OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/The Old Road to Paradise

THE OLD ROAD TO PARADISE
Permission of the author and the publisher, Good Housekeeping, New York
Ours is a dark Eastertide, and a scarlet spring, But high up at Heaven's gate all the saints sing, Glad for the great companies returning to their King!
Oh, in youth the dawn's a rose, dusk an amethyst, All the roads from dusk to dawn gay they wind and twist, The old road to Paradise, easy it is missed!
But out on the wet battlefields few the roadways wind, One to grief, one to death—no road that's kind— The old road to Paradise, plain it is to find.
(St. Martin in his Colonel's cloak, St. Joan in her mail, King David with his crown and sword—oh, none there be that fail— Along the road to Paradise they stand to greet and hail!)
Where the dark's a terror-thing, morn a hope doubt-tossed, ​Where the lads lie thinking long, out in rain and frost, There they find their God again, long ago they lost.
Where the night comes cruelly, where the hurt men moan, Where the crushed forgotten ones whisper prayers alone, Christ along the battlefields comes to lead His own.
Souls that would have withered soon in the world's hot glare, Blown and gone like shriveled things, dusty on the air, Rank on rank they follow Him, young and strong and fair!
Ours is a sad Eastertide, and a woeful day, Yet high up at Heaven's gate the saints are all gay, For the old road to Paradise—'tis a crowded way!
—Margaret Widdemer
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/The Man Who Can Fight and Smile

THE MAN WHO CAN FIGHT AND SMILE
Permission of the author
There is need in the world of men to-day For the man who can fight and smile; For the man who can to the field away With a song on his lips the while.
There is need in the world of women to-day For the woman who smiles and gives; Who can hide her tears and her deep dismay, While in sorrow she works and lives.
There are tears enough in the world to-day, With its strife and bloodshed and grief; We must lift our hearts from the clouds of gray, And so glimpse the sunshine brief.
We must fight with a faith as well as a will, For faith will make victory sure; With the knowledge that right shall triumph still, And bring a peace to endure.
So here's to the man who can fight and smile, And the woman who smiles as she gives; And here's to the end of war's dreadful night And the dawn of the peace that lives.
—Norma Bright Carson
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/The Nightingales of Flanders

THE NIGHTINGALES OF FLANDERS
The nightingales of Flanders, They have not gone to war; A soldier heard them singing Where they had sung before.
The earth was torn and quaking, The sky about to fall; The nightingales of Flanders, They minded not at all.
At intervals he heard them, Between the guns, he said, Making a thrilling music Above the listening dead.
Of woodland and of orchard And roadside tree bereft, The nightingales of Flanders Were singing, "France is left!"
—Grace Hazard Conkling
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/The New Banner

THE NEW BANNER
O fellow-citizens of storm-tossed lands, War weary! Sounds the bugle-note! Arise! New steadfast standards wait your eager hands, The Star of Promise orbs to meet your eyes. Great kings must pass, that mankind may be free, Beneath the banner of democracy!
The Mighty Ruler of this mortal life Has wisdom, not by mortals understood; The seeds of blood, the deeds of wanton strife Shall some day harvest unexpected good. Great kings shall pass and every nation be Ruled by the people—for the people, free.
When the mad anguish of this stricken world— Where valiant heroes daily fight and fall— Has passed and Freedom's banners are unfurled, Then shall we know the reason for it all! Then every waiting, heart-sick land shall see The ultimate design of Destiny!
​Brave men and women laboring in toil— Who, faithful, fight with willing sword or pen, Who work to break the rock or till the soil— Shall wear the high insignia of men. All kings must pass, that every man may be A monarch in his manhood, strong and free!
Beyond the present, unimagined woe, A glorious day is breaking o'er the earth: As spring flowers blossom, after ice-bound snow, The God of Gods shall bring new things to birth. It is the dawn! Great forces are set free! All hail the day! World-wide democracy!
—Katrina Trask
# Paid In Full

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
A lovable rascal wipes out all memory of his sins and goes out in a blaze of glory.—The Bookman, July 1925. (More reviews on the Discussion page)
PAID IN FULL
BY
IAN HAY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Knickerbocker Press Cambridge
1925
COPYRIGHT, 1924 AND 1925,BY IAN HAY BEITH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
Cambridge • Massachusetts
Printed in the U.S.A.

