OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# One of a Thousand/Preface

Boston: First National Publishing Company, pages PF1–PF3 A Series of Biographical Sketches of One Thousand Representative Men Resident in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, A. D. 1888–'89.
Preface.
The History and Art of Book-Making have ordained a Preface,—no well-regulated Book appearing now without the proper porte-cochère preceding the literary structure beyond. It would appear to be "the correct thing," and yet one is disposed in many cases to enquire, "Cui Bono?" For the present volume there appears to be no absolute necessity for an Introduction, and yet to confess the truth, so strong a hold has custom upon the eye, that were this feature lacking, there would be wanting upon the free of the returns, an important factor in the tout ensemble of the work. But as Daniel Webster anticipated us in saying, "I shall enter upon no encomium on Massachusetts;—she needs none. There she is,— behold her and judge for yourselves. There is her history,—the world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure."
Those who have patiently borne with the diligent work of the compiler will remember our aim was to present biographical sketches of one thousand of the representative citizens of the Commonwealth who in different parts of the State are engaged in Professional, Political, Mercantile, Agricultural and Industrial pursuits. These have been selected from those, who, from Press, Pulpit, Field, Bar and the Exchange control the destinies of finance and trade, and give Massachusetts her proud preeminence in Philanthropy, Literature, Science and Commercial Prosperity. The old Bay-State stands to-day among her sister states of the Nation seventh in population, fourth in wealth, third in manufactures, first in education, and foremost in the formation of the intelligent and patriotic public conscience so keenly alive to the welfare of the whole country.
It was intended in "One of a Thousand" to briefly portray the principal events of the lives of those who have contributed to this end.
How faithfully this task has been performed is for you to say. Few realize the amount of labor and volume of Correspondence requisite to prefect so exhaustive an enterprise. Multiply the pains taken to secure so full and accurate a record of your own life by one thousand and even then there remains a large margin of patient research and necessary verification, not at first apprehended. However, "Finis coronat Opus."
Let this humble Preface, then, act the part of the "Salve" engraved upon the entrance to the old Norman houses. With a hearty grasp of the hand, I bid you enter and become my guest trusting you will derive as much enjoyment in the partaking as I have taken satisfaction in the preparation of the feast to which you are now cordially invited by your host and friend,
John C. Rand.
To my Subscribers.
# One of a Thousand/J

* Jackson, James Frederic
* Jacobs, Joseph, Jr.
* James, Lyman D.
* Jameson, Ephraim Orcutt
* Jenkins, Edward J.
* Jenks, Henry Ray
* Jenks, Thomas Leighton
* Jennings, Andrew Jackson
* Jewett, Albert G.
* Jewett, Francis
* Jillson, Clark
* Johnson, Edward Francis
* Johnson, George W.
* Johnson, Henry Augustin
* Johnson, Henry Harrison
* Johnson, Iver
* Johnson, Joseph Prosper
* Johnson, Nathaniel Lafayette
* Johnson, Peter Rogers
* Jones, Bradford Elliot
* Jones, Edward Jenkins
* Jones, Erastus
* Jones, Jerome
* Jones, Silas
* Jordan, Eben Dyer
* Jordan, Jediah Porter
* Joslin, Allen Lafayette
* Joslin, James Thomas
* Judd, Frederick Eugene
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series II/Volume V/Dogmatic Treatises/Against Eunomius/Book XII
## Contents

* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/A Father's Pity

A FATHER'S PITY.
"Like as a father pitieth his children.”—David.
How doth a father pity?  See the snare  Of loathsome vice around his son entwine;  Behold his mournful mien, his anxious air;  List to his earnest cry for aid divine;  Precept on precept pour'd, and line on line,  To snatch the victim from a gulf profound;  And should those steps once more to peace incline,  How do the parent's lips with praise resound, As swell the heavenly harps when a lost soul is found.
 How doth a father pity?  Ask the form  That feebly on his sheltering bosom lies,  Like smitten lily shrinking from the storm,  Consumption's signal in her languid eyes;  What torturing sympathies within him rise,  When the fierce cough awakes with racking throe,  And to her cheek the burning hectic flies,  How is his manly breast surcharged with wo To see his darling hope, like fading flower, laid low.
 How doth a father pity?  Mark his face  Bow'd in deep anguish o'er his cradled heir,  Faint struggling in the ice of death's embrace,  With ceaseless moaning and convulsive stare,
Reproachful calling on the parents' care  To ease its pangs; fain would those hearts that burst  Their lamblike nursling's mortal misery bear:  So doth He pity us who is our trust, The Former of our frame, remembering we are dust.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Afraid to Die

