OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Columbine

Still, still my eye will gaze long-fixed on thee, Till I forget that I am called a man, And at thy side fast-rooted seem to be, And the breeze comes my cheek with thine to fan; Upon this craggy hill our life shall pass, A life of summer days and summer joys, Nodding our honeybells mid pliant grass In which the bee half hid his time employs; And here we'll drink with thirsty pores the rain, And turn dew-sprinkled to the rising sun, And look when in the flaming west again His orb across the heaven its path has run; Here left in darkness on the rocky steep, My weary eyes shall close like folding flowers in sleep.
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 Columbian Insurance Company v. Catlett

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
25 U.S. 383
The Columbian Insurance Company v. Catlett
March 3d.
This cause was argued by Mr. Webster and Mr. Taylor for the plaintiffs in error, and by the Attorney General and Mr. Swann for the defendant in error. March 9th.
Mr. Justice STORY delivered the opinion of the Court

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Come-On

A novellette, extracted from The Popular Magazine, Dec 1908
Financial failure is paved with get-rich-quick intentions.
The Come-On
By A. M. Chisholm Author of "No Wedding Bells," "The Mother Lode" Etc.
"The man who knows it all" is usually an insufferable acquaintance, with his cock-sureness, his air of condescending superiority. However, he is good plucking, yes, the very best, for a man who knows more and doesn't brag about it. Promoters, sharpers and schemers of all sorts like to gel hold of this know-it-all kind of man. Chisholm tells us of such a case in his characteristically humorous fashion.
* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
* Chapter 6
* Chapter 7
* Chapter 8
* Chapter 9
* Chapter 10
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 1960, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 63 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 Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Fair Quakeress

THE FAIR QUAKERESS
She was a fair young girl, yet on her brow No pale pearl shone, a blemish on the pure And snowy lustre of its living light, No radiant gem shone beautifully through The shadowing of her tresses, as a star Through the dark sky of midnight; and no wreath Of coral circled on her queenly neck, In mockery of the glowing cheek and lip, Whose hue the fairy guardian of the flowers Might never rival when her delicate touch Tinges the rose of springtime.
Tinges the rose of springtime. Unadorned, Save by her youthful charms, and with a garb Simple as Nature’s self, why turn to her The proud and gifted, and the versed in all The pageantry of fashion?
The pageantry of fashion? She hath not Moved down the dance to music, when the hall Is lighted up like sunshine, and the thrill Of the light viol and the mellow flute, And the deep tones of manhood, softened down To very music melt upon the ear.— She has not mingled with the hollow world Nor tampered with its mockeries, until all The delicate perceptions of the heart, The innate modesty, the watchful sense Of maiden dignity, are lost within The maze of fashion and the din of crowds.
Yet Beauty hath its homage. Kings have bowed From the tall majesty of ancient thrones With a prostrated knee, yea, cast aside The awfulness of time-created power For the regardful glances of a child. Yea, the high ones and powerful of Earth, The helmëd sons of victory, the grave And schooled philosophers, the giant men Of overmastering intellect, have turned Each from the separate idol of his high And vehement ambition for the low Idolatry of human loveliness; And bartered the sublimity of mind, The godlike and commanding intellect Which nations knelt to, for a woman’s tear, A soft-toned answer, or a wanton’s smile.
And in the chastened beauty of that eye, And in the beautiful play of that red lip, And in the quiet smile, and in the voice Sweet as the tuneful greeting of a bird To the first flowers of springtime, there is more Than the perfection of the painter’s skill Or statuary’s moulding. Mind is there, The pure and holy attributes of soul, The seal of virtue, the exceeding grace Of meekness blended with a maiden pride; Nor deem ye that beneath the gentle smile, And the calm temper of a chastened mind No warmth of passion kindles, and no tide Of quick and earnest feeling courses on From the warm heart’s pulsations. There are springs Of deep and pure affection, hidden now, Within that quiet bosom, which but wait The thrilling of some kindly touch, to flow Like waters from the Desert-rock of old.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Eternal Goodness

