OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 162/Issue 2091/The Hawthorn

THE HAWTHORN.
Aye, it is well-nigh overed;  An’ I’se none so loth to go, One can’t make much of fourscore year,  Though one tantle ‘em never so! I’se pretty nigh tired out, I say, Of the wakesome night, an’ the weary day; The tide is ebbing in the bay,  I shall scarcely wait its flow.
Didst hear how the surf wer’ calling,  This morning down on t’ scar? Just as I strove to lift my head,  To watch ‘em over t’ bar An’ I’se not bid our Jim good-bye; An’ he comes too late to see me die, Bid him keep the coble trim an’ dry,  Nor drive her over far;
She’s stiff in a head wind, tell him,  An’ he’s venturesome, I doubt; Let’s see, it’s May Day, isn’t it,  An’ hawthorn will be about, Hanging like snowflakes o’er the grass; Will’t take a walk in the woods, my lass, An’ gather a bit on ‘t as thou pass,  Afore they lay me out?
I reckon thou oft hast wondered,  I thowt so much on Jim? An’ gave him boat, an’ gear, an’ all,  Though I’se naught akin to him? Thou hast a better right, maybe; Well, well, he’ll mak’ it up to thee; Aye, lass, old eyes can ofens see,  For all they’re waxing dim.
An’ it wer’ none my Sally —  She wer’ a good wife an’ all — Who went wi’ us, seeking hawthorn,  Up by the waterfall; Lord! it is sixty long year back, What sets one’s mind on the queer old track? Shall I know him up in t’ sky — our Jack?  Hark! how the breakers call!
Poor Jack! he went afore me,  For all he won her away, The lass we plucked the hawthorn for,  That bonnie summer’s day; She wore his branch an’ flung mine down, As we crossed the beck an’ neared the town, An’ I turned away with a sigh an’ a frown;  I feel it, yet, I say.
Poor Jack! he wer’ none so steady,  For all he loved her true; I’se ofens thowt as our Mary,  Had summat i’ life to rue; But there — she lies by him still enow, I put ‘em a headstone, up on t’ brow; Keep the spot pleasant, Jim an’ thou,  As he’s good right to do.
For I’se loved her grandson dearly,  As thou, my own bairn’s child, Sin’ ever with eyes just like to hers,  He looked i’ my face an’ smiled, The day she took my hand, an’ said, “See thee — my poor fond lass is dead, Wi’ the raffling lad she wer’ bound to wed;  But thou wert allis mild,
“For aught I asked thee — thou’lt be good,  To the lost little lad? For I’se ganging after Jack,” she says,  “An’ a heavy time I’se had.” An’ I took the bairn an’ sate by her side, An’ hearkened the falling of the tide, An’ at its parting sob she died,  Her glazing eyes looked glad.
I’d like a bit of hawthorn,  Put ‘neath the coffin lid; When I’se gone where we’ll be satisfied,  Where never a thought is hid; Where we ha’ done wi’ the fret an’ care, That vex us as through t’ world we fare; An’ if my Sally wer’ standing there,  I reckon she’d none forbid.
For all comes right i’ heaven,  Where love has never a thorn; An’ I’se done my best for all on you,  Sin’ thy father, my lass, wer born. How it calls an’ calls through the fading light; Look out if the coble has hove i’ sight; I’d fain that Jim should watch me to-night —  I’ll be gone afore the morn.
All The Year Round.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 162/Issue 2092/On a Country Road

Originally published in Nineteenth Century.
Along these low pleached lanes, on such a day,  So soft a day as this, through shade and sun, With glad grave eyes that scanned the glad wild way,  And heart still hovering o'er a song begun,  And smile that warmed the world with benison, Our father, lord long since of lordly rhyme, Long since hath haply ridden, when the lime  Bloomed broad above him, flowering where he came. Because thy passage once made warm this clime,  Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name.
Each year that England clothes herself with May,  She takes thy likeness on her. Time hath spun Fresh raiment all in vain and strange array  For earth and man's new spirit, fain to shun  Things past for dreams of better to be won, Through many a century since thy funeral chime Rang, and men deemed it death's most direful crime,  To have spared not thee for very love or shame; And yet, while mists round last year's memories climb,  Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name.
Each turn of the old wild road whereon we stray,  Meseems, might bring us face to face with one Whom seeing we could not but give thanks, and pray  For England's love our father and her son  To speak with us as once in days long done With all men, sage and churl and monk and mime, Who knew not as we know the soul sublime  That sang for song's love more than lust of fame. Yet, though this be not, yet, in happy time,  Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name.
Friend, even as bees about the flowering thyme, Years crowd on years, till hoar decay begrime  Names once beloved; but, seeing the sun the same, As birds of autumn fain to praise the prime,  Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 162/Issue 2094/Juventus Mundi

Originally published in Macmillan's Magazine.
List a tale a fairy sent us Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus. When Love and all the world was young, And birds conversed as well as sung; And men still faced this fair creation With humor, heart, imagination. Who come hither from Morocco Every spring on the Sirocco. In russet she, and he in yellow, Singing ever clear and mellow, "Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?" Phyllophneustes wise folk call them, But don't know what did befall them, Why they ever thought of coming All that way to hear gnats humming, Why they built not nests but houses, Like the humble-bees and mousies. Nor how little birds got wings, Nor what 'tis the small cock sings — How should they know — stupid fogies? They daren't even believe in bogies. Once they were a girl and boy, Each the other's life and joy. He a Daphnis, she a Chloe, Only they were brown, not snowy, Till an Arab found them playing Far beyond the Atlas straying, Tied the helpless things together, Drove them in the burning weather, In his slave-gang many a league, Till they dropped from wild fatigue. Up he caught his whip of hide, Lashed each soft brown back and side Till their little brains were burst With sharp pain, and heat, and thirst. Over her the poor boy lay, Tried to keep the blows away, Till they stiffened into clay, And the ruffian rode away. Swooping o'er the tainted ground, Carrion vultures gathered round, And the gaunt hyenas ran Tracking up the caravan. But — Ah, wonder! that was gone Which they meant to feast upon. And, for each, a yellow wren, One a cock, and one a hen, Sweetly warbling, flitted forth O'er the desert toward the north. But a shade of bygone sorrow, Like a dream upon the morrow, Round his tiny brainlet clinging, Sets the wee cock ever singing, "Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?" Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped, But their evening meal was stopped. And the gaunt hyenas foul, Sat down on their tails to howl. Northward towards the cool spring weather, Those two wrens fled on together, On to England o'er the sea Where all folks alike are free. There they built a cabin, wattled Like the huts where first they prattled, Hatched and fed, as safe as may be, Many a tiny feathered baby. But in autumn south they go Past the Straits, and Atlas' snow, Over desert, over mountain, To the palms beside the fountain, Where, when once they lived before, he Told her first the old, old story. "What do the doves say? Curuk-Coo, You love me and I love you."
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 162/Issue 2094/July

Originally published in Sunday Magazine.
To-day, beside the everlasting sea,  Whose waves are creeping up the level sand  And gently breaking on the pebbled strand, How great a bliss existence seems to be! There is no cloud in all the sky above;  The deep blue sea, with white sails overspread,  Reflects the glowing sunlight overhead, As if responding to its smiles of love. All things are bright and beautiful around,  And happy children, in their joyous play,  Are adding music to this glorious day, Their sunny hair with wreaths of wild flow'rs crowned. The earth, the sea, the sky, with grateful voice Are praising God, and bidding man rejoice.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 162/Issue 2092/The Pyramids

Originally published in Spectator.
Full many an embassy hath mortal man Sent to the skies. The glory and the grace Of classic temples, and the Gothic spires, Offerings of beauty, mystic, multiform, Earth's varied aspirations turned to stone That spoke, though silent. All save these have told The story of the senders. Hellas tells A message that reveals her people's heart, And hands down to the wondering centuries The story of her joyance and her faith In Beauty's deathless mission. The Christ creed Hath bid us see, in carvèd symbols rare The graces of the saintly multitude, And Him who held all sainthood perfected In One God Manhood. Egypt in these piles Said all she had to say, and closed the page. Her Offering is our lesson: "Hold thy peace, Nor let the world participate and mar The secrets thou shouldst keep for Heaven alone."
Cairo.
# Leaves of Grass (1855)/Who learns my lesson complete?

Who learns my lesson complete? Boss and journeyman and apprentice? .... churchman and atheist? The stupid and the wise thinker .... parents and offspring .... merchant and clerk and porter and customer .... editor, author, artist and schoolboy?
Draw nigh and commence, It is no lesson .... it lets down the bars to a good lesson, And that to another .... and every one to another still.
The great laws take and effuse without argument, I am of the same style, for I am their friend, I love them quits and quits .... I do not halt and make salaams.
I lie abstracted and hear beautiful tales of things and the reasons of things, They are so beautiful I nudge myself to listen.
I cannot say to any person what I hear .... I cannot say it to myself .... it is very wonderful.
It is no little matter, this round and delicious globe, moving so exactly in its orbit forever and ever, without one jolt or the untruth of a single second; I do not think it was made in six days, nor in ten thousand years, nor ten decillions of years, Nor planned and built one thing after another, as an architect plans and builds a house.
I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that years will ever stop the existence of me or any one else.
Is it wonderful that I should be immortal? as every one is immortal, I know it is wonderful .... but my eyesight is equally wonderful .... and how I was conceived in my mother’s womb is equally wonderful, And how I was not palpable once but am now .... and was born on the last day of May 1819 .... and passed from a babe in the creeping trance of three summers and three winters to articulate and walk .... are all equally wonderful.
And that I grew six feet high .... and that I have become a man thirty-six years old in 1855 .... and that I am here anyhow – are all equally wonderful; And that my soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other without ever seeing each other, and never perhaps to see each other, is every bit as wonderful: And that I can think such thoughts as these is just as wonderful, And that I can remind you, and you think them and know them to be true is just as wonderful,
And that the moon spins round the earth and on with the earth is equally wonderful, And that they balance themselves with the sun and stars is equally wonderful.
Come I should like to hear you tell me what there is in yourself that is not just as wonderful, And I should like to hear the name of anything between Sunday morning and Saturday night that is not just as wonderful.
# Leaves of Grass (1860)

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The 1860 edition of Whitman's Leaves of Grass, published in Boston by Thayer and Eldridge. Note that the poem entitled Thought (page 286) is not included on the contents page, but has been added in for completeness.
Layout 2
"LEAVES OF GRASS."
By Walt Whitman.
Abraham Lincoln's law partner, William H. Herndon, purchased a copy of this work when it first appeared, (1855) and took it to the office, where it occasioned much discussion, according to Henry P. Rankin in "Intimate Character Sketches of Lincoln, pages 54 to 57.
"As we talked about Whitman, marked differences of opinion arose. ** After awhile, Lincoln, whom we had supposed not to be listening, arose and took up the book. ** That was the first time he had seen Whitman's "Leaves of Grass." Lincoln read and turned the pages leisurely. Evidently he was enjoying them. After some time he did an unusual thing. He began to read aloud without having made any comment before doing so. He continued from poem to poem with growing relish. ** The emphasis he gave to certain passages in "Leaves of Grass" interpreted many meanings and beauties in the text which the rest of us had not discovered," etc.
When Herndon gave up his law-office, he made a general clearing of books and papers that he thought were no longer of value or interest to him, tossing the material in a heap in one corner of the room. This material was gleaned through by Maj. Alfred Orendorff, who succeeded Mr. Herndon as tenant, and among the treasures found was this first edition edition of "Leaves of Grass" with Herndon's signature on the fly-leaf. Years ago, Maj. Orendorff showed me the book and related how it came into his possession.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860,
By WALT WHITMAN,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
MESSENGER LEAVES.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Leaves of Grass (1855)/Suddenly out of its stale and drowsy lair

Suddenly out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves, Like lightning Europe le’pt forth .... half startled at itself, Its feet upon the ashes and the rags .... Its hands tight to the throats of kings.
O hope and faith! O aching close of lives! O many a sickened heart! Turn back unto this day, and make yourselves afresh.
And you, paid to defile the People .... you liars mark: Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts, For court thieving in its manifold mean forms, Worming from his simplicity the poor man’s wages; For many a promise sworn by royal lips, And broken, and laughed at in the breaking, Then in their power not for all these did the blows strike of personal revenge .. or the heads of the nobles fall; The People scorned the ferocity of kings.
But the sweetness of mercy brewed bitter destruction, and the frightened rulers come back: Each comes in state with his train .... hangman, priest and tax-gatherer .... soldier, lawyer, jailer and sycophant.
Yet behind all, lo, a Shape, Vague as the night, draped interminably, head front and form in scarlet folds, Whose face and eyes none may see, Out of its robes only this .... the red robes, lifted by the arm, One finger pointed high over the top, like the head of a snake appears.
Meanwhile corpses lie in new-made graves .... bloody corpses of young men; The rope of the gibbet hangs heavily .... the bullets of princes are flying .... the creatures of power laugh aloud, And all these things bear fruits .... and they are good.
Those corpses of young men, Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets ... those hearts pierced by the gray lead, Cold and motionless as they seem .. live elsewhere with unslaughter’d vitality.
They live in other young men, O kings, They live in brothers, again ready to defy you: They were purified by death .... They were taught and exalted.
Not a grave of the murdered for freedom but grows seed for freedom .... in its turn to bear seed, Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains and the snows nourish.
Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose, But it stalks invisibly over the earth .. whispering counseling cautioning.
Liberty let others despair of you .... I never despair of you.
Is the house shut? Is the master away? Nevertheless be ready .... be not weary of watching, He will soon return .... his messengers come anon.
# Leaves of Grass (1860)/A Boston Ballad, the 78th Year T. S.

Layout 2
A BOSTON BALLAD,
The 78th Year of These States.
1.Clear the way there, Jonathan!
Way for the President's marshal! Way for the government cannon!
Way for the federal foot and dragoons—and the apparitions copiously tumbling.
2.I rose this morning early, to get betimes in Boston town,
Here's a good place at the corner, I must stand and see the show.   3.I love to look on the stars and stripes, I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle.
4.How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops!  Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town.
5.A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping,
Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless.
6.Why this is a show! It has called the dead out of the earth!
The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to
see!
Uncountable phantoms gather by flank and rear
of it!
Cocked hats of mothy mould! crutches made of
mist! Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's
shoulders!
7.What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all
this chattering of bare gums?
Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake
your crutches for fire-locks, and level
them?
8.If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see
the President's marshal,
If you groan such groans you might balk the government
cannon.
9.For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those tossed
arms, and let your white hair be, Here gape your smart grand-sons—their wives gaze
at them from the windows,
See how well-dressed—see how orderly they conduct
themselves.
10.Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you
retreating?
Is this hour with the living too dead for you?
11.Retreat then! Pell-mell! Back to your graves! Back to the hills, old limpers! I do not think you belong here, anyhow.
12.But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston?
13.I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a committee to England, They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault—haste! Dig out King George's coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his bones for a journey, Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper, Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay.
14.Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out the government cannon, Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard it with foot and dragoons.
15.This centre-piece for them:
Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women!
16.The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that will not stay,
Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull.
17. You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown is come to its own, and more than its own.
18. Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made man from this day,
You are mighty cute—and here is one of your
bargains.
# Leaves of Grass (1860)/A Hand Mirror

Layout 2
A HAND-MIRROR.
Hold it up sternly! See this it sends back! (Who is
it? Is it you?)
Outside fair costume—within, ashes and filth, No more a flashing eye—no more a sonorous voice
or springy step, Now some slave's eye, voice, hands, step,
A drunkard's breath, unwholesome eater's face,
venerealee's flesh,
Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and
cankerous,
Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination.
Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams,
Words babble, hearing and touch callous,
No brain, no heart left—no magnetism of sex;
Such, from one look in this looking-glass ere you go
hence.
Such a result so soon—and from such a beginning!
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 128/Issue 1656

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XIII. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1656. — March 4, 1876. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXVIII. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Scottish Statesmen of the Revolution: The Dalrymples, | Edinburgh Review, | 579 |
| II. | Her Dearest Foe By the author of "The Wooing O't." Part XVI., | Temple Bar, | 598 |
| III. | A Tribe of Toymakers. By Margaret Howitt, | Leisure Hour, | 618 |
| IV. | Left-Handed Elsa. Conclusion, | Blackwood's Magazine, | 625 |
| V. | Prince Bismarck and his Master, | Spectator, | 637 |
| VI. | The Low Value of Silver, and its Effect on India, | Economist, | 639 |
POETRY. :
| The New Year, | 578 | The Seasons, | 578 |
| Home, | 578 | | |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 640 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 128/Issue 1655

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XIII. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1655. — February 26, 1876. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXVIII. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Forster's Life of Swift, | Quarterly Review, | 515 |
| II. | Her Dearest Foe. By the author of "The Wooing O't." Part XV., | Temple Bar, | 536 |
| III. | Goethe and Minna Herzlieb, | Contemporary Review, | 554 |
| IV. | Left-Handed Elsa. Part III., | Blackwood's Magazine, | 567 |
| V. | Rational Excitement, | Saturday Review, | 572 |
| VI. | "Pigeon English", | Pall Mall Gazette, | 575 |
POETRY. :
| From Moschus, | 514 | The Lesson of the Leaves, | 514 |
| To Charles Sumner, | 514 | Jubilate, | 514 |
| The Tides, | 514 | | |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 128/Issue 1655/From Moschus

Also known as A Rural Epicurean
* FROM MOSCHUS.
* When the wind softly sways the azure sea,
* My languid spirit kindles at the sight,
* And then the land is no more a delight,
* Only the mighty main seems sweet to me.
* But when the waters in their wrath grow hoar,
* And the long rollers rage with curling foam,
* I turn again towards my wooded home,
* And love to look upon the sea no more.
* Ah! sweet the land, and sweet the forest dark,
* Whose pines make song, whate'er the wild wind's strife;
* And hard, indeed, must be the fisher's life.
* Who toils upon the deep, — his home, a bark;
* His prey, the roaming fish. But 'tis my lot
* Beneath the plane's full leaf at ease to dream.
* And thence I love to hear the passing stream,
* Whose prattle charms, and can disquiet not.
* W. T.
* Spectator.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 128/Issue 1655/The Lesson of the Leaves

* THE LESSON OF THE LEAVES.
* As, one by one, these autumn leaves, descending
* To droop and die,
* In rustled murmurs, breathe one soft unending
* Sad threnody,
* Till branch and bough, whereon no vestige lingers
* Of summer bloom.
* Trace out upon the sky, with withered fingers.
* Their wintry doom:
* So, one by one, these earthly hopes we cherish —
* More dearly prized.
* Perchance, than Heaven itself — fall off and perish
* Unrealized,
* And leave us, with life's winter o'er us stealing.
* And skies o'ercast,
* With bared and outstretched arms for help appealing
* To Heaven at last.