AFRAID TO DIE.
"And deliver them who, through fear of death, were all their lifetime subject to bondage."—Hebrews, ii., 15.
Afraid to die!—afraid to sleep  In earth, our mother's tranquil breast, Where snares and troubles vex no more,  And all the weary are at rest?
Afraid to die!—afraid to take  His hand who trod the shadowy vale, And leads us on to pastures green,  And living streams that never fail?
Afraid to die!—afraid to bear  The pang that but a moment tries, And, o'er the sway of pain and care,  Ascend to mansions in the skies?
Afraid to die!—afraid to leave  The cradle and the worthless toy, And take our ripen'd being's crown,  And soar to consummated joy?
Afraid to die!—afraid to trust  His promise who shall burst the tomb, And raise the renovated dust  More glorious from its transient gloom?
Afraid to die!—afraid to meet  The guardian bands who watchful wait, And spread their radiant pinions wide  To bear us through salvation's gate?
Afraid to die!—prefer to be  A stranger in these courts below, A pilgrim, when the lights of home  Bright through our Father's windows glow?
Afraid to die!—ah! what avails,  Whether by sickness, storm, or fire; The ethereal essence finds its place,  And rises to the Eternal Sire?
Afraid to die?—O grant us grace,  Thou who didst dare the spoiler's strife, Calmly to meet his cold embrace,  And soar to everlasting life.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Art thou a Christian?

ART THOU A CHRISTIAN?
Art thou a Christian? Though thy cot Be rude, and poverty thy lot, A wealth is thine which earth denies, A treasure boundless as the skies; Gold and the diamond fade with shame, Before thy casket's deathless flame; Heir of high heaven! how canst thou sigh For gilded dross and vanity?
Art thou a Christian, doom'd to roam Far from thy friends and native home? O'er trackless wilds uncheer'd to go, With none to share an exile's wo? Where'er thou find'st a Father's care, Thy country and thy home are there: How canst thou, then, a stranger be, Surrounded by His family?
Art thou a Christian, mid the strife Of years mature and burden'd life? Thy heaven-born faith its shield shall spread To guard thee in the hour of dread; Thorns mid thy flinty path may spring, Dire Pain inflict its scorpion sting, But in thy soul a beacon-light Shall guide thy pilgrim steps aright, And balm from God's own fountain flow To heal the wounds of earthly wo.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Bread in the Wilderness

BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS.
A voice amid the desert.  Not of him Who, in rough garments clad, and locust-fed, Cried to the sinful multitude, and claim'd Fruits of repentance, with the lifted scourge Of terror and reproof. A milder guide, With gentler tones, doth teach the listening throng. Benignant pity moved him as he saw The shepherdless and poor. He knew to touch The springs of every nature. The high lore Of Heaven he humbled to the simplest child, And in the guise of parable allured The sluggish mind to follow truth and live.
 They whom the thunders of the law had stunn'd Woke to the Gospel's melody with tears; And the glad Jewish mother held her babe High in her arms, that its young eye might greet Jesus of Nazareth.  It was so still, Though thousands cluster'd there, that not a sound Brake the strong spell of eloquence which held The wilderness in chains, save now and then, As the gale freshen'd, came the murmur'd speech Of distant billows, chafing with the shores Of the Tiberian Sea.
Day wore apace, Noon hasted, and the lengthening shadows brought The unexpected eve. They linger'd still, Eyes fix'd, and lips apart; the very breath Constrain'd, lest some escaping sigh might break The tide of knowledge, sweeping o'er their souls Like a strange, raptured dream. They heeded not The spent sun, closing at the curtain'd west His burning journey. What was time to them, Who heard entranced the eternal Word of Life?
 But the weak flesh grew weary. Hunger came, Sharpening each feature, and to faintness drain'd Life's vigorous fount. The holy Saviour felt Compassion for them. His disciples press, Care-stricken, to his side: "Where shall we find Bread in this desert?"  Then, with lifted eye, He bless'd, and brake, the slender store of food, And fed the famish'd thousands. Wondering awe With renovated strength inspired their souls, As, gazing on the miracle, they mark'd The gather'd fragments of their feast, and heard Such heavenly words as lip of mortal man Had never utter'd.  Thou, whose pitying heart Yearn'd o'er the countless miseries of those Whom thou didst die to save, touch thou our souls With the same spirit of untiring love. Divine Redeemer! may our fellow-man, Howe'er by rank or circumstance disjoin'd, Be as a brother in his hour of need.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/"Show us the Father"

"SHOW US THE FATHER." John, iv., 8.
Have ye not seen Him, when through parted snows  Wake the first kindlings of the vernal green? When 'neath its modest veil the arbutus blows,  And the pure snow-drop bursts its folded screen? When the wild rose, that asks no florist's care, Unfoldeth its rich leaves, have ye not seen Him there?
Have ye not seen Him, when the infant's eye,  Through its bright sapphire-windows shows the mind? When, in the trembling of the tear or sigh,  Floats forth that essence, trembling and refined? Saw ye not Him, the author of our trust, Who breathed the breath of life into a frame of dust?
Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill  Casts off its icy chains and leaps away? In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill?  In songs of birds, at break of summer's day? Or in the ocean's everlasting roar, Battling the old gray rocks that sternly guard his shore?
Amid the stillness of the Sabbath morn,  When vexing cares in tranquil slumber rest, When in the heart the holy thought is born,  And Heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast,
Have ye not felt Him, while your kindling prayer Swelled out in tones of praise, announcing God was there?
Show us the Father! If ye fail to trace  His chariot where the stars majestic roll, His pencil mid earth's loveliness and grace,  His presence in the sabbath of the soul, How can you see Him till the day of dread, When to assembled worlds the book of doom is read?
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Approach of Spring