### CONTENTS

* I. The Young Idea 3
* II. Lionel the Terrible 11
* III. Mildred Cradock 21
* IV. Omne Ignotum 34
* V. The Legend 43
* VI. A Page of Unwritten History 53
* VII. Khaki Fever 59
* VIII. Moonshine Effects 77
* IX. Nom de Guerre 95
* X. The Eleventh Commandment 110
* XI. Word of Honour 123
* XII. Twenty-One 129
* XIII. Heredity 143
* XIV. The Philosophy of Uncle Tony 160
* XV. Hostages 164
* XVI. A Note of Inquiry 185
* XVII. Reinforcements 196
* XVIII. What Charity Covers 202
* XIX. Apron Strings 208
* XX. The Loyalist 216
* XXI. The Tigress 225
* XXII. The Counsellor 248
* XXIII. The Littlest of the Hostages 264
* XXIV. Chance? 277
* XXV. Account Rendered 281
* XXVI. Paid in Full 284
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 1952, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 71 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
# Picture Show (Sassoon collection)/Devotion to Duty

DEVOTION TO DUTY
# Picture Show (Sassoon collection)/Fancy Dress

FANCY DRESS
# Picture Show (Sassoon collection)/I stood with the Dead

I STOOD WITH THE DEAD
# Picture Show (Sassoon collection)/Lovers

LOVERS
# Picture Show (Sassoon collection)/Butterflies

BUTTERFLIES
# Picture Show (Sassoon collection)/Elegy

ELEGY
(TO ROBERT ROSS)
# Picture Show (Sassoon collection)/Idyll

IDYLL
# Picture Show (Sassoon collection)/Cinema Hero

CINEMA HERO
# Picture Show (Sassoon collection)/Everyone Sang

EVERYONE SANG
# Picture Show (Sassoon collection)/Concert Party

CONCERT PARTY
(EGYPTIAN BASE CAMP)
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Sailor's Appeal

THE SAILOR'S APPEAL.
Ye dwellers on the stable land,  Of danger what know ye, Like us who brave the whelming surge,  Or trust the treacherous sea? The fair trees shade you from the sun,  You see the harvests grow, And breathe the fragrance of the breeze  When the first roses blow.
You slumber on your beds of down,  Close wrapp'd, in chambers warm, Lull'd only to a deeper dream  By the descending storm; While high amid the slippery shroud  We make our midnight path, And e'en the strongest mast is bow'd  Beneath the tempest's wrath.
Yet still, what know ye of the joy  That lights our ocean-strife, When on its way our gallant ship  Rides like a thing of life; When gayly towards the wish'd-for port  With favouring wind we stand, Or first your misty line descry,  Hills of our native land!
There's deadly peril in our path  Beyond the wrecking blast, A peril that may reach the soul  When life's short voyage is past; Send us your Bibles when we go  To dare the whelming wave, Your men of prayer, to teach us how  To meet a watery grave.
And, Saviour! thou whose foot sublime  The foaming surge did tread, Whose hand the rash disciple drew  From darkness and the dead, Oh! be our Ark when floods descend,  When thunders shake the spheres, Our Ararat when tempests end,  And the green earth appears.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Shipwreck

THE SHIPWRECK.
The good ship on the iceberg struck, where northern seas were high, And midnight wrapp'd in ebon veil the chill and starless sky: It struck! what moment was there then to waste in sorrow's strife! When but one bold adventurous rush remain’d 'tween death and life.
The boat! the boat! it launches forth upon the mountain wave, And leaping throngs, with frantic haste, essay its power to save: A fragile thing, it tossing strove amid the wrathful tide, And deep, unutter'd pangs were theirs who left that vessel's side.
A moonbeam pierced the heavy cloud: oh, God! what sight was there! Who stood upon that fated deck, in calm and mute despair! A gentle maiden just aroused from slumber soft and dear, Stretch'd her white arms in wild amaze, but found no helper near.
In fond adieu her hand she waved, as if some friend she bless'd, Then closer drew her snowy robe around her youthful breast;
And upward to the darken'd heavens imploring glances cast, While her rich curls profusely fell, and floated on the blast.
All sudden, from his wildering trance, a manly form did start, While a loud agonizing cry burst from his labouring heart; His bloodless lip was deadly cold, strange lustre fill'd his eye, "How can I bear a brother's name, yet leave thee thus to die!"
He plunged-the crested wave he ruled; he climbed the cloven deck, And clasp'd her as the thundering surge swept o'er the heaving wreck: "Sweet sister, 'tis thy brother's voice; his cheek is pressed to thine; Together childhood's path we trod, thy last dread couch be mine!"
Still look'd the moon with pitying eye, all lone and silent down,
Encircling them with holy light as with a martyr's crown, Then shrank behind her fleecy veil; hoarse shrieked th' impetuous main; The deep sea closed—and where were they? Ask of the angel train!
Ah! noble hearts that night were whelm'd beneath the billows high, And temples white with honour'd years, and woman's love-lit eye, And clinging to its mother's breast, in visions soft and deep, Unwaken'd innocence went down amid the pearls to sleep.
The slumberers—they who sank that hour, without a struggling breath, With whom the unbroken dream of life so melted into death, Say, turn'd they not, in deep amaze, to seek the scenes of time, When first eternity's dread shore spread out in pomp sublime?
Wo, wo was with the living heart! In many a smitten home, Where, in the garniture of grief, the weeping inmates come, Round many a lonely hearth-stone shall Memory's touch restore The image of the loved and lost, who must return no more.
The eye that saw that monster-mass come drifting darkly down, Destruction in its wintry blast and on its vitreous crown, The ear that heard the deadly crash, the thunder of the wave, Can never lose the bitter trace but in the oblivious grave.
The rescued man, to listening groups, shall tell the fearful tale, And mute affection clasp his hand, and childhood's cheek be pale, And while, with quicken'd heart, they bless the great Deliverer's care, The iceberg and the buried ship shall prompt their tearful prayer.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Poet's Books

THE POET'S BOOKS.
A Poet should be conversant with God In all his works. For, from the untrodden cliff Where fiery Andes mocks the driven cloud, To the obscurest moss which arctic storms Deny an efflorescence, from the roar Of the wild rainbow-cinctured cataract, To the slight ripple of the loneliest lake, All speak of Him.  Choose not the ponderous tomes Where Science wastes away the oil of life, And early hoary, seeks the voiceless tomb, Its lessons still unlearn'd; nor lose thyself In the entangling lore of many lands, Until thy mother tongue seem strange to thee. Much knowledge is much toil, and hath no end. But come thou forth, amid the breeze-swept trees, And learn their language. Ask the peaceful vales, Where roam the herds, or where the reaper plies His busy sickle—ask the solemn sea, With all its foaming wilderness of waves, To spread its mighty volume out for thee, And search thou there, on every fearful page, Jehovah's name.  Question the rough-leafed herb, That lines the simpler's scrip, nor scorn to heed Such answer as its healing essence yields.
Talk with the firefly when it gilds the eve, And catch the murmur of the waving boughs, Where hides the slumbering nest.  List, when old night, That dark-robed queen, disbands the muffled stars, And boldly writeth on the vaulted sky Its Maker's awful name. When weary day, Casting her deeds into gray twilight's lap, Doth sleep, forgetful of the Judge, be there, A student of its annal, if perchance Its varying burden, fitted to thy harp, May yield true wisdom.  Take thy choicest books From Nature's library, and be thy creed Such soul-entrancing poesy as makes Virtue more lovely, and inspires the hymn That seraphs set to music.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Rainy Day

THE RAINY DAY.
When the soft summer-shower, whose herald-drops Stirr'd the broad vine-leaves to an answering joy, Swells to protracted rain, soothing the mind With sense of leisure, mother, haste to call Thy little flock around thee. Let them hail The rainy day, as one when tender love Brings forth for them its richest stores of thought. Think'st thou the needle's thrift or housewife's lore Yields richer payment? Mother! thou mayst stamp Such trace upon the waxen mind as life, With all its swelling floods, shall ne'er blot out. So take thy bright-eyed nursling on thy knee, And tell him of the God who rules the cloud And calms the tempest, and the glorious sun Brings forth rejoicing from the rosy east To gild the morn.  Unlock thy treasured hoards Of hallow'd lore: how little Samuel heard At midnight, 'neath the temple's solemn arch, Jehovah's voice, and hasted to obey: How young Josiah turned to Israel's God Ere yet eight summers ripen'd on his brow: And how the sick child to his father cried, "My head! my head!" then, in his mother's arms, Grew pale and died: and how the prophet's prayer Did pluck him from the jaws of death again.
Tell, too, thy little daughter, while she sits Heedful beside thee, how the shepherds heard The harps of angels while they watch'd their sheep: And how the infant Saviour found no bed Save a straw manger mid the horned train: And how he raised the ruler's daughter up, When on her dead brow lay the weeper's tear: How at the tomb of Lazarus he mourn'd With the sad sisters: and, when the wild sea, And wilder tempest raged, stretch'd out his hand And saved the faint disciple on the wave, Who pray'd to him.  Then, when the moisten'd eye Reveals the softening soul, cast in thy seed, And Heaven and holy angels water it! So shall the spirit of the summer-storm Gleam as a rainbow, when thy soul goes up, With its dread company of deeds and thoughts, To bide the audit of the day of doom.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Ruins of Herod's Palace

THE RUINS OF HEROD'S PALACE.
The traveller sat upon a stone,  A broken column's pride, And o'er his head a fig-tree waved  Its grateful umbrage wide, While round him fruitful valleys smiled,  And crystal streams ran by, And the bold mountain's forehead hoar  Rose up 'tween earth and sky.
But on a ruin'd pile he gazed,  Beneath whose mouldering gloom The roving fox a shelter found,  And noisome bats a tomb. "Ho, Arab!" for a ploughman wrought  The grassy sward among, With marble fragments richly strew'd,  And terraced olives hung,
"Say, canst thou tell what ancient dome  In darkness here declines, And strangely lifts its spectral form  Among the matted vines?" He stay'd his simple plough, that traced  Its crooked furrow nigh, And, while his oxen cropp'd the turf,  Look'd up with vacant eye.
"It was some satrap's palace, sure,  In old time, far away, Or else of some great Christian prince,  I've heard my father say," "Arab! it was King Herod's dome;  'Twas there he feasted, free, His captains, and the chief estates,  And lords of Galilee;
"'Twas there the impious dancer's heel  Lured his rash soul astray." But, ere the earnest tale was told,  The ploughman turn'd away. O ruthless king! thy vaunted pomp  And power avail thee not, Who here, beside thy palace-gates,  Art by the serf forgot:
Yet he whose blood in prison-cell  By thy decree was spilt, Whose head, upon the charger brought,  Appeased revengeful guilt, His name, amid a deathless page,  Gleams forth with living ray, While all thy royalty and pride  Are swept like foam away.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Sun

THE SUN.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Tree of Love

THE TREE OF LOVE.
Beside the dear, domestic bower, There sprang a tree of healing power; Its leaflets, damp with gentle rain, Could sooth or quell the pang of pain; And 'neath its shade a maiden grew, She shared its fruit, she drank its dew.
Oft at her side a youth was seen, With glance of love and noble mien; At twilight hour a favour'd guest, Her trembling hand he warmly press'd; At length, with guileless heart and free, She said, "I'll plant that tree for thee."
Her little brother climb'd her knee: "You must not go away from me; The nightly prayer with me you say, And sooth me when I'm tired of play:" His sister's eye with tears was dim: She said, "I'll plant that tree for him."
"Its roots are deep," the mother said; "Beyond the darkling grave they spread:" "Thy hand is weak," the father cried; "Too young thou art to be a bride." Serene she spake, "I look above For strength to plant the tree of love."
Before the holy priest she stood, Her fair cheek dy'd with rushing blood; And as, with hands to heaven display'd, Strong vows upon her soul he laid, Her heaving breast, like fluttering bird, Her snowy mantle wildly stirr'd.
But when the hallow'd cirque of gold, Of deathless love the promise told, Mysterious power her spirit felt, And at the altar's foot she knelt: "My God, my God, I'll cling to thee, And plant for him that blessed tree."
Around their home its branches spread, Its buds she nursed, its root she fed; Though flaunting crowds, with giddy look, Of toil so meek slight notice took, Yet hovering angels mark'd with pride The green tree of the blessed bride.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Sacred Poet

THE SACRED POET.
Art thou a mouth for the immortal mind? A voice that shall be heard when ages sleep In cold oblivion? when the rich man's pomp, And all the ambitious strivings of the crowd Shall be forgotten? Art thou well convinced That such a gift is thine?  Bow thee to dust, And take this honour from the hand of God In deep humility, worm as thou art, And all unworthy. Ask for naught beside, Though worldlings scorn thy lot.  Prosperity, Such as earth names, what are its gauds to thee? Accustom'd to the crystal and the gold Of poesy, that, like a sea of glass, Doth compass thee around. Look up! look up! Baptized and set apart for Heaven's high will, Search for its lessons. List when trembling dawn Instructs Aurora; muse when night to night Doth show forth knowledge; when the folded flower Taketh its lesson of the dews that steal Into its bosom, like the mother's hymn O'er the tired infant; and thine ear shall drink A music-tone to solace every wound That earth has made.  Then strike thy hallow'd harp For unborn ages, and with trumpet-tone
Wake the immortal mind to highest hopes, And be the teacher of what cannot die. Yea, wear thy birthright nobly on thy brow, And nerve the wing for God.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Three Little Graves