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS
O friends! with whom my feet have trod The quiet aisles of prayer, Glad witness to your zeal for God And love of man I bear.
I trace your lines of argument; Your logic linked and strong I weigh as one who dreads dissent, And fears a doubt as wrong.
But still my human hands are weak To hold your iron creeds: Against the words ye bid me speak My heart within me pleads.
Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? Who talks of scheme and plan? The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man.
I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground Ye tread with boldness shod; I dare not fix with mete and bound The love and power of God.
Ye praise His justice; even such His pitying love I deem: Ye seek a king; I fain would touch The robe that hath no seam.
Ye see the curse which overbroods A world of pain and loss; I hear our Lord’s beatitudes And prayer upon the cross.
More than your schoolmen teach, within Myself, alas! I know: Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, Too small the merit show.
I bow my forehead to the dust, I veil mine eyes for shame, And urge, in trembling self-distrust, A prayer without a claim.
I see the wrong that round me lies, I feel the guilt within; I hear, with groan and travail-cries, The world confess its sin.
Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood, To one fixed trust my spirit clings; I know that God is good!
Not mine to look where cherubim And seraphs may not see, But nothing can be good in Him Which evil is in me.
The wrong that pains my soul below I dare not throne above, I know not of His hate,—I know His goodness and His love.
I dimly guess from blessings known Of greater out of sight, And, with the chastened Psalmist, own His judgments too are right.
I long for household voices gone, For vanished smiles I long, But God hath led my dear ones on, And He can do no wrong.
I know not what the future hath Of marvel or surprise, Assured alone that life and death His mercy underlies.
And if my heart and flesh are weak To bear an untried pain, The bruisëd reed He will not break, But strengthen and sustain.
No offering of my own I have, Nor works my faith to prove; I can but give the gifts He gave, And plead His love for love.
And so beside the Silent Sea I wait the muffled oar; No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore.
I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.
O brothers! if my faith is vain, If hopes like these betray,
Pray for me that my feet may gain The sure and safer way.
And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen Thy creatures as they be, Forgive me if too close I lean My human heart on Thee!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Dead Feast of the Kol-Folk

THE DEAD FEAST OF THE KOL-FOLK
E. B. Tylor in his Primitive Culture, chapter xii., gives an account of the reverence paid the dead by the Kol tribes of Chota Nagpur, Assam. “When a Ho or Munda,” he says, “has been burned on the funeral pile, collected morsels of his bones are carried in procession with a solemn, ghostly, sliding step, keeping time to the deep-sounding drum, and when the old woman who carries the bones on her bamboo tray lowers it from time to time, then girls who carry pitchers and brass vessels mournfully reverse them to show that they are empty; thus the remains are taken to visit every house in the village, and every dwelling of a friend or relative for miles, and the inmates come out to mourn and praise the goodness of the departed; the bones are carried to all the dead man’s favorite haunts, to the fields he cultivated, to the grove he planted, to the threshing-floor where he worked, to the village dance-room where he made merry. At last they are taken to the grave, and buried in an earthen vase upon a store of food, covered with one of those huge stone slabs which European visitors wonder at in the districts of the aborigines of India.” In the Journal of the Asiatic Society, Bengal, vol. ix. p. 795, is a Ho dirge.
We have opened the door, Once, twice, thrice! We have swept the floor, We have boiled the rice. Come hither, come hither! Come from the far lands, Come from the star lands, Come as before! We lived long together, We loved one another; Come back to our life. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother, Child, husband, and wife, For you we are sighing. Come take your old places, Come look in our faces, The dead on the dying, Come home!
We have opened the door, Once, twice, thrice! We have kindled the coals, And we boil the rice For the feast of souls. Come hither, come hither! Think not we fear you, Whose hearts are so near you. Come tenderly thought on, Come all unforgotten, Come from the shadow-lands, From the dim meadow-lands Where the pale grasses bend Low to our sighing. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother, Come husband and friend, The dead to the dying, Come home!
We have opened the door You entered so oft; For the feast of souls We have kindled the coals, And we boil the rice soft. Come you who are dearest To us who are nearest, Come hither, come hither, From out the wild weather; The storm clouds are flying, The peepul is sighing; Come in from the rain. Come father, come mother, Come sister and brother, Come husband and lover, Beneath our roof-cover. Look on us again, The dead on the dying. Come home!
We have opened the door! For the feast of souls We have kindled the coals We may kindle no more! Snake, fever, and famine, The curse of the Brahmin, The sun and the dew, They burn us, they bite us, They waste us and smite us; Our days are but few! In strange lands far yonder To wonder and wander We hasten to you. List then to our sighing, While yet we are here: Nor seeing nor hearing, We wait without fearing To feel you draw near. O dead, to the dying Come home!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Familist's Hymn

THE FAMILIST’S HYMN
Father! to Thy suffering poor Strength and grace and faith impart, And with Thy own love restore Comfort to the broken heart! Oh, the failing ones confirm With a holier strength of zeal! Give Thou not the feeble worm Helpless to the spoiler’s heel!
Father! for Thy holy sake We are spoiled and hunted thus; Joyful, for Thy truth we take Bonds and burthens unto us: Poor, and weak, and robbed of all, Weary with our daily task, That Thy truth may never fall Through our weakness, Lord, we ask.
Round our fired and wasted homes Flits the forest-bird unscared, And at noon the wild beast comes Where our frugal meal was shared; For the song of praises there Shrieks the crow the livelong day; For the sound of evening prayer Howls the evil beast of prey.
Sweet the songs we loved to sing Underneath Thy holy sky; Words and tones that used to bring Tears of joy in every eye; Dear the wrestling hours of prayer, When we gathered knee to knee, Blameless youth and hoary hair, Bowed, O God, alone to Thee.
As Thine early children, Lord, Shared their wealth and daily bread, Even so, with one accord, We, in love, each other fed. Not with us the miser’s hoard, Not with us his grasping hand; Equal round a common board, Drew our meek and brother band!
Safe our quiet Eden lay When the war-whoop stirred the land And the Indian turned away From our home his bloody hand. Well that forest-ranger saw, That the burthen and the curse Of the white man’s cruel law Rested also upon us.
Torn apart, and driven forth To our toiling hard and long, Father! from the dust of earth Lift we still our grateful song! Grateful, that in bonds we share In Thy love which maketh free; Joyful, that the wrongs we bear, Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee!
Grateful! that where’er we toil,— By Wachuset’s wooded side, On Nantucket’s sea-worn isle, Or by wild Neponset’s tide,— Still, in spirit, we are near, And our evening hymns, which rise Separate and discordant here, Meet and mingle in the skies!
Let the scoffer scorn and mock, Let the proud and evil priest Rob the needy of his flock, For his wine-cup and his feast,— Redden not Thy bolts in store Through the blackness of Thy skies? For the sighing of the poor Wilt Thou not, at length, arise?
Worn and wasted, oh! how long Shall thy trodden poor complain? In Thy name they bear the wrong, In Thy cause the bonds of pain! Melt oppression’s heart of steel, Let the haughty priesthood see, And their blinded followers feel, That in us they mock at Thee!
In Thy time, O Lord of hosts, Stretch abroad that hand to save Which of old, on Egypt’s coasts, Smote apart the Red Sea’s wave! Lead us from this evil land, From the spoiler set us free, And once more our gathered band, Heart to heart, shall worship Thee!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother

THE FAREWELL
OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE
Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, Where the noisome insect stings, Where the fever demon strews Poison with the falling dews, Where the sickly sunbeams glare Through the hot and misty air; Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia’s hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. There no mother’s eye is near them, There no mother’s ear can hear them; Never, when the torturing lash Seams their back with many a gash, Shall a mother’s kindness bless them, Or a mother’s arms caress them. Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia’s hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Oh, when weary, sad, and slow, From the fields at night they go, Faint with toil, and racked with pain, To their cheerless homes again, There no brother’s voice shall greet them; There no father’s welcome meet them.
Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia’s hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. From the tree whose shadow lay On their childhood’s place of play; From the cool spring where they drank; Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank; From the solemn house of prayer, And the holy counsels there; Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia’s hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Toiling through the weary day, And at night the spoiler’s prey. Oh, that they had earlier died, Sleeping calmly, side by side, Where the tyrant’s power is o’er, And the fetter galls no more! Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia’s hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. By the holy love He beareth; By the bruisëd reed He spareth; Oh, may He, to whom alone All their cruel wrongs are known, Still their hope and refuge prove, With a more than mother’s love. Gone, gone,—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia’s hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Song of the Stars

Song of the Stars.
[This song, which is here for the first time printed, was written to an air, composed by B. Bluhme, a German musical amateur, and named "Doctor N———."]
Let sages tell of orbs so fair, Of suns, and moons, and stars; And praise the planets ev'ry one— Earth, Venus, Vesta, Mars;—
I'll sing of orbs more beauteous far Than e'er by sage were seen, Though search'd be all the whirling worlds That deck the vault serene;—
I'll sing the stars on earth that dwell, And beam with living love; Fair woman's eyes, whose lustre pales All stars of heav'n above. ​The stars of earth are beauteous gems, Of many a varied hue; But dearest of them all to me Are eyes of bonnie blue.
Blue are the mountains of our land, And blue her lakes so clear, Her glens are blue, but bluer far The eyes of Sally dear.
Of stellar orbs let sages watch The flight through boundless skies; I'd rather watch the live long night, The beams of Sally's eyes.
Then sing! then sing! my Sally's eyes! Which beam with living love, Whose lustre pales all starry gems That spangle heav'n above.
W. G. B.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Sly Widow Skinner

Sly Widow Skinner.
[Thomas C. Latto.—Air, "The Lothian Lassie."]
O the days when I strutted (to think o't I'm sad) The heir to a cosy bit mailen, When sly Widow Skinner gat round me, the jaud! For she thocht my auld daddy was failin', was failin', For she thocht my auld daddy was faillin'.
I promised to tak' her for better for worse, Though sma' was my chance to be happy, For I found she had courted na me but my purse, What's waur—that she liket a drappy, a drappy, What's waur that she liket a drappy.
Then ae nicht at a kirn I saw Maggy Hay, To see her was strait to adore her; The Widow look'd blue when I pass'd her neist day, An' waited na e'en to speer for her, speer for her, An' waited na e'en to speer for her.
O pity my case, I was terribly raw, And she was a terrible Tartar; She spak about "measures" and "takin' the law," And I set mysel' down for a martyr, a martyr, And I set mysel' down for a martyr.
Weel! I buckled wi' Meg, an' the blythe honeymoon Scarce was owre when the Widow, I met her,
She girningly whisper'd, "Hech! weel ha'e ye dune,
But tent me lad I can do better, do better, But tent me lad I can do better:—
'Gin ye canna get berries put up wi' the hools, Her proverb I countit a blether, But,—widows for ever for hookin' auld fules,—
Neist week she was cryed wi' my feyther, my feyther!
Neist week she was cryed wi' my feyther!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Somebody 2

Somebody.
[Written by Burns for Johnson's Museum. Burns, it will be seen, borrowed two or three lines from the opening stanza of the old verses. Hogg, in his Jacobite Relics, gives a version of the song in which the "Somebody" is made to mean the dethroned Stuart, but it is clearly a fabrication.]
My heart is sair—I daurna tell— My heart is sair for somebody; I could wake a winter night, For the sake of somebody. Ochon, for somebody! Och hey, for somebody! I could range the warld round, For the sake of somebody.
Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody. ​Ochon, for somebody! Och hey, for somebody! I wad do—what wad I not?— For the sake of somebody.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Soldier, rest

Soldier, rest.
[From "The Lady of the lake," by Sir W. Scott.]
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing! Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er. Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear; Armour's clang, or war-steed champing; Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Tet the lark's shrill fife may come, At the day-break, from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here; Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons tramping. ​Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveillie. Sleep!—the deer is in his den; Sleep!—thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep!—nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; Think not of the rising sun; For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveillie.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Song of Death

Song of Death.
[In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, 17th Dec. 1791, Burns says:—"I have just finished the following song, which, to a lady, the descendant of many heroes of his truly illustrious line, and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology. Scene, a field of battle—time of the day, evening,—the wounded and dying are supposed to join in the song. The circumstance that gave rise to it was looking over, with a musical friend, Macdonald's collection of Highland Airs, I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oran an Aoig, or the Song of Death, to the measure of which I have adapted my stanzas."—Thomson, in his collection, does not give the Gaelic air, but sets the words to the Irish tune of "My lodging is on the cold ground." The original tune is given in Ritson's collection.]
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun! Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties! Our race of existence is run. Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go frighten the coward and slave! Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know No terrors hast thou to the brave. ​Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark, Nor saves ev'n the wreck of a name. Thou strik'st the young hero, a glorious mark! He falls in the blaze of his fame. In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save; While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, O, who would not die with the brave!
# The Book of Scottish Song/Song to Maria

Song to Maria.
[Written by Sheridan Knowles, and first published in the "Edinburgh Literary Journal," 1829. Set to music by J. T. May.]
Ye're my ain, love, ye're my ain! Forms sae fair, I ne'er see mony; Hearts sae fond, sae true, love, nane! Ye're my ain! my dear! my bonny! Years a score, a score, amaist, Ha'e we lo'ed and lived thegither: Ilk ane sweeter than the last; Ye're my ain, I ha'e nae ither!
Will we mak' the ae score twa? Bounteous still's the power that's o'er us! Bloomy summer's scarce awa'; Mellow autumn's a' before us; Long 'tis then tin winter, dear! Comes wi' thoughtfu' smile and greets us! Far's the close! yet, far or near, Ye're my ain, where'er it meets us!