APPROACH OF SPRING.
"For, lo, the winter is past."—Solomon.
God of each changing season,  Creation speaks thy praise, But souls endued with reason  The highest strain should raise.
Lo! wintry tempests sweeping,  No more deform the sky, The crystal streamlet leaping  Proclaimeth Spring is nigh.
Farewell the dark dominion  Of tyrant frost and snow, The robin spreads his pinion,  And fragrant blossoms blow.
Awake to budding glory,  Ye trees so long oppress'd, So naked, scarr'd, and hoary,  By wrecking winds distress'd.
Break forth, ye tuneful bowers,  Where thousand warblers fly, Unfold your robes, sweet flowers,  The time of love is nigh.
Let the glad heart be pouring  Such lays as angels sing, Still to the bright world soaring  Of everlasting Spring.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Attending a former Pupil to the Grave

ATTENDING A FORMER PUPIL TO THE GRAVE.
Daughter, I will not leave thee.  Thou wert wont To sit so close beside me with thy task, And lift thy little book, and scan my face, Timing thy question wisely to my cares, And thou wouldst gently put thy hand in mine When summer-school was o'er, and strive to lead To thine own pleasant home, bespeaking still For me such things as unto them were dear,
Thy white-hair'd grandsire's kindness, or the walk In the sweet plat of flowers, until I felt That, of a pupil, I had made a friend.   I will not leave thee, now that thou must take Thy journey to thy sepulchre. I know How timid thou wert ever, and wouldst cling Unto my arm when childhood's little fears Or troubles daunted thee. But now, behold, Thou on thy low and sable carriage lead'st And marshall'st us the way whaere we must go, Each for himself.  Stranger and friend sweep on In long procession.  Daughter, I am near In this most solemn hour. I'll stay and hear
The "Dust to dust," that turns the cheek so pale Of mourning love. Till the green turf is laid, The last sad office of affection o'er, I will not leave thee, sweetest. No, I'll wait Till every lingerer hasteth to his home, And then I'll breathe a prayer beside thy bed, Thou, who so oft hast pour'd thy prayer with me.
I'll be the last to leave thee. O, be first To welcome me above, if, through the trust In my Redeemer's strength, I thither rise from dust.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Babe dying in its Mother's Absence

BABE DYING IN ITS MOTHER'S ABSENCE.
He lay 'tween life and death.  The priestly hand Shed the baptismal water on his brow, While earnestly a solemn tone besought A heavenly place for that departing soul, In Jesus' name.  The eye lay heavily And lustreless beneath the half-closed lids, But the small fingers all spasmodic thrill'd Within the nurse's clasp.  She was not there Who nurtured that fair boy, and day by day Mark'd his smooth limbs to fuller roundness grow, And garner'd up each ringing, gleeful shout, Like music in her heart. She was not there. Had she but known his peril, what could stay The rushing traveller? Not the mountains steep, Nor swollen floods, nor midnight's blackest shade, Nor wildest storm. Or had one darken'd dream, Mid her fond intercourse with joyous friends, Bore his changed image, not with sport and smile, But sleepless, starting from his fever'd bed, The pearly teeth gnash'd strongly, and the tongue, Untrain'd to language, moaning out his grief; Or had she seen him from his favourite cup Still force the spoon away, till his fair lip, So like a rosebud, sallow grew, and thin,
How had she burst away to see him die, Or die with him.  But ah, too late! too late! One bitter gasp upon a hireling's breast, And all is o'er! Methought some lingering tie Held him to earth. What did thy pale hand seek With such a quivering eagerness, poor babe? Thine absent mother? Didst thou long to feel Her kiss upon thine eyelids, or her breath Parting the curls, and passing up to heaven A winged prayer?  Would that I could forget The weeping of that mother, when she takes That ice-cold body to her bursting heart; Or even for that, too late, doth frantic press The pitying sexton for one last, drear sight Of her lost darling, in his desolate couch Most desolate, amid the mouldering dead.
Mothers! who, bending o'er your cradled charge, Feel an unspoken love, cling to his side As the soul weds the clay. Can the whole earth, With all its pageantry, the wandering glance Scanning its proudest climes, buy one blest hour Like his confiding slumber in your arms? Ye answer, No.  So take your priceless meed, The first young love of innocence, the smile Singling you out from all the world beside; And if, amid this hallow'd ministry, Heaven's messenger should claim the unstain'd soul, