OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Monopolists' Lie

THE MONOPOLISTS' LIE.
"For our own part we are not ashamed to say that we hate the word cheapness in its ordinary acceptation, because we have never seen commodities cheap, as the term is commonly applied, without the accompaniment of ruinous distress among one class or other of our countrymen; whereas we have generally seen what are denominated dear seasons, always seasons of extraordinary prosperity to the majority of the people."—Standard.
I.
How the mockery stinks in the nostrils of Heaven! How the arrogant falsehood insults the wide earth! To the fiends in deep hell, for a moment 'tis given, 'Mid their torment, to gibber in horrible mirth! Oh! yes, 'tis a blessing that bread is so dear! Yes, yes, 'tis a comfort that rent is so high! Give the rich man his chariot, the poor man his bier; 'Tis a favor, untaxed, to be suffered to die!
II.
Crawl on, ye vile slaves! chaffer roots with the swine! They are good enough, churls! for your under-bred maws; Earth's treasures are skimmed, when your masters would dine, While ye starve by their merciful, master made laws! Toil, sweat, and make huger their huge money-bags; Serfs, train up your daughters to batten their lust! As they roll by in splendour, crouch, crouch in your rags! As they loll at the banquet, pay thrice for your crust!
III.
Oh, God's earth is fair! and a glimpse you may catch, As you peer o'er the wall of some neighbouring park, Of lawn, grove, and paddock—but lift not a latch, Or be torn by the dogs at your footsteps that bark! Sweet valley and glade, beauteous lake, stream, and river, Bestud ev'ry turn in our evergreen isle; Ye have heard they are lovely, but glanced at them never, Save yoked like scorned beasts to unrecompensed toil!
IV.
Crawl on, ye vile slaves! not a sod is your own, Of the soil where your fathers coursed free as the airs; Not a bird dare ye shoot, where their footsteps have flown; Not a fish dare you draw from the streams that were theirs! With your sweat your land-tyrants their 'scutcheons adorn, And would coin your heart's blood, as your hearts they have riven! You have asked for free bread—they refuse it with scorn; If you starve at their will, you deserve it, by Heaven!
# The Spirit of the Nation/The Irish Catholic

THE IRISH CATHOLIC TO HIS PROTESTANT BROTHER.
"Oh, Paddy, my boy, What makes you so shy To join with your Protestant brother, Your brother? Sure, you'll never thrive, Unless you contrive To be on good terms with each other, Each other."
Old Song.
I.
What curse is on our land and us, That bigot strife so long has lasted— That every cheering prospect thus Is by its fatal influence blasted! That still, when round our banner green The dawning hope of freedom rallies, Religious discord comes between, To mix her poison in the chalice!
II.
Religious discord! Oh! shall man, The worm by doubt and darkness bounded, His fellow-creature dare to ban, For faith, in God, sincerely founded! A holier gospel let us preach, In spite of angry bigot's railing— His own eternal hope to each; But love and peace through all prevailing.
III.
And are not all our ties the same— One sod beneath—one blue sky o'er us; ​True Irish both, in heart and name— One lot, or dark, or bright before us? A thousand links about us wound To peace and mutual kindness urge us; The very seas that gird us round Speak union in their sleepless surges.
IV.
Remember glorious eighty-two, And wakening freedom's voice of thunder; That spirit first was roused by you, Which burst at length my bonds asunder. How bright, though brief, the halo then That o'er our common country lighted! Alas! the spoiler came again— He came, and found us disunited.
V.
Our annals stained with blood and tears Still preach this warning, this example, The wicked feuds of bygone years At once beneath our feet to trample. To have but one distinction known, One line from henceforth drawn among us, The line of false and true alone, Of those who love and those who wrong us.
VI.
Unite with me, then, brother mine, Oppressor and oppressed no longer, A bond of peace we'll round us twine Than all the Saxon's fetters stronger. Be Ireland's good our common creed, Her sacred cause alone enlist us; With gallant hearts and God to speed What power on earth will dare resist us?
THE END.
# The Vampyre

