OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Fairies by the Seashore

FAIRIES ON THE SEA SHORE.
BY HOWARD.
FIRST FAIRY.
My home and haunt are in every leaf, Whose life is a summer day, bright and brief,— I live in the depths of the tulip's bower, I wear a wreath of the cistus flower, I drink the dew of the blue harebell, I know the breath of the violet well,— The white and the azure violet; But I know not which is the sweetest yet,—
I have kiss'd the cheek of the rose; I have watch'd the lily unclose, My silver mine is the almond tree, Who will come dwell with flower and me?
CHORUS OF FAIRIES.
Dance we our round, 'tis a summer night, And our steps are led by the glow-worms' light.
SECOND FAIRY.
My dwelling is in the serpentine Of the rainbow's colour'd line,—
See how its rose and amber clings To the many hues of my radiant wings; Mine is the step that bids the earth Give to the iris flower its birth,
And mine the golden cup to hide, Where the last faint hue of the rainbow died. Search the depths of an Indian mine, Where are the colours to match with mine?
CHORUS.
Dance we round, for the gale is bringing Songs the summer rose is singing.
THIRD FAIRY.
I float on the breath of a minstrel's lute, Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute, Linger I over the tones that swell From the pink-vein'd chords of an ocean-shell; I love the sky-lark's morning hymn, Or the nightingale heard at the twilight dim,
The echo, the fountain's melody,— These, oh! these are the spells for me!
CHORUS.
Hail to the summer night of June; See! yonder has risen our ladye moon.
FOURTH SPIRIT.
My palace is in the coral cave Set with spars by the ocean wave; Would ye have gems, then seek them there,— There found I the pearls that bind my hair. I and the wind together can roam Over the green waves and their white foam,— See, I have got this silver shell, Mark how my breath will its smallness swell,
For the Nautilus is my boat In which I over the waters float,— The moon is shining over the sea, Who is there will come sail with me?
CHORUS OF FAIRIES.
Our noontide sleep is on leaf and flower, Our revels are held in a moonlit hour,— What is there sweet, what is there fair, And we are not the dwellers there? Dance we round, for the morning light, Will put us and our glow-worm lamps to flight!
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Last Song

THE LAST SONG.
It is the latest song of mine  That ever breathes thy name, False idol of a dream-raised shrine,  Thy very thought is shame,— Shame that I could my sprit bow To one so very false as thou.
I had past years where the green wood  Makes twilight of the noon, And I had watch'd the silver flood  Kiss'd by the rising moon; And gazed upon the clear midnight In all its luxury of light.
And, thrown where the blue violets dwell,  I would pass hours away, Musing o'er some old chronicle  Fill'd with a wild love lay; Till beauty seem'd to me a thing Made for all nature's worshipping.
I saw thee, and the air grew bright  In thy clear eyes' sunshine;
I oft had dream'd of shapes of light,  But not of shape like thine. My heart bow'd down,—I worshipp'd thee, A woman and a deity.
I may not say how thy first look  Turn'd my whole soul to flame, I read it as a glorious book  Fill'd with high deeds of fame; I felt a hero's spirit rise, Unknown till lighted at thine eyes.
False look, false hope, and falsest love!  All meteors sent to me To show how they the heart could move,  And how deceiving be:
They left me, darken'd, crush'd, alone, My bosom's household gods o'erthrown.
The world itself was changed, and all  That I had loved before Seem'd as if gone beyond recall,  And I could hope no more; The scar of fire, the dint of steel, Are easier than Love's wounds to heal.
But this is past, and I can cope  With what I'd fain forget; I have a sweet, a gentle hope  That lingers with me yet,— A hope too fair, too pure to be Named in the words that speak of thee.
Henceforth within the last recess  Of my heart shall remain Thy name in all its bitterness,  But never named again; The only memory of that heart Will be to think how false thou art.
And yet I fain would name thy name,  My heart's now gentle queen, E'en as they burn the perfumed flame  Where the plague spot has been; Methinks that it will cleanse away The ills that on my spirit prey.
Sweet Eva! the last time I gazed  Upon thy deep blue eyes,
The cheek whereon my look had raised  A blush's crimson dyes, I marvell'd, love, this heart of mine Had worshipp'd at another shrine.
I will think of thee when the star,  That lit our own fair river, Shines in the blue sky from afar,  As beautiful as ever; That twilight star, sweet love, shall be A sign and seal with thee and me!
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Love Nursed by Solitude

LOVE NURSED BY SOLITUDE.
BY W. I. THOMSON, EDINBURGH.
Ay, surely it is here that Love should come, And find, (if he may find on earth), a home; Here cast off all the sorrow and the shame That cling like shadows to his very name.
 Young Love, thou art belied: they speak of thee, And couple with thy mention misery; Talk of the broken heart, the wasted bloom, The spirit blighted, and the early tomb;
As if these waited on thy golden lot,— They blame thee for the faults which thou hast not. Art thou to blame for that they bring on thee The soil and weight of their mortality? How can they hope that ever links will hold Form'd, as they form them now, of the harsh gold? Or worse than even this, how can they think That vanity will bind the failing link? How can they dream that thy sweet life will bear Crowds', palaces', and cities' heartless air? Where the lip smiles while the heart's desolate,
And courtesy lends its deep mask to hate; Where looks and thoughts alike must feel the chain, And nought of life is real but its pain; Where the young spirit's high imaginings Are scorn'd and cast away as idle things;
Where, think or feel, you are foredoom'd to be A marvel and a sign for mockery; Where none must wander from the beaten road,— All alike champ the bit, and feel the goad. It is not made for thee, young Love! away To where the green earth laughs to the clear day, To the deep valley, where a thousand trees Keep a green court for fairy revelries,— To some small island on a lonely lake, Where only swans the diamond waters break, Where the pines hang in silence oe'r the tide And the stream gushes from the mountain side; These, Love, are haunts for thee; where canst thou brood With thy sweet wings furl'd but in Solitude.
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Juliet after the Masquerade

JULIET AFTER THE MASQUERADE.
BY THOMPSON.
She left the festival, for it seem'd dim Now that her eye no longer dwelt on him, And sought her chamber,—gazed, (then turn'd away), Upon a mirror that before her lay, Half fearing, half believing her sweet face Would surely claim within his memory place. The hour was late, and that night her light foot Had been the constant echo of the lute;
Yet sought she not her pillow, the cool air Came from the casement, and it lured her there. The terrace was beneath, and the pale moon Shone o'er the couch which she had press'd at noon, Soft-lingering o'er some minstrel's love-lorn page,— Alas, tears are the poet's heritage!
 She flung her on that couch, but not for sleep; No, it was only that the wind might steep Her fever'd lip in its delicious dew: Her brow was burning, and aside she threw Her cap and plume, and, loosen'd from its fold, Came o'er her neck and face a shower of gold, A thousand curls. It was a solitude Made for young hearts in love's first dreaming mood:— Beneath the garden lay, fill'd with rose-trees Whose sighings came like passion on the breeze.
Two graceful statues of the Parian stone
So finely shaped, that as the moonlight shone The breath of life seem'd to their beauty given,
But less the life of earth than that of heaven. 'Twas Psyche and her boy-god, so divine They turn'd the terrace to an idol shrine, With its white vases and their summer share Of flowers, like altars raised to that sweet pair.
 And there the maiden leant, still in her ear The whisper dwelt of that young cavalier; It was no fancy, he had named the name Of love, and at that thought her cheek grew flame: It was the first time her young ear had heard A lover's burning sigh, or silver word; Her thoughts were all confusion, but most sweet,— Her heart beat high, but pleasant was its beat.
She murmur'd over many a snatch of song That might to her own feelings now belong; She thought upon old histories she had read, And placed herself in each high heroine's stead, Then woke her lute,—oh! there is little known Of music's power till aided by love's own. And this is happiness: oh! love will last When all that made it happiness is past,— When all its hopes are as the glittering toys Time present offers, time to come destroys,— When they have been too often crush'd to earth, For further blindness to their little worth,— When fond illusions have dropt one by one, Like pearls from a rich carkanet, till none Are left upon life's soil'd and naked string,— And this is all what time will ever bring.
—And that fair girl,—what can the heart foresee Of her young love, and of its destiny? There is a white cloud o'er the moon, its form Is very light, and yet there sleeps the storm; It is an omen, it may tell the fate Of love known all too soon, repented all too late.
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Modern Pictures

POETICAL SKETCHES
OF
MODERN PICTURES.
Beautiful art! my worship is for thee,—
The heart's entire devotion. When I look
Upon thy radiant wonders, every pulse
Is thrill'd as in the presence of divinity! Pictures, bright pictures, oh! they are to me
A world for thought to revel in. I love
To give a history to every face, to think,—
As I thought with the painter,—as I knew
What his high communing had been.——L. E. L. Poetical Catalogue of Pictures. in Lit. Gaz. 1823.
# The Tragic Muse (London & New York: Macmillan & Co., 1890)

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 Riksdag Act

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Riksdag Act."
* related portals: Sweden.
* 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.
The Riksdag Act sets the groundwork for Sweden's legislature, the Riksdag. Until 1974, it was considered a fundamental law, but it currently occupies a status between normal and fundamental after constitutional reforms.
* Riksdag Act of 1866
* Riksdag Act 1974
* The Riksdag Act (2009)
* Riksdag Act 2014
# The Riksdag Act (2009)

* information about this edition.
* related portals: Constitution of Sweden.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
The 1974 Riksdag Act (Riksdagsordningen), specifying the working order of the Swedish Parliament. It is not one of the four fundamental laws, but it is consider to have special status, and certain parts of it are harder to change than ordinary law.Warning: template has been deprecated.
SFS 1974:153 As amended on 1 April 2009.

## Contents

* Chapter 1. Sessions
* Chapter 2. Meetings of the Chamber
* Chapter 3. Introduction of business
* Chapter 4. Preparation of business
* Chapter 5. Settlement of business
* Chapter 6. Interpellations and questions to ministers
* Chapter 7. General provisions concerning elections within the Riksdag
* Chapter 8. Certain bodies and officials
* Chapter 9. Provisions concerning personnel and administration
* Chapter 10. Conduct of European Union business
* Transitional provision
# The Ring and the Book
## Contents

* I. The Ring and the Book
* II. Half-Rome
* III. The Other Half-Rome
* IV. Tertium Quid
* V. Count Guido Franceschini
* VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
* VII. Pompilia
* VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator
* IX. Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius, Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus
* X. The Pope
* XI. Guido
* XII. The Book and the Ring
# The Voice of the Pack/Book 2
### BOOK TWO THE DEBT

* Chapter I
* Chapter II
* Chapter III
* Chapter IV
* Chapter V
* Chapter VI
* Chapter VII
* Chapter VIII
* Chapter IX
* Chapter X
# The Veil and other poems/Before Dawn

BEFORE DAWN
DIM-BERRIED is the mistletoe
With globes of sheenless grey,
The holly mid ten thousand thorns
Smoulders its fires away;
And in the manger Jesu sleeps
This Christmas Day.
Bull unto bull with hollow throat
Makes echo every hill,
Cold sheep in pastures thick with snow
The air with bleatings fill;
While of his mother's heart this Babe
Takes His sweet will.
All flowers and butterflies lie hid,
The blackbird and the thrush
Pipe but a little as they flit
Restless from bush to bush;
Even to the robin Gabriel hath
Cried softly, 'Hush!'
Now night is astir with burning stars
In darkness of the snow;
Burdened with frankincense and myrrh
And gold the Strangers go
Into a dusk where one dim lamp
Burns faintly, Lo!
No snowdrop yet its small head nods,
In winds of winter drear;
No lark at casement in the sky
Sings matins shrill and clear;
Yet in this frozen mirk the Dawn
Breathes, Spring is here!
# The Veil and other poems/Drugged

DRUGGED
INERT in his chair,
In a candle's guttering glow;
His bottle empty, His fire sunk low;
With drug-sealed lids shut fast,
Unsated mouth ajar,
This darkened phantasm walks
Where nightmares are:
In a frenzy of life and light,
Crisscross—a menacing throng—
They gibe, they squeal at the stranger,
Jostling along,
Their faces cadaverous grey.
While on high from an attic stare
Horrors, in beauty apparelled,
Down the dark air.
A stream gurgles over its stones,
The chambers within are a-fire.
Stumble his shadowy feet
Through shine, through mire;
And the flames leap higher.
In vain yelps the wainscot mouse;
In vain beats the hour;
Vacant, his body must drowse
Until daybreak flower—
Staining these walls with its rose,
And the draughts of the morning shall stir
Cold on cold brow, cold hands.
And the wanderer
Back to flesh house must return.
Lone soul—in horror to see, Than dream more meagre and awful.
Reality.
# The Veil and other poems/Forgiveness

FORGIVENESS
'O THY flamed cheek,
Those locks with weeping wet,
Eyes that, forlorn and meek,
On mine are set.
'Poor hands, poor feeble wings,
Folded, a-droop, O sad!
See, 'tis my heart that sings
To make thee glad.
'My mouth breathes love, thou dear.
All that I am and know
Is thine. My breast—draw near:
Be grieved not so!'
# The Veil and other poems/Futility

FUTILITY
SINK, thou strange heart, unto thy rest.
Pine now no more, to pine in vain.
Doth not the moon on heaven's breast
Call the floods home again?
Doth not the summer faint at last?
Do not her restless rivers flow
When that her transient day is past
To hide them in ice and snow?
All this—thy world—an end shall make;
Planet to sun return again;
The universe, to sleep from wake,
In a last peace remain.   Alas, the futility of care
That, spinning thought to thought, doth weave
An idle argument on the air
We love not, nor believe.
# The Veil and other poems/Flotsam

FLOTSAM
SCREAMED the far sea-mew. On the mirroring sands
Bell-shrill the oyster-catchers. Burned the sky.
Couching my cheeks upon my sun-scorched hands,
Down from bare rock I gazed. The sea swung by.   Dazzling dark blue and verdurous, quiet with snow,
Empty with loveliness, with music a-roar,
Her billowing summits heaving noon-aglow—
Crashed the Atlantic on the cliff-ringed shore,   Drowsed by the tumult of that moving deep,
Sense into outer silence fainted, fled;
And rising softly, from the fields of sleep,
Stole to my eyes a lover from the dead;
Crying an incantation—learned, Where? When? . .
White swirled the foam, a fount, a blinding gleam
Of ice-cold breast, cruel eyes, wild mouth—and then
A still dirge echoing on from dream to dream.
# The Veil and other poems/Fog

FOG
STAGNANT this wintry gloom. Afar
The farm-cock bugles his 'Qui vive?'
The towering elms are lost in mist;
Birds in the thorn-trees huddle a- whist;
The mill-race waters grieve.
Our shrouded day
Dwindles away
To final black of eve.   Beyond these shades in space of air
Ride exterrestrial beings by?
Their colours burning rich and fair,
Where noon's sunned valleys lie?
With inaudible music are they sweet—
Bell, hoof, soft lapsing cry?
Turn marvellous faces, each to each?—
Lips innocent of sigh,
Or groan or fear, sorrow and grief,
Clear brow and falcon eye;
Bare foot, bare shoulder in the heat,
And hair like flax? Do their horses beat
Their way through wildernesses infinite
Of starry-crested trees, blue sward,
And gold-chasm'd mountain, steeply shored
O'er lakes of sapphire dye?   Mingled with lisping speech, faint laughter,
Echoes the Phoenix' scream of joyance
Mounting on high?—
Light-bathed vistas and divine sweet mirth,
Beyond dream of spirits penned to earth,
Condemned to pine and die? . . .
Hath serving Nature, bidden of the gods,
Thick-screened Man's narrow sky, And hung these Stygian veils of fog
To hide his dingied sty? —
The gods who yet, at mortal birth,
Bequeathed him Fantasy?
# The Veil and other poems/Gold

GOLD
Sighed the wind to the wheat:—
'The Queen who is slumbering there,
Once bewildered the rose;
Scorned, "Thou un-fair!"
Once, from that bird-whirring court,
Ascended the ruinous stair.
Aloft, on that weed-hung turret, suns
Smote on her hair—
Of a gold by Archiac sought
Of a gold sea-hid,
Of a gold that from core of quartz
No flame shall bid
Pour into light of the air
For God's Jews to see.'
Mocked the wheat to the wind —
'Kiss me! Kiss me!'
# The Veil and other poems/Crazed

CRAZED
I KNOW a pool where nightshade preens
Her poisonous fruitage in the moon;
Where the frail aspen her shadow leans
In midnight cold a-swoon.
I know a meadow flat with gold—
A million million burning flowers
In noon-sun's thirst their buds unfold
Beneath his blazing showers.
I saw a crazed face, did I,
Stare from the lattice of a mill,
While the lank sails clacked idly by
High on the windy hill.
# The Veil and other poems/Good-Bye

GOOD-BYE
THE last of last words spoken is, Good-bye—
The last dismantled flower in the weed-grown hedge,
The last thin rumour of a feeble bell far ringing,
The last blind rat to spurn the mildewed rye.
A hardening darkness glasses the haunted eye,
Shines into nothing the watcher's burnt-out candle,
Wreathes into scentless nothing the wasting incense,
Faints in the outer silence the hunting cry.
Love of its muted music breathes no sigh,
Thought in her ivory tower gropes in her spinning,
Toss on in vain the whispering trees of Eden,
Last of all last words spoken is, Good-bye.
# The Veil and other poems/Bitter Waters

BITTER WATERS
In a dense wood, a drear wood,
Dark water is flowing;
Deep, deep, beyond sounding,
A flood ever flowing.
There harbours no wild bird,
No wanderer strays there;
Wreathed in mist, sheds pale Ishtar
Her sorrowful rays there.
Take thy net; cast thy line;
Manna sweet be thy baiting;
Time's desolate ages
Shall still find thee waiting
For quick fish to rise there,
Or butterfly wooing,
Or flower's honeyed beauty,
Or wood-pigeon cooing.
Inland wellsprings are sweet;
But to lips, parched and dry,
Salt, salt is the savour
Of these; faint their sigh.
Bitter Babylon's waters.
Zion, distant and fair.
We hanged up our harps
On the trees that are there.
# The Sermons of the Curé of Ars/You will answer for their souls

❧ YOU WILL ANSWER FOR THEIR SOULS
But, you will tell me, we cannot be always following them around. We have other things to do. As to that, my dear brethren, I will say nothing. All I know is that you will answer for their souls as much as for your own. But we do all we can. I do not know whether you do all you can, but this much I do know: if your children incur damnation at home with you, you, too, will be damned. That much I know, and nothing else. You may go on saying "No" to that, saying that I go too far. You will agree with it if you have not entirely lost your faith. That alone should suffice to cast you into a state of despair from which you could not emerge. But I know well that you will not take another step to fulfil any better your duties to your children. You are not at all disturbed, and you are almost right, for you will have plenty of time to torment yourselves during all eternity. We will pass on.
# The Sermons of the Curé of Ars/You have not the time

❧ YOU HAVE NOT THE TIME
We can only find our happiness on earth in loving God, and we can only love Him in prayer to Him. We see that Jesus Christ, to encourage us often to have recourse to Him through prayer, promises never to refuse us anything if we pray for it as we should. But there is no need to go looking for elaborate and roundabout ways of showing you that we should pray often, for you have only to open your catechism and you will see there that the duty of every good Christian is to pray morning and evening and often during the day -- that is to say, always.... Which of us, my dear brethren, could, without tears of compassion, listen to those poor Christians who dare to say that they have not time to pray? You have not the time! Poor blind creatures, which is the more precious action: to strive to please God and to save your soul, or to go out to feed your animals in the stable or to call your children or your servants in order to send them out to till the earth or to tidy up the stable? Dear God! How blind man is! .... You have not the time! But tell me, ungrateful creatures, if God had called you to die that night, would you have exerted yourselves? If He had sent you three or four months of illness, would you have exerted yourselves? Go away, you miserable creatures; you deserve to have God abandon you in your blindness and leave you thus to perish. We find that it is too much to give Him a few minutes to thank Him for the graces which He is giving us at every instant! .... You must get on with your work, you say. That, my dear people, is where you are greatly mistaken. You have no other work to do except to please God and to save your souls. All the rest is not your work. If you do not do it, others will, but if you lose your soul, who will save it?
# The Sermons of the Curé of Ars/Your heart is but a mass of pride

❧ YOUR HEART IS BUT A MASS OF PRIDE
You will tell me, perhaps, that you never judge people except by what you see or after you have actually heard or been the witness of some action: "I saw him doing this action, so I am sure. I heard what he said with my own ears. After that, I could not be mistaken." But I shall reply by telling you to begin by entering into your own heart, which is but a mass of pride wherein everything is dried up. You will find yourself infinitely more guilty than the person whom you are so boldly judging, and you have plenty of room for fear, lest one day you will see him going to Heaven while you are being dragged down to Hell by the demons." Oh, unfortunate pride," says St. Augustine to us, "you dare to judge your brother on the slightest appearance of evil, and how do you know that he has not repented of his fault and that he is not numbered among God's friends? Take care rather that he does not take the place which your pride is putting you in great danger of losing." Yes, my dear brethren, all these rash judgments and all these interpretations come only from a person who has a secret pride, who does not know himself, and who dares to wish to know the interior life of his neighbour, something which is known to God alone. If only, my dear children, we were able to arrive at the stage of eradicating this first of the capital sins from our hearts, our neighbour would never do any wrong according to us. We should never amuse ourselves by examining his conduct. We should be content to do nothing else save weep for our own sins and work as hard as we could to correct them.