THE THREE LITTLE GRAVES.
I sought at twilight's pensive hour  The path which mourners tread, Where many a marble fane reveals  The City of the Dead; The City of the Dead, where all  From feverish toil repose, While round their homes the simple flower  In sweet profusion blows.
And there I mark'd a pleasant spot,  Enclosed with tender care, Where, side by side, three infants lay,  The only tenants there; Nor weed nor bramble raised its head  To mar the hallow'd scene, And doubtless 'twas a mother's tear  That kept the turf so green.
The eldest was a gentle girl,  She sank as rose-buds fall, And then her baby brothers came,  They were their parents' all. Their parents' all! Ah! think how deep  The wail of sickness rose, Ere, 'neath these solitary mounds,  They found a long repose.
Their cradle-sports beside the hearth,  At winter's eve, are o'er, Their tuneful tones, so full of mirth,  Delight the ear no more; Yet still their thrilling memory lives,  And many a lisping sound, And sweetly broken phrase doth steal  The sorrowing heart around.
Three little graves! Three little graves!  Come hither, ye who see Your blooming babes around you smile,  A blissful company, And of those childless mourners think  With sympathizing pain, And sooth them with a Saviour's words,  "Your dead shall rise again."
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Tulip and Eglantine

THE TULIP AND EGLANTINE.
The Tulip call'd to the Eglantine:  "Good neighbour, I hope you see How the throngs that visit the garden come  To pay their respects to me: The florist admires my elegant robe,  And praises its rainbow ray, Till it seems as if through his raptured eyes  He was gazing his soul away."
"It may be so," said the Eglantine;  "In a humble nook I dwell, And what is passing among the great  I cannot know so well; But they speak of me as the flower of Love,  And that low, whisper'd name, Is dearer to me and my infant buds  Than the loudest breath of fame."
# Poems of Cheer/I Dream

Oh, I have dreams. I sometimes dream of Life  In the full meaning of that splendid word.  Its subtle music which few men have heard, Though all may hear it, sounding through earth's strife. Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissed  Lifting their lovely peaks above the dust;  Its treasures which no touch of time can rust, Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst,  Its certain purpose, its serene repose,  Its usefulness, that finds no hour for woes,  This is my dream of Life.
Yes, I have dreams. I ofttimes dream of Love  As radiant and brilliant as a star.  As changeless, too, as that fixed light afar Which glorifies vast worlds of space above. Strong as the tempest when it holds its breath,  Before it bursts in fury; and as deep  As the unfathomed seas, where lost worlds sleep, And sad as birth, and beautiful as death.  As fervent as the fondest soul could crave,  Yet holy as the moonlight on a grave.  This is my dream of Love.
Yes, yes, I dream. One oft-recurring dream  Is beautiful and comforting and blest,  Complete with certain promises of rest, Divine content, and ecstasy supreme. When that strange essence, author of all faith,  That subtle something, which cries for the light,  Like a lost child who wanders in the night, Shall solve the mighty mystery of Death,  Shall find eternal progress, or sublime  And satisfying slumber for all time.  This is my dream of Death.
# Poems of Cheer/In the Long Run

In the long run fame finds the deserving man.  The lucky wight may prosper for a day, But in good time true merit leads the van  And vain pretence, unnoticed, goes its way. There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate, But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait,  In the long run.
In the long run all godly sorrow pays,  There is no better thing than righteous pain, The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days,  Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain. Unmeaning joys enervate in the end, But sorrow yields a glorious dividend  In the long run.
In the long run all hidden things are known,  The eye of truth will penetrate the night, And good or ill, thy secret shall be known,  However well 'tis guarded from the light. All the unspoken motives of the breast Are fathomed by the years and stand confess'd  In the long run.
In the long run all love is paid by love,  Though undervalued by the hosts of earth; The great eternal Government above  Keeps strict account and will redeem its worth. Give thy love freely; do not count the cost; So beautiful a thing was never lost  In the long run.