Learned Waters — Wisdom is stale to Me" —
# The Sea of Glass

I looked and saw a sea
 roofed over with rainbows,
In the midst of each
 two lovers met and departed;
Then the sky was full of faces
 with gold glories behind them.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1972, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 51 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Harp of the Nation

THE HARP OF THE NATION.
Air—"Molli a stór."
I.
Our ancient harp, whose voiceful string The Saxon rent in twain, To him shall fierce defiance fling From minstrel hands again. No strains for vulgar lordings vile Shall to our harp belong— To sweep oppression from our isle Shall rush its sea of song!
II.
Our ancient harp shall blend its tone With Erin's ancient tongue, To sing how Saxon guile alone Strong fetters o'er us flung; Shall rouse to wrath our warrior-band To shout the battle cry, To sweep oppression from the land, And burst its bonds—or die!
III.
Our ancient harp impell'd the brave Where patriot bosoms bled— Where Danish despots found a grave— Where Rome's fierce eagle fled!— Where the Invader bit the dust On many a bloody plain, And, by that Heaven in which we trust, He'll bite the dust again!
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Death of Sarsfield

* related portals: Patrick Sarsfield.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
THE DEATH OF SARSFIELD.
[Sarsfield was killed at the Battle of Landen, in the Low Countries, on the 29th July, 1693. In that Battle William III. was beaten by Marshal Luxembourg, with heavy loss on both sides.]
Sarsfield has sailed from Limerick town— He held it long for country and crown; And ere he yielded the Saxon swore To spoil our homes and our shrines no more.
Sarsfield and all his chivalry Are fighting for France in the Low Country— At his fiery charge the Saxons reel; They learnt at Limerick to dread the steel.
Sarsfield is dying on Landen's plain, His corslet hath met the ball in vain— As his life-blood gushes into his hand, He says, "Oh! that this was for fatherland!"
Sarsfield is dead, yet no tears shed we— He died in the arms of victory, And his dying words shall edge the brand, When we chase the foe from our native land.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Gathering of the Nation

THE GATHERING OF THE NATION.
A.D. 1646.
I.
Those scalding tears—those scalding tears, Too long have fallen in vain— Up with the banners and the spears, And let the gather'd grief of years Show sterner stuff than rain. ​The lightning, in that stormy hour When forth defiance rolls, May change the poles of Saxon pow'r, And melt the links our long, long show'r But rusted round our souls.
II.
To bear the wrongs we can redress! To make a thing of time The tyranny we can repress— Eternal by our dastardness! Were crime—or worse than crime. And we, whose best—and worst was shame, From first to last, alike, May take, at length, a loftier aim, And struggle, since it is the same To suffer—or to strike.
III.
What hatred of perverted might The cruel hand inspires, That robs the linnet's eye of sight, To make it sing both day and night! Yet thus they robb'd our sires, By blotting out the ancient lore, Where every loss was shone. Up with the flag! we stand before The Saxons of the days of yore, In Saxons of our own.
IV.
Denial met our just demands! And hatred met our love! Till now, by Heaven, for grasp of hands, We'll give them clash of battle brands, And gauntlet 'stead of glove. And may the Saxon stamp his heel Upon the coward's front, Who sheathes his own unbroken steel, Until for mercy tyrants kneel, Who forced us to the brunt.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Grave of Bric

LINES
SUGGESTED BY A VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF BRIC, IN ST. ANDREW'S CHURCHYARD.
Since first they placed thee in this cheerless cell, Hither I've wandered each succeeding year, Oppress'd with grief, to think no honours tell That courage, worth, and genius slumber here— ​Yes! sleep neglected in this silent shade, Where black obscurity in triumph reigns— While memory droops in lack of generous aid, And cold indiff'rence unmov'd remains. Here noxious weeds and sedgy grass contend, As in the breeze for mastery they toil, To hide this mound, where sleeps the faithful friend Who labour'd well to free his native soil. Alas! cold apathy, the icy hand Is ever quick to spread oblivion's pall Above the champions of this injur'd land Whom fate permits in freedom's cause to fall, Could I but rear one single line to guide The stranger's foot to lightly press this clay— That freedom's sons o'er Erin's hope and pride Hither might come betimes to weep or pray: No flatt'ring lie I'd carve on polish'd stone; But one brief sentence, rugged, bold and strong, That all might know his earnest, honest tone. The words would be—"My country, right or wrong." Then would fond youths and maidens here unite, And plant the willow and the fragrant thyme— Here would they come beneath the moon's pale light To chant their ditties plaintive and sublime— Here would the rose of variegated bloom, 'Neath the green cypress and the spreading yew, Yield to the morning air its sweet perfume, And from its leaves drop tears of od'rous dew.
Sleep on, regardless of the critic's sneer And hollow friendship's smooth imposing cant, Though public gratitude withholds a tear, Nor avarice deigns a letter'd pile to grant; Yet will the poet's soft and pensive lay Warble in dirges o'er thy nameless tomb, To tell the Patriot who comes this way A martyr'd brother moulders here in gloom.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Forlorn Hope

THE FORLORN HOPE.
A SONG OF THE IRISH BRIGADE.
Air—"Cruisgin lán."
I.
Let us lift the green flag high Underneath this foreign sky, Unrol the verdant volume to the wind. As we hasten to the fight Let us drink a last good night To the beauty which we leave, boy, behind, behind, behind; To the beauty which we leave, boy, behind.
II.
Plant it high upon the breach, And within the flag-staff's reach; We'll offer it the tribute of our gore. Yes! on that altar high, 'Spite of tyrants we can die, And our spirits to the saints above may soar, soar, soar; And our spirits to the saints above may soar.
III.
Liberty is gone, Now 'tis glory leads us on, And spangles gloomy slavery's night; If freedom's shattered bark Have not foundered i' the dark Her wreck must see this beacon bright, bright, bright; Her wreck will see this beacon bright.
IV.
Yes; glory's shining light Must irradiate the night, And renew the flaming splendour of the day! And freedom's sinking crew Shall recover hope anew, And hail the blazing splendour of this ray, ray, ray; And hail the blazing splendour of this ray.
V.
The green flag on the air, Sons of Erin and despair, To the breach in serried column quick advance. On the summit we may fall: Hand in hand, my comrades all, Let us drink a last adieu to merry France, France, France; Let us drink a last adieu to merry France.
VI.
To Erin, comrades, too, And her sunny skies of blue, A goblet commingled with tears! With the fleur-de-lis divine, The green shamrock shall entwine; But the Ancient see the Sunburst rears, rears, rears; The Ancient see the Sun-burst rears.
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Gathering of Leinster, 1643

THE GATHERING OF LEINSTER.
A.D. 1643.
I.
Serf! with thy fetters o'erladen, Why crouch you in dastardly woe? Why weep o'er thy chains like a maiden, Nor strike for thy manhood a blow? Not thus would our fathers bemoan us— When Tyranny raised the lash, then They practised the "Lex Talionis" Of Feidlim, and lash'd it again.
II.
For this did they humble the Roman? And was it, pale Helots, in vain That Malachy trampled the foeman, And Brien uprooted the Dane? Ye Kings of our Isle's olden story, Bright spirits of demi-god men! We swear by the graves of your glory To strike like your children again.
III.
Tho' beside us no more in the trial The swords of our forefathers wave, The multiplied soul of O'Nial Has flash'd through our patriot Brave. By each rock where our proud heroes slumber, Each grove where the grey Druid sung, No foreigners chain shall encumber The race from such ancestors sprung.
IV.
Ye swords of the kingly Temora, Exalt the bright green of your sod— The hue of the mantle of Flora— The Emerald banner of God! Leave, reaper, the fruits of thy labour— Spare, huntsman, the prostrated game, Till the ploughshare is wrought to a sabre To carve out this plague-spot of shame
V.
Rush down from the mountain, fortalice— From banquet, and bridal, and bier— From ruin of cloister, and palace, Arise! with the torch and the spear! By the ties and the hopes that we cherish— The loves and the shrines we adore, High Heaven may doom us to perish— But, never to slavery more!