OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Awakening (Chopin)/Chapter XXVII

XXVII
"What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire.
"Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?"
"Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively.
"One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think—try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't ​know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it."
"Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double.
"Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort."
"No; I shan't tel you anything of the sort, though I shouldn't be lying if I did."
"Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?" she asked irrelevantly.
"The pianist? I know her by sight. I've heard her play."
"She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don't notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward."
"For instance?"
"Well, for instance, when I left her ​today, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said. 'The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.'"
"Whither would you soar?"
"I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend her."
"I've heard she's partially demented," said Arobin.
"She seems to me wonderfully sane," Edna replied.
"I'm told she's extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?"
"Oh! talk of me if you like," cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her head; "but let me think of something else while you do."
"I'm jealous of your thoughts to-night. They're making you a little kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were not here with ​me." She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look into each other's eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers.
It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire.
# The Banner of the Cross

    There’s a royal banner given for display
    To the soldiers of the King;
    As an ensign fair we lift it up today,
    While as ransomed ones we sing.
    Refrain
    Marching on, marching on,
    For Christ count everything but loss!
    And to crown Him King, we’ll toil and sing,
    ’Neath the banner of the cross!
    Though the foe may rage and gather as the flood,
    Let the standard be displayed;
    And beneath its folds, as soldiers of the Lord,
    For the truth be not dismayed!
    Refrain
    Over land and sea, wherever man may dwell,
    Make the glorious tidings known;
    Of the crimson banner now the story tell,
    While the Lord shall claim His own!
    Refrain
    When the glory dawns—’tis drawing very near,
    It is hastening day by day—
    Then before our King the foe shall disappear,
    And the cross the world shall sway!
    Refrain
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
# The Banquet

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Banquet."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* Amores 1.4, 16 BCE by Ovid, translated by Wikisource
* The Banquet, a work by George Herbert
* The Banquet, alternative title to Letitia Elizabeth Landon's poem The Fête
* The Banquet by Søren Kierkegaard
# The Bansberia Raj/Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.
Raghab Rai Chaudhuri and the Bansberia House.
Jayananda left five sons of whom Ragbab was the eldest, and as the other sons died leaving no issue, Raghab like his father, ultimately became the sole owner of the entire family property. Raghab was equally fortunate with Jayananda and like him succeeded in gaining the favour of the Emperor, Shah Jehan, who by a Sanad dated the 12th Rubi 1066 H. E. (1649 A.D.) conferred upon him the title of "Chaudhuri" and in the year following that of "Mazumdar." The bestowal of these titular distinctions was not unaccompanied by grants of a substantial character, for, as a matter of fact, Raghab got Vast Lakhraj or rent-free lands as absolute gifts and the Zamindari right of the following twenty-one Parganas, namely, Arsha, Haldaha, Mamdanipur, Panjnaur, Boro, Shahapur, Jehanabad, Shaistanagore, Shahanagore, Raipur Kotwali, Paonan, Khosalpore, Moiat, Buxbunder, Havilishahar, Paikan, Mozzaferpore, Hathikanda, Selimpur, Amirabad, and Janglipur. As the greater part of these estates lay in Sarkar Satgaon, Raghab for the better management of these large additions to his ancestral property, was obliged to put up near Satgaon or rather Buxbunder Hooghly, the then capital of Lower Bengal, and he, accordingly, built a large house at a village two miles to the east on the right bank of the river Hooghly, to which he gave the name of Bangshabati, commonly known as Bansberia, and began to spend most part of the year there, paying occasional visits to his ancestral house at Patuli, especially at the time of the Durga Puja. At this time Bansberia was a small insignificant village with a sparse population, consisting mostly, of the dregs and scum of society. It was ​largely covered with thick jungles in which the denizens of the forest held their solitary sway. Raghab reclaimed the jungles, and, in the place of the savages of the wood whom he had killed or cast out, settled human beings of different orders by making them grants of rent-free lands and helping them in various other ways. Thus, what was a little obscure village, partly tenanted by savage beasts and partly by equally savage men, became in a few short years something like a town with a large sprinkling of peaceful citizens of all castes and creeds.
Raghab was a remarkable man. Not only did he raise the Patuli family in honor, he also added much to its affluence. The Zamindari left by his father was considerably augmented by the addition of one and twenty Parganas. Some of these Parganas were very large and rich. The gross collections of the biggest and richest of them all namely, Arsha in Sarkar Satgaon amounted to upwards of two lakhs. Indeed, the net profits after paying the Government revenue in respect of that single Pargana were sufficient to entitle a man to be called a big Zamindar. Thus, Raghab had become one of the greatest men and was deservedly held in high esteem by the neighbouring Zamindars. He lived like a prince and died full of years and honours.
# The Bar-20 Three

A "Bar-20 / Hopalong Cassidy" story.
THE BAR-20 THREE
THE BAR-20 THREE
THE
BAR-20 THREE
By CLARENCE E: MULFORD
Author of
"Johnny Nelson," "Hopalong Cassidy" "Bar-2o Days"
"Buck Peters, Ranchman" "The Man from Bar-20, "
"Bar-20" "The Coming of Cassidy" etc.
Frontispiece by FRANK E. SCHOONOVER
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with A. C. McClurg & Co.
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co. 1921
Published April, 1921
Copyrighted in Great Britain
* CHAPTERPAGE
* I"Put a 'T' in It"1
* IIWell-Known Strangers17
* IIIA Question of Identity28
* IVA Journey Continued49
* VWhat the Storm Hid66
* VIThe Writing on the Wall82
* VIIThe Third Man89
* VIIINotes Compared103
* IXWays of Serving Notice114
* XTwice in the Same Place126
* XIA Job Well Done133
* XIIFriends on the Outside149
* XIIIOut and Away160
* XIVThe Staked Plain178
* XVDiscoveries198
* XVIA Vigil Rewarded223
* XVIIA Well-Planned Raid242
* XVIIIThe Trail-Boss Tries His Way254
* XIXA Desert Secret260
* XXThe Redoubt Falls277
* XXIAll Wrapped Up287
* XXIIThe Bonfire310
* XXIIISurprise Valley324
* XXIVSquared Up All Around344
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 1956, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 67 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 Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate CLXXX

Rhodymenia variolosa Hook. fil. et Harv.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate CLXXXIV

Rhodomela Gaimardi Ag.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate CLXXXVII

Ptilota Harveyi Hook. fil.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate CLXXXI

Acanthococcus Antarcticus Hook. fil. et Harv.
# The Botany of the Antarctic Voyage/Plate CLXXXV

Rhodomela comesa Hook. fil. et Harv.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Moloch in State Street

MOLOCH IN STATE STREET
In a foot-note of the Report of the Senate of Massachusetts on the case of the arrest and return to bondage of the fugitive slave Thomas Sims it is stated that—
“It would have been impossible for the U. S. marshal thus successfully to have resisted the law of the State, without the assistance of the municipal authorities of Boston, and the countenance and support of a numerous, wealthy, and powerful body of citizens. It was in evidence that 1500 of the most wealthy and respectable citizens—merchants, bankers, and others—volunteered their services to aid the marshal on this occasion. … No watch was kept upon the doings of the marshal, and while the State officers slept, after the moon had gone down, in the darkest hour before daybreak, the accused was taken out of our jurisdiction by the armed police of the city of Boston.”
The moon has set: while yet the dawn Breaks cold and gray, Between the midnight and the morn Bear off your prey!
On, swift and still! the conscious street Is panged and stirred; Tread light! that fall of serried feet The dead have heard!
The first drawn blood of Freedom’s veins Gushed where ye tread; Lo! through the dusk the martyr-stains Blush darkly red!
Beneath the slowly-waning stars And whitening day, What stern and awful presence bars That sacred way?
What faces frown upon ye, dark With shame and pain? Come these from Plymouth’s Pilgrim bark? Is that young Vane?
Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on With mocking cheer? Lo! spectral Andros, Hutchinson, And Gage are here!
For ready mart or favoring blast Through Moloch’s fire, Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, passed The Tyrian sire.
Ye make that ancient sacrifice Of Man to Gain, Your traffic thrives, where Freedom dies, Beneath the chain.
Ye sow to-day; your harvest, scorn And hate, is near; How think ye freemen, mountain-born, The tale will hear?
Thank God! our mother State can yet Her fame retrieve; To you and to your children let The scandal cleave.
Chain Hall and Pulpit, Court and Press, Make gods of gold; Let honor, truth, and manliness Like wares be sold.
Your hoards are great, your walls are strong, But God is just; The gilded chambers built by wrong Invite the rust.
What! know ye not the gains of Crime Are dust and dross; Its ventures on the waves of time Foredoomed to loss!
And still the Pilgrim State remains What she hath been; Her inland hills, her seaward plains, Still nurture men!
Nor wholly lost the fallen mart; Her olden blood Through many a free and generous heart Still pours its flood.
That brave old blood, quick-flowing yet, Shall know no check, Till a free people’s foot is set On Slavery’s neck.
Even now, the peal of bell and gun, And hills aflame, Tell of the first great triumph won In Freedom’s name.
The long night dies: the welcome gray Of dawn we see; Speed up the heavens thy perfect day, God of the free!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/My Dream

MY DREAM
In my dream, methought I trod, Yesternight, a mountain road; Narrow as Al Sirat’s span, High as eagle’s flight, it ran.
Overhead, a roof of cloud With its weight of thunder bowed; Underneath, to left and right, Blankness and abysmal night.
Here and there a wild-flower blushed; Now and then a bird-song gushed; Now and then, through rifts of shade, Stars shone out, and sunbeams played.
But the goodly company, Walking in that path with me, One by one the brink o’erslid, One by one the darkness hid.
Some with wailing and lament, Some with cheerful courage went; But, of all who smiled or mourned, Never one to us returned.
Anxiously, with eye and ear, Questioning that shadow drear, Never hand in token stirred, Never answering voice I heard!
Steeper, darker!—lo! I felt From my feet the pathway melt, Swallowed by the black despair, And the hungry jaws of air.
Past the stony-throated caves, Strangled by the wash of waves, Past the splintered crags, I sank On a green and flowery bank,—
Soft as fall of thistle-down, Lightly as a cloud is blown, Soothingly as childhood pressed To the bosom of its rest.
Of the sharp-horned rocks instead, Green the grassy meadows spread, Bright with waters singing by Trees that propped a golden sky.
Painless, trustful, sorrow-free, Old lost faces welcomed me,
With whose sweetness of content Still expectant hope was blent.
Waking while the dawning gray Slowly brightened into day, Pondering that vision fled, Thus unto myself I said:—
“Steep and hang with clouds of strife Is our narrow path of life; And our death the dreaded fall Through the dark, awaiting all.
“So, with painful steps we climb Up the dizzy ways of time, Ever in the shadow shed By the forecast of our dread.
“Dread of mystery solved alone, Of the untried and unknown; Yet the end thereof may seem Like the falling of my dream.
“And this heart-consuming care, All our fears of here or there, Change and absence, loss and death, Prove but simple lack of faith.”
Thou, O Most Compassionate! Who didst stoop to our estate, Drinking of the cup we drain, Treading in our path of pain,—
Through the doubt and mystery, Grant to us thy steps to see, And the grace to draw from thence Larger hope and confidence.
Show thy vacant tomb, and let, As of old, the angels sit, Whispering, by its open door: “Fear not! He hath gone before!”
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/My Triumph

MY TRIUMPH
The autumn-time has come; On woods that dream of bloom, And over purpling vines, The low sun fainter shines.
The aster-flower is failing, The hazel’s gold is paling; Yet overhead more near The eternal stars appear!
And present gratitude Insures the future’s good, And for the things I see I trust the things to be;
That in the paths untrod, And the long days of God, My feet shall still be led, My heart be comforted.
O living friends who love me! O dear ones gone above me! Careless of other fame, I leave to you my name.
Hide it from idle praises, Save it from evil phrases: Why, when dear lips that spake it Are dumb, should strangers wake it?
Let the thick curtain fall; I better know than all How little I have gained, How vast the unattained.
Not by the page word-painted Let life be banned or sainted: Deeper than written scroll The colors of the soul.
Sweeter than any sung My songs that found no tongue; Nobler than any fact My wish that failed of act.
Others shall sing the song, Others shall right the wrong,— Finish what I begin, And all I fail of win.
What matter, I or they? Mine or another’s day, So the right word be said And life the sweeter made?
Hail to the coming singers! Hail to the brave light-bringers! Forward I reach and share All that they sing and dare.
The airs of heaven blow o’er me; A glory shines before me Of what mankind shall be,— Pure, generous, brave, and free.
A dream of man and woman Diviner but still human, Solving the riddle old, Shaping the Age of Gold!
The love of God and neighbor; An equal-handed labor; The richer life, where beauty Walks hand in hand with duty.
Ring, bells in unreared steeples, The joy of unborn peoples! Sound, trumpets far off blown, Your triumph is my own!
Parcel and part of all, I keep the festival, Fore-reach the good to be, And share the victory.
I feel the earth move sunward, I join the great march onward, And take, by faith, while living, My freehold of thanksgiving.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/My Birthday

MY BIRTHDAY
Beneath the moonlight and the snow Lies dead my latest year; The winter winds are wailing low Its dirges in my ear.
I grieve not with the moaning wind As if a loss befell; Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well!
His light shines on me from above, His low voice speaks within,— The patience of immortal love Outwearying mortal sin.
Not mindless of the growing years Of care and loss and pain, My eyes are wet with thankful tears For blessings which remain.
If dim the gold of life has grown, I will not count it dross, Nor turn from treasures still my own To sigh for lack and loss.
The years no charm from Nature take; As sweet her voices call, As beautiful her mornings break, As fair her evenings fall.
Love watches o’er my quiet ways, Kind voices speak my name, And lips that find it hard to praise Are slow, at least, to blame.
How softly ebb the tides of will! How fields, once lost or won, Now lie behind me green and still Beneath a level sun!
How hushed the hiss of party hate, The clamor of the throng! How old, harsh voices of debate Flow into rhythmic song!
Methinks the spirit’s temper grows Too soft in this still air; Somewhat the restful heart foregoes Of needed watch and prayer.
The bark by tempest vainly tossed May founder in the calm, And he who braved the polar frost Faint by the isles of balm.
Better than self-indulgent years The outflung heart of youth, Than pleasant songs in idle ears The tumult of the truth.
Rest for the weary hands is good, And love for hearts that pine, But let the manly habitude Of upright souls be mine.
Let winds that blow from heaven refresh, Dear Lord, the languid air; And let the weakness of the flesh Thy strength of spirit share.
And, if the eye must fail of light, The ear forget to hear, Make clearer still the spirit’s sight, More fine the inward ear!
Be near me in mine hours of need To soothe, or cheer, or warn, And down these slopes of sunset lead As up the hills of morn!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/My Trust

MY TRUST
A picture memory brings to me: I look across the years and see Myself beside my mother’s knee.
I feel her gentle hand restrain My selfish moods, and know again A child’s blind sense of wrong and pain.
But wiser now, a man gray grown, My childhood’s needs are better known, My mother’s chastening love I own.
Gray grown, but in our Father’s sight A child still groping for the light To read His works and ways aright.
I wait, in His good time to see That as my mother dealt with me So with His children dealeth He.
I bow myself beneath His hand: That pain itself was wisely planned I feel, and partly understand.
The joy that comes in sorrow’s guise, The sweet pains of self-sacrifice, I would not have them otherwise.
And what were life and death if sin Knew not the dread rebuke within, The pang of merciful discipline?
Not with thy proud despair of old, Crowned stoic of Rome’s noblest mould! Pleasure and pain alike I hold.
I suffer with no vain pretence Of triumph over flesh and sense, Yet trust the grievous providence,
How dark soe’er it seems, may tend, By ways I cannot comprehend, To some unguessed benignant end;
That every loss and lapse may gain The clear-aired heights by steps of pain, And never cross is borne in vain.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/My Playmate

MY PLAYMATE
[When written, this poem bore the title Eleanor, and when first printed The Playmate.]
The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow.
The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year.
For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom.
She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine: What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father’s kine?
She left us in the bloom of May: The constant years told o’er Their seasons with as sweet May morns, But she came back no more.
I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years; Still o’er and o’er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears.
She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go.
There haply with her jewelled hands She smooths her silken gown,— No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down.
The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill.
The lilies blossom in the pond, The bird builds in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea.
I wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems,— If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams.
I see her face, I hear her voice; Does she remember mine? And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father’s kine?
What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours,— That other hands with nuts are filled, And other laps with flowers?
O playmate in the golden time! Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees o’er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago.
And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea,— The moaning of the sea of change Between myself and thee!