* related portals: Gothic fiction.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
Originally published on 1 April 1819 by Henry Colburn in the New Monthly Magazine with the false attribution "A Tale by Lord Byron".
THE
VAMPYRE;
A Tale.
* THE
* VAMPYRE;
* A Tale.
* LONDON:
* PRINTED FOR SHERWOOD, NEELY, AND JONES,
* PATERNOSTER-ROW.
* 1819.
* [Entered at Stationers' Hall, March 27, 1819.]
* Extract of a Letter from Geneva
* Introduction
* The Vampyre
* Account of Lord Byron's Residence, &c.
Gillet, Printer, Crown Court, Fleet Street, London.
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 Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/Glencoe

GLENCOE.
Lay by the harp, sing not that song,  Although so very sweet; It is a song of other years,  For thee and me unmeet.
Thy head is pillowed on my arm,  Thy heart beats close to mine; Methinks it were unjust to heaven,  If we should now repine.
I must not weep, you must not sing  That thrilling song again,—
I dare not think upon the time  When last I heard that strain.
It was a silent summer eve:  We stood by the hill side, And we could see my ship afar  Breasting the ocean tide.
Around us grew the graceful larch,  A calm blue sky above, Beneath were little cottages,  The homes of peace and love.
Thy harp was by thee then, as now,  One hand in mine was laid; The other, wandering 'mid the chords,  A soothing music made:
Just two or three sweet chords, that seemed  An echo of thy tone,— The cushat's song was on the wind  And mingled with thine own.
I looked upon the vale beneath,  I looked on thy sweet face; I thought how dear, this voyage o'er,  Would be my resting place.
We parted; but I kept thy kiss,—  Thy last one,—and its sigh— As safely as the stars are kept  In yonder azure sky.
Again I stood by that hill side,  And scarce I knew the place,
For fire, and blood, and death, had left  On every thing their trace.
The lake was covered o'er with weeds,  Choked was our little rill, There was no sign of corn or grass,  The cushat's song was still:
Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap  Was every cottage round;— I listened, but I could not hear  One single human sound:
I spoke, and only my own words  Were echoed from the hill; I sat me down to weep, and curse  The hand that wrought this ill.
We met again by miracle:  Thou wert another one Saved from this work of sin and death,—  I was not quite alone.
And then I heard the evil tale  Of guilt and suffering, Till I prayed the curse of God might fall  On the false-hearted king.
I will not think on this,—for thou  Art saved, and saved for me! And gallantly my little bark  Cuts through the moonlight sea.
There's not a shadow in the sky,  The waves are bright below;
I must not, on so sweet a night,  Think upon dark Glencoe.
If thought were vengeance, then its thought  A ceaseless fire should be, Burning by day, burning by night,  Kept like a thought of thee.
But I am powerless and must flee;—  That e'er a time should come, When we should shun our own sweet land,  And seek another home!
This must not be,—yon soft moonlight  Falls on my heart like balm; The waves are still, the air is hushed,  And I too will be calm.
Away! we seek another land  Of hope, stars, flowers, sunshine; I shall forget the dark green hills  Of that which once was mine!
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/Fugitive Pieces

FUGITIVE PIECES.
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Altered River

THE ALTERED RIVER.
Thou lovely river, thou art now  As fair as fair can be, Pale flowers wreathe upon thy brow,  The rose bends over thee. Only the morning sun hath leave  To turn thy waves to light, Cool shade the willow branches weave  When noon becomes too bright. The lilies are the only boats  Upon thy diamond plain, The swan alone in silence floats  Around thy charm'd domain.
The moss bank's fresh embroiderie,  With fairy favours starr'd, Seems made the summer haunt to be  Of melancholy bard. Fair as thou art, thou wilt be food  For many a thought of pain; For who can gaze upon thy flood,  Nor wish it to remain The same pure and unsullied thing  Where heaven's face is as clear Mirror'd in thy blue wandering  As heaven's face can be here. Flowers fling their sweet bonds on thy breast,  The willows woo thy stay, In vain,—thy waters may not rest,  Their course must be away.
In yon wide world, what wilt thou find?  What all find—toil and care: Your flowers you have left behind  Far other weight to bear. The heavy bridge confines your stream,  Through which the barges toil, Smoke has shut out the sun's glad beam,  Thy waves have caught the soil. On—on—though weariness it be,  By shoal and barrier cross'd, Till thou hast reach'd the mighty sea,  And there art wholly lost. Bend thou, young poet, o'er the stream—  Such fate will be thine own; Thy lute's hope is a morning dream,  And when have dreams not flown?
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/Follow Me!

