OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Lyrics of Lowly Life/The Lesson

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THE LESSON.
MY cot was down by a cypress grove, And I sat by my window the whole night long, And heard well up from the deep dark wood A mocking-bird's passionate song.
And I thought of myself so sad and lone, And my life's cold winter that knew no spring; Of my mind so weary and sick and wild, Of my heart too sad to sing.
But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's song, A thought stole into my saddened heart, And I said, "I can cheer some other soul By a carol's simple art."
​For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives Come songs that brim with joy and light, As out of the gloom of the cypress grove The mocking-bird sings at night.
So I sang a lay for a brother's ear In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart, And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre, Though mine was a feeble art.
But at his smile I smiled in turn, And into my soul there came a ray: In trying to soothe another's woes Mine own had passed away.
# Lyrics of Lowly Life/The Master-Player

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THE MASTER-PLAYER.
AN old, worn harp that had been played Till all its strings were loose and frayed, Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed, To play. But each in turn had found No sweet responsiveness of sound. ​Then Love the Master-Player came With heaving breast and eyes aflame; The Harp he took all undismayed, Smote on its strings, still strange to song, And brought forth music sweet and strong.
# Lyrics of Lowly Life/The Mystery

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THE MYSTERY.
I WAS not; now I am—a few days hence I shall not be; I fain would look before And after, but can neither do; some Power Or lack of power says "no" to all I would. I stand upon a wide and sunless plain, Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright. Whene'er, o'ercoming fear, I dare to move, I grope without direction and by chance. Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand That draws them ever upward thro' the gloom. But I—I hear no voice and touch no hand, Tho' oft thro' silence infinite I list, ​And strain my hearing to supernal sounds; Tho' oft thro' fateful darkness do I reach, And stretch my hand to find that other hand. I question of th' eternal bending skies That seem to neighbor with the novice earth; But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes On me, as I one day shall do on them, And tell me not the secret that I ask.
# Lyrics of Lowly Life/The Poet and his Song

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THE POET AND HIS SONG.
# Lyrics of Lowly Life/The Corn-Stalk Fiddle

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THE CORN-STALK FIDDLE.
WHEN the corn 's all cut and the bright stalks shine Like the burnished spears of a field of gold; When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine, And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold; Then it 's heigho! fellows and hi-diddle-diddle, For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.
And you take a stalk that is straight and long, With an expert eye to its worthy points, And you think of the bubbling strains of song That are bound between its pithy joints— Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle, With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.
Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow O'er the yielding strings with a practised hand! ​And the music's flow never loud but low Is the concert note of a fairy band. Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk riddle.
When the eve comes on, and our work is done, And the sun drops down with a tender glance, With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun, Come the neighbor girls for the evening's dance, And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle— More time than tune from the corn-stalk fiddle.
Then brother Jabez takes the bow, While Ned stands off with Susan Bland, Then Henry stops by Milly Snow, And John takes Nellie Jones's hand, While I pair off with Mandy Biddle, And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle. ​"Salute your partners," comes the call, "All join hands and circle round," "Grand train back," and "Balance all," Footsteps lightly spurn the ground. "Take your lady and balance down the middle" To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.
So the night goes on and the dance is o'er, And the merry girls are homeward gone, But I see it all in my sleep once more, And I dream till the very break of dawn Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.
# Lyrics of Lowly Life/The Old Apple-Tree

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THE OLD APPLE-TREE.
THERE 's a memory keeps a-runnin' Through my weary head to-night, An' I see a picture dancin' In the fire-flames' ruddy light; 'Tis the picture of an orchard Wrapped in autumn's purple haze, With the tender light about it That I loved in other days. An' a-standin' in a corner Once again I seem to see The verdant leaves an' branches Of an old apple-tree.
You perhaps would call it ugly, An' I don't know but it 's so, When you look the tree all over Unadorned by memory's glow; ​For its boughs are gnarled an' crooked, An' its leaves are gettin' thin, An' the apples of its bearin' Would n't fill so large a bin As they used to. But I tell you, When it comes to pleasin' me, It 's the dearest in the orchard,— Is that old apple-tree.
I would hide within its shelter, Settlin' in some cosy nook, Where no calls nor threats could stir me From the pages o' my book. Oh, that quiet, sweet seclusion In its fulness passeth words! It was deeper than the deepest That my sanctum now affords. Why, the jaybirds an' the robins, They was hand in glove with me, As they winked at me an' warbled In that old apple-tree.
It was on its sturdy branches That in summers long ago ​I would tie my swing an' dangle In contentment to an' fro, Idly dreamin' childish fancies, Buildin' castles in the air, Makin' o' myself a hero Of romances rich an' rare. I kin shet my eyes an' see it Jest as plain as plain kin be, That same old swing a-danglin' To the old apple-tree.
There 's a rustic seat beneath it That I never kin forget. It 's the place where me an' Hallie— Little sweetheart—used to set, When we 'd wander to the orchard So 's no listenin' ones could hear As I whispered sugared nonsense Into her little willin' ear. Now my gray old wife is Hallie, An' I 'm grayer still than she, But I 'll not forget our courtin' 'Neath the old apple-tree. ​Life for us ain't all been summer, But I guess we 've had our share Of its flittin' joys an' pleasures, An' a sprinklin' of its care. Oft the skies have smiled upon us; Then again we 've seen 'em frown, Though our load was ne'er so heavy That we longed to lay it down. But when death does come a-callin', This my last request shall be,— That they 'll bury me an' Hallie 'Neath the old apple-tree.
# Lyrics of Lowly Life/The Path

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THE PATH.
THERE are no beaten paths to Glory's height, There are no rules to compass greatness known; Each for himself must cleave a path alone, And press his own way forward in the fight. Smooth is the way to ease and calm delight, And soft the road Sloth chooseth for her own; But he who craves the flower of life full-blown, ​Must struggle up in all his armor dight! What though the burden bear him sorely down And crush to dust the mountain of his pride, Oh, then, with strong heart let him still abide; For rugged is the roadway to renown, Nor may he hope to gain the envied crown Till he hath thrust the looming rocks aside.
# Lyrics of Lowly Life/The Lawyers' Ways

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THE LAWYERS' WAYS.
I 'VE been list'nin' to them lawyers In the court house up the street, An' I 've come to the conclusion That I 'm most completely beat. Fust one feller riz to argy, An' he boldly waded in As he dressed the tremblin' prisoner In a coat o' deep-dyed sin.
Why, he painted him all over In a hue o' blackest crime, An' he smeared his reputation With the thickest kind o' grime, ​Tell I found myself a-wond'rin', In a misty way and dim, How the Lord had come to fashion Sich an awful man as him.
Then the other lawyer started, An', with brimmin', tearful eyes, Said his client was a martyr That was brought to sacrifice. An' he give to that same pris'ner Every blessed human grace, Tell I saw the light o' virtue Fairly shinin' from his face.
Then I own 'at I was puzzled How sich things could rightly be; An' this aggervatin' question Seems to keep a-puzzlin' me. So, will some one please inform me, An' this mystery unroll— How an angel an' a devil Can persess the self-same soul?
# Lyrics of Lowly Life/The Rising of the Storm

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THE RISING OF THE STORM.
THE lake's dark breast Is all unrest, It heaves with a sob and a sigh. Like a tremulous bird, From its slumber stirred, The moon is a-tilt in the sky. ​From the silent deep The waters sweep, But faint on the cold white stones, And the wavelets fly With a plaintive cry O'er the old earth's bare, bleak bones.
And the spray upsprings On its ghost-white wings, And tosses a kiss at the stars; While a water-sprite, In sea-pearls dight, Hums a sea-hymn's solemn bars.
Far out in the night, On the wavering sight I see a dark hull loom; And its light on high, Like a Cyclops' eye, Shines out through the mist and gloom.
Now the winds well up From the earth's deep cup, ​And fall on the sea and shore, And against the pier The waters rear And break with a sullen roar.
Up comes the gale, And the mist-wrought veil Gives way to the lightning's glare, And the cloud-drifts fall, A sombre pall, O'er water, earth, and air.
The storm-king flies, His whip he plies, And bellows down the wind. The lightning rash With blinding flash Comes pricking on behind.
Rise, waters, rise, And taunt the skies With your swift-flitting form. Sweep, wild winds, sweep, ​And tear the deep To atoms in the storm.
And the waters leapt, And the wild winds swept, And blew out the moon in the sky, And I laughed with glee, It was joy to me As the storm went raging by!
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1645/Mr. Ruskin on Women and War

From Peace Society's Papers.
MR. RUSKIN ON WOMEN AND WAR.
Mr. Ruskin, in his "Crown of Wild Olive," says that women, if they wished, could easily put a stop to war — that all war is waged for their sakes, and because they desire it. Although this view may exaggerate their power, it is certain that they could do much to prevent war if they would only be in earnest about it. Most women profess to dislike war; but when a conflict is imminent, they will not move a finger to prevent it. Is it not true, as Mr. Ruskin adds, that they "draw the curtains of their boxes and muffle the openings, so that from the pit of the circus of slaughter there may reach them only at intervals the half-heard cry and a murmur as of the wind's sighing when myriads of souls expire. They shut out the death-cries, and are happy, and talk wittily among themselves." A lay writer, in quoting the above, remarks, "Or if their hearts are moved with pity, and they meet together to prepare lint and clothing for the sufferers, it is a nice occupation, and they are rather sorry when it is over. They rarely take the trouble to inquire into the effects of war upon their fellow-countrywomen and the women of other lands. As to the military system, with all its surroundings, they have a positive admiration for it. Every officer is to them a hero, and a prospective Leonidas; every soldier is a devoted patriot. They will go out of their road any day to see a regiment, or to hear a military band; not simply for the sake of the bright colours and tuneful strains, but for the warlike element in the show. As long as women's practice differs so widely from their professions, it will be in vain to expect any good results from their influence upon society. Again, women must use their practical influence at home in the cause of peace. An irritable, unjust mother will probably make an irritable, unjust son, who will grow up into a narrow-minded man, incapable of comprehending the laws of right and justice. Public opinion in each country must greatly depend upon the conduct of the mothers of the nation. And further, let all women who have time to spare, devote a portion of their leisure hours to earnest work for the cause of peace in union with the men and women who are already labouring for this end. For it is no destructive and revolutionary work which the Peace Society advocates. It is the gradual reduction of the armaments which are filling the world with dismay; the establishment of law in the place of anarchy; the avoidance of quarrels whenever possible, and the peaceful settlement of such disputes as must arise. It is no unfeminine and degrading work, unfit to be touched by a woman's hand; neither is it effeminate and undignified, beneath the efforts of a brave man. It is the work of ennobling the human race, and spreading order, peace, and love throughout the earth."
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1645/An Unspoken Question

* AN UNSPOKEN QUESTION.
* I thought, I must be dreaming
* The day you whispered low.
* And told me the sweet secret
* That I alone must know.
* I listened quite in silence.
* Perhaps you thought me cold;
* My heart was overflowing
* With tenderness untold.
* Just for one fleeting moment,
* One only, did you stay.
* Were you and I both dreaming
* That happy summer's day?
* Blackwood's Magazine.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1645/Miscellany

​A curious museum has been opened at the Hôtel des Postes, at Berlin, containing models of the finest post-houses in Germany. Wax figures of the size of nature represent postilions in their dress and undress uniform; thirty models of carriages, two of post-wagons with their internal arrangements; maps, and geographical drawings, and a collection of 2,500 postage-stamps of all the countries in the world.
Academy.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1645/Twilight

NOTES ON THE FIRTH.
* IV. — TWILIGHT.
* The sunset's roses faint and fain decline.
* Inshore the still sea shimmers scale on scale,
* Like an enormous coat of magic mail —
* Sheet silver shot with tremulous opaline.
* Rare boats traverse it, glidingly supine.
* The Inchkeith light by moments flashes pale.
* The distance darkles, and a far grey sail
* Melts vague into the solemn evenshine.
* The thickening dusk is quick with pattering feet
* And swishing dresses, and the airs of June
* With broad sea-scents and blown cigars are sweet;
* And over yonder, where the ripples beat,
* Sweethearts are wandering, while the yellowing moon
* Sails the blue lift, and wide stars glance and greet.
* William Ernest Henley.
* Macmillan's Magazine.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 127/Issue 1646

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XII. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1646. — December 25, 1875. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXVII. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Weather, | Blackwood's Magazine, | 771 |
| II. | The Curate in Charge. By Mrs. Oliphant. Part VI., | Macmillan's Magazine, | 783 |
| III. | John Knox and his Relations to Women. Part II., | Macmillan's Magazine, | 794 |
| IV. | The Musician's Marriage, | Temple Bar, | 804 |
| V. | The Military Future of Germany. By Col. Chas. C. Chesney, | Macmillan's Magazine, | 811 |
| VI. | The Life and Journals of John Wesley, | Spectator, | 819 |
| VII. | Football. By an Observant Foreigner, | Chambers' Journal, | 822 |
| | ⁂ Title and Index to Volume CXXVII. | | |
POETRY. :
| The Stranger's Grave, | 770 | The Answer of Q. Horatius Flaccus to a Roman "Round-Robin", | |
| Similitudes, | 770 | The Answer of Q. Horatius Flaccus to a Roman "Round-Robin", | 770 |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 824 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 137/Issue 1767/At the Theatre

* AT THE THEATRE.
* On the stage an acted horror,
* A king crime-haunted to death;
* Around me glitter and glare,
* And fans that harry an air
* That stifles me breath by breath;
* And eyes all one way gazing
* On the magical master-player,
* Whose face, chameleon-wise,
* Reflects all moods that arise, —
* Craft, crime, and credulous prayer.
* I gaze, and listen — but sudden
* I dream in midst of the play;
* And the king may threaten or whine,
* It seems no matter of mine, —
* I am twenty miles away.
* Down in a mossy dingle,
* Where sinless, a stranger to pain,
* And friend to all winds that blow,
* And hearing the fresh herbs grow,
* And feeling the dew or the rain,
* A slight wind-flower is hiding,
* Green-scarfed, white-faced as the snow;
* The young year's earliest child,
* That I found last morn growing wild,
* And spoke with, and left it to grow.
* Spectator.F. Wyville Home.
* 7 Belgrave Villas, Lee, S.E.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 137/Issue 1767/Lost and Found

* LOST AND FOUND.
* I lost the brook as it wound its way
* Like a thread of silver hue;
* Through greenwood and valley, through meadows gay,
* 'Twas hidden away from view:
* But I found it again a noble river,
* Sparkling and broad and free,
* Wider and fairer growing ever,
* Till it reached the boundless sea.
* I lost the tiny seed that I sowed
* With many a sigh and tear,
* And vainly waited through sunshine and cold
* For the young green to appear;
* But surely after many long days
* The blossom and fruit will come,
* And the reapers on high the sheaves will raise
* For a joyful harvest-home.
* I lost the life that grew by my own
* For one short summer day;
* And then it left me to wander alone,
* And silently passed away:
* But I know I shall find it further on,
* Though not as it left me here;
* For the shadows and mists will have passed, and gone,
* I shall see it fair and clear.
* I lost the notes of the heavenly chime
* That once came floating by;
* I have listened and waited many a time
* For the echo, though distantly:
* But I know in the halls of glory it thrills,
* Ever by day and night;
* I shall hear it complete when its harmony fills
* My soul with great delight.
* I lost the love that made my life,
* A love that was all for me;
* Oh! vainly I sought it amid the strife
* Of the stormy, raging sea:
* But deeper and purer I know it waits
* Beyond my wistful eyes;
* I shall find it again within the gates
* Of the garden of paradise.
* I shall lose this life! it will disappear,
* With its wonderful mystery;
* Some day it will move no longer here,
* But will vanish silently:
* But I know I shall find it again once more,
* In a beauty no song hath told;
* It will meet with me at the golden door,
* And round me forever fold.
* Golden Hours. M.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 137/Issue 1768

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XXII. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1768. — May 4, 1878. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXXVII. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Russia and India, | Nineteenth Century, | 259 |
| II. | Within the Precincts. By Mrs. Oliphant. Part VI., | Advance Sheets, | 266 |
| III. | The Political Adventures of Lord Beaconsfield, | Fortnightly Review, | 276 |
| IV. | Erica. Conclusion. Translated for The Living Age, from the German of | Frau von Ingersleben, | 286 |
| V. | The Gothic Fragments of Ulfilas, | Macmillan's Magazine, | 300 |
| VI. | Æs Triplex, | Cornhill Magazine, | 307 |
| VII. | A Recollection of the Indian Mutiny. By Thomas Farquhar, | Sunday at Home, | 311 |
| VIII. | The Pleasures of Mediocrity, | Saturday Review, | 315 |
| IX. | A Fearful Swing, | Chambers' Journal, | 317 |
| X. | Japanese Fans, | Chambers' Journal, | 319 |
POETRY. :
| When we were Children, | 258 | Love's Calendar, | 258 |
| Irish Song, | 258 | "Lead, Kindly Light", | 258 |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 320 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 137/Issue 1768/"Lead, Kindly Light"

Original English version of Lead, Kindly Light
* "LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT."
* Duc alma Lux, circumstat umbra mundi,
* Duc, alma Lux;
* Est atra nox, mei jam vagabundi
* Sis ergo dux:
* Serva pedes, - non cupio longinqua
* Videre; satis semita propinqua.
* Non semper eram, ut nunc, doctus precari
* Ductorem te, -
* Magis me exploratorem gloriari:
* Duc tamen me.
* Præclara amabam, neque expers timorum
* Regebam me: sis immemor actorum.
* Tam diu præsens adfuit vocanti
* Divina vox.
* Sic erit vel per ima dubitanti
* Dum fugit nox,
* Et manè lucent nitidæ figuræ,
* Notæ per annos, paullulum obscuræ.
* Translated at sea, December, 1877.C. S. O.
* Spectator.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 137/Issue 1766/The Explorer

* THE EXPLORER.
* LUCRECE.
* Out of the unknown into the known,
* From the infinite sea to the sea of time
* Cometh a voyager, sailing alone,
* Steering with confidence all sublime
* Straight to the land of joy and rest:
* The tropic isle of his mother's breast.
* Little he cares whether hall or cot
* Shelter his shallop from wind and wet;
* Cotton or velvet, he heedeth not —
* Peasant or lord — they are nothing yet!
* Crown for head and sceptre for hand
* Are toys and playthings in baby-land.
* Oh, but he finds out wonderful things!
* The dome of his cradle high and wide;
* The drowsy sense when the mother sings;
* The swinging ebb of the outward tide,
* Which somewhere underneath him seems
* To drift him into the land of dreams!
* Then wide awake, from the distance dim
* In far, mysterious realms of space,
* A soft, bright moon doth rise for him:
* The tender round of his mother's face.
* In this wide world finds he charm on charm,
* As he rides round the room on his mother's arm.
* Smiles and tears in your bonny eyes,
* Shine and cloud on your coral lips,
* Little explorer, out of the skies,
* Searching out truth with your finger-tips!
* You know not yet, as we old folks know,
* There is nothing new in this world below!
* Ah! What disdainful looks you cast —
* Captain, who sailed from the unknown shore!
* Rogue's eyes answer me: "Not so fast,
* Filling my ears with your well-worn lore;
* Baby or fairy or sprite or elf,
* You’ll find I am something new myself!"
* Golden Rule.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 137/Issue 1767

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XXII. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1767. — April 27, 1878. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXXVII. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | England as a Military Power in 1854 and in 1878, | Nineteenth Century, | 195 |
| II. | Erica. Part XX. Translated for The Living Age, from the German of | Frau von Ingersleben, | 209 |
| III. | Modern Japan, | Fortnightly Magazine, | 222 |
| IV. | Macleod of Dare. By William Black. Part VII., | Advance Sheets, | 229 |
| V. | French Home Life. The Influence of Women, | Blackwood's Magazine, | 236 |
| VI. | Change-Ringing, | Chambers' Journal, | 247 |
| VII. | Our Irresponsible Ambassadors, | Spectator, | 250 |
| VIII. | The Loss of the "Eurydice", | Spectator, | 252 |
| IX. | The Domestic Sphinx, | Spectator, | 254 |
POETRY. :
| Lost and Found, | 194 | Beautiful Things, | 194 |
| At the Theatre, | 194 | |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 256 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 137/Issue 1767/Beautiful Things

* BEAUTIFUL THINGS.
* Beautiful faces are those that wear —
* It matters little if dark or fair —
* Whole-souled honesty printed there.
* Beautiful eyes are those that show,
* Like crystal panes where hearth-fires glow,
* Beautiful thoughts that burn below.
* Beautiful lips are those whose words
* Leap from the heart like songs of birds,
* Yet whose utterance prudence girds.
* Beautiful hands are those that do
* Work that is earnest and brave and true,
* Moment by moment the long day through.
* Beautiful feet are those that go
* On kindly ministries to and fro —
* Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so.
* Beautiful shoulders are those that bear
* Ceaseless burdens of homely care
* With patient grace and daily prayer.
* Beautiful lives are those that bless —
* Silent rivers of happiness,
* Whose hidden fountains but few may guess.
* Beautiful twilight, at set of sun,
* Beautiful goal, with race well won,
* Beautiful rest, with work well done.
* Beautiful graves, where grasses creep,
* Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep
* Over worn-out hands — oh, beautiful sleep!
* Ellen P. Allerton.