FOLLOW ME!
A summer morning, with its calm, glad light,  Was on the fallen castle: other days  Were here remembered vividly; the past  Was even as the present, nay, perhaps more—  For that we do not pause to think upon.  First, o'er the arching gateway was a shield,  The sculptured arms defaced, but visible  Was the bold motto, "Follow me:" again  I saw it scrolled around the lofty crest  Which, mouldering, decked the ruined banquet-room:  A third time did I trace these characters—  On the worn pavement of an ancient grave  Was written "Follow me!"
Follow me! 'tis to the battle-field— No eye must turn, and no step must yield; In the thick of the battle look ye to be: On!—'tis my banner ye follow, and me.
Follow me!—'tis to the festal ring, Where the maidens smile and the minstrels sing; Hark! to our name is the bright wine poured: Follow me on to the banquet-board!
Follow me!—'tis where the yew-tree bends, When the strength and the pride of the victor ends Pale in the thick grass the wild flowers bloom: Follow me on to the silent tomb!
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/L’Amore Dominatore

L'AMORE DOMINATORE.
They built a temple for the God,  'Twas in a myrtle grove, Where the bee and the butterfly  Vied for each blossom's love.
The marble pillars rose like snow,  Glittering in the sunshine: A thousand roses shed their breath,  Like incense, o'er the shrine.
And there were censers of perfume,  Vases with their sweet showers,
And wreaths of every blended hue  That lights the summer flowers.
And, like the breathing of those flowers  Made audible, a sound Came, lulling as a waterfall,  From lutes and voices 'round.
I looked upon the altar,—there  The pictured semblance lay Of him the temple's lord; it shone  More beautiful than day.
It was a sleeping child, as fair  As the first-born of spring; Like Indian gold waved the bright curls  In many a sunny ring.
His cheek was flushed with its own rose,  And with the crimson shed From the rich wings that like a cloud  Were o'er his slumbers spread.
And by him lay his feathered shafts,  His golden bow unbent;— Methought that, even in his sleep,  His smile was on them sent.
I heard them hymn his name—his power,—  I heard them, and I smiled; How could they say the earth was ruled  By but a sleeping child?
I went then forth into the world  To see what might be there;
And there I heard a voice of wo,  Of weeping, and despair.
I saw a youthful warrior stand  In his first light of fame,— His native city filled the air  With her deliverer's name.
I saw him hurry from the crowd,  And fling his laurel crown, In weariness, in hopelessness,  In utter misery, down.
And what the sorrow, then I asked,  Can thus the warrior move To scorn his meed of victory?  They told me it was Love.
I sought the forum, there was one  With dark and haughty brow,— His voice was as the trumpet's tone,  Mine ear rings with it now.
They quailed before his flashing eye,—  They watched his lightest word,— When suddenly that eye was dim,  That voice no longer heard.
I looked upon his lonely hour,  The weary solitude; When over dark and bitter thoughts  The sick heart's left to brood.
I marked the haughty spirit's strife  To rend its bonds in vain:
Again I asked the cause of ill,  And heard Love's name again.
Yet on I went: I thought that Love  To woman's gentle heart, Perhaps, had flung a lighter shaft,  Had given a fairer part.
I looked upon a lovely face,  Lit by a large dark eye; But on the lash there was a tear,  And on the lip a sigh.
I asked not why that form had drooped,  Nor why that cheek was pale?
I heard the maiden's twilight song,  It told me all her tale.
I saw an urn, and round it hung  An April diadem Of flowers, telling they mourned one  Faded and fair like them.
I turned to tales of other days,  They spoke of breath and bloom; And proud hearts that were bow'd by Love  Into an early tomb.
I heard of every suffering  That on this earth can be: How can they call a sleeping child  A likeness, Love, of thee?
They cannot paint thee:—let them dream  A dark and nameless thing. Why give the likeness of the dove  Where is the serpent's sting?
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/Head of Ariadne

HEAD OF ARIADNE.
Oh, why should Woman ever love,  Throwing her chance away, Her little chance of summer shine,  Upon a rainbow ray?
Look back on each old history,  Each fresh remembered tale; They'll tell how often love has made  The cheek of woman pale;—
Her unrequited love, a flower  Dying for air and light;
Her love betrayed, another flower  Withering before a blight.
Look down within the silent grave;  How much of breath and bloom Have wasted,—passion's sacrifice  Offered to the lone tomb.
Look on her hour of solitude,  How many bitter cares Belie the smile with which the lip  Would sun the wound it bears.
Mark this sweet face! oh, never blush  Has past o'er one more fair, And never o'er a brighter brow  Has wandered raven hair.
And mark how carelessly those wreaths  Of curl are flung behind, And mark how pensively the brow  Leans on the hand reclined.
'Tis she of Crete!—another proof  Of woman's weary lot; Their April doom of sun and shower,—  To love, then be forgot.
Heart-sickness, feelings tortured, torn,  A sky of storm above, A path of thorns,—these are love's gifts,—  Ah, why must woman love!
# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Aspen-Tree

THE ASPEN TREE.
The quiet of the evening hour  Was laid on every summer leaf; That purple shade was on each flower,  At once so beautiful, so brief,
Only the aspen knew not rest,  But still, with an unquiet song, Kept murmuring to the gentle west,  And cast a changeful shade along.
Not for its beauty—other trees  Had greener boughs, and statelier stem; And those had fruit, and blossoms these,  Yet still I chose this tree from them.
'Tis a strange thing, this depth of love  Which dwells within the human heart; From earth below to heaven above,  In each, in all, it fain has part.
It must find sympathy, or make;  And hence beliefs, the fond, the vain, The thousand shapes that fancies take,  To bind the fine connecting chain.
We plant pale flowers beside the tomb,  And love to see them droop and fade; For every leaf that sheds its bloom  Seems like a natural tribute paid.
Thus Nature soothes the grief she shares:  What are the flowers we hold most dear?
The one whose haunted beauty wears  The sign of human thought or tear.
Why hold the violet and rose  A place within the heart, denied To fairer foreign flowers, to those  To earlier memories allied?
Like those frail leaves, each restless thought  Fluctuates in my weary mind; Uncertain tree! my fate was wrought  In the same loom where thine was twined.
And thus from other trees around  Did I still watch the aspen-tree, Because in its unrest I found  Somewhat of sympathy with me.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 12/Letters from Italy

Letters from Italy
Auch in Arcadien
Letters from Italy
Auch in Arcadien
* From Carlsbad to the Brenner
* From the Brenner to Verona
* From Verona to Venice
* Venice
* From Ferrara to Rome
* Rome
* Naples
* Sicily
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 12

* Letters from Switzerland
** Part I
** Part II
* Letters from Italy
** From Carlsbad to the Brenner
** From the Brenner to Verona
** From Verona to Venice
** Venice
** From Ferrara to Rome
** Rome
** Naples
** Sicily
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Three Languages

* related portals: Brothers Grimm.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
English-language translations of Die drei Sprachen include:
* "The Three Languages", translated by Margaret Raine Hunt, in Grimm's Household Tales, Volume 1 (1884)
* "The Three Languages", translated by Alice Lucas, illustrated by Arthur Rackham, in The Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm (1909)

## Works about The Three Languages

* The Outcast Child in The Folk-Lore Journal, Volume 4, 1886
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 Three Lemons

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Three Lemons."
* 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 Three Lemons by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen
* The Three Citrons by Ján Francisci
# The Three Little Men in the Wood

* related portals: Brothers Grimm.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
English-language translations of Die drei Männlein im Walde include:
* "The Three Little Men in the Wood", translated by Lucy Crane, illustrated by Walter Crane, in Household stories from the collection of the Bros Grimm (1882)
* "The Three Little Men in the Wood", translated by Margaret Raine Hunt, in Grimm's Household Tales, Volume 1 (1884)
* "The Three Dwarfs", translated by May Sellar, Miss Blackley and unknown value, edited by Andrew Lang, illustrated by Lancelot Speed, in The Red Fairy Book (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 Three Little Pigs

* "The Story of the Three Little Pigs", Jacobs, J., English Fairy Tales (1890)
* "The Three Little Pigs", Lang, A., The Green Fairy Book (1902)
# The Zoologist/4th series, vol 4 (1900)/Issue 709

| Issue 709 (July, 1900) |
| Kew, H. Wallis | Spinning Molluscs | 289 |
| | Notes and Queries | 321 |
| | Notices of New Books | 335 |
| | Editorial Gleanings | 340 |
# The Voice Of The Silence

THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE
By H. P. Blavatsky
AND OTHER CHOSEN FRAGMENTS FROM THE "BOOK OF THE GOLDEN PRECEPTS." FOR THE DAILY USE OF LANOOS (DISCIPLES).
TRANSLATED AND ANNOTATED BY
"H.P.B."
* Preface
* Fragment I The Voice Of The Silence
* Fragment II The Two Paths
* Fragment III The Seven Portals
# The Voice and the Peak

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
I. THE VOICE and the Peak  Far over summit and lawn, The lone glow and long roar  Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of dawn!
 II. All night have I heard the voice  Rave over the rocky bar, But thou wert silent in heaven,  Above thee glided the star.
 III. Hast thou no voice, O Peak,  That standest high above all? ‘I am the voice of the Peak,  I roar and rave, for I fall.
 IV. ‘A thousand voices go  To North, South, East, and West; They leave the heights and are troubled,  And moan and sink to their rest.
 V. ‘The fields are fair beside them,  The chestnut towers in his bloom; But they—they feel the desire of the deep—  Fall, and follow their doom.
 VI. ‘The deep has power on the height,  And the height has power on the deep; They are raised for ever and ever,  And sink again into sleep.’
 VII. Not raised for ever and ever,  But when their cycle is o’er, The valley, the voice, the peak, the star  Pass, and are found no more.
 VIII. The Peak is high and flush’d  At his highest with sunrise fire; The Peak is high, and the stars are high,  And the thought of a man is higher.
 IX. A deep below the deep,  And a height beyond the height! Our hearing is not hearing,  And our seeing is not sight.
 X. The voice and the Peak  Far into heaven withdrawn, The lone glow and long roar  Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of dawn!
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 Yellow Book/Volume 13/The Rose

​The Rose
By Henry W. Nevinson
(A mediæval citizen speaks)
Stephen, clerk of Oxford town,
Oh, the weary while he lies,
Wrapt in his old college gown,
Burning, burning till he dies!
And 'tis very surely said,
He shall burn when he is dead,
All aflame from foot to head.
Stephen said he knew a rose—
One and two, yea, roses three—
Lovelier far than any those
Which at service-time we see,
Emblems of atonement done,
And of Christ's belovèd One,
And of Mary's mystic Son.
Stephen said his roses grew
All upon a milk-white stem,
Side by side together two,
One a little up from them,
Sweeter than the rose's breath,
Rosy as the sun riseth,
Warm beside; that was his death.   Stephen swore, as God knows well,
Just to touch that topmost bud,
He would give his soul to hell—
Soul and body, bones and blood.
Hell has come before he dies;
Burning, burning there he lies,
But he neither speaks nor cries.   Ah, what might those roses be?
Once, before the dawn was red,
Did he wander out to see
If the rose were still a-bed?
Did he find a rose-tree tall
Standing by the garden wall?
Did he touch the rose of all?   Stephen, was it worth the pain,
Just to touch a breathing rose?
Ah, to think of it again,
Look, he smiles despite his throes.
Did he dream that hell would be
Years hereafter? Now, you see,
Hell is here, and where is she?
At my word, through all his face
Flames the infernal fire within,
Mary, Mary, grant me grace,
Still to keep my soul from sin!
Thanks to God, my rose was grown
Not so sweet, but all my own,
Not so fair, but mine alone.
# The Yellow Book/Volume 13/Winter Evening on the Clyde

​Two Pictures
By Muirhead Bone
* Winter Evening on the Clyde
* Old Houses off the Dry Gate, Glasgow
page
​ I. Winter Evening on the Clyde - Muirhead Bone (1897)
# The Yellow Book/Volume 2/A Girl Resting

A Girl Resting
By Sydney Adamson
# The Yellow Book/Volume 13/Vanity

Vanity
By D. Y. Cameron
page
​ Vanity - David Young Cameron (1896)
# The Yellow Book/Volume 2/A Landscape

A Landscape
By Alfred Thornton
# The White Bride and the Black One

* "Die weiße und die schwarze Braut". Brothers Grimm. Kinder- und Haus-märchen
* "The White Bride and the Black One". Margaret Hunt Grimm's Household Tales, Volume 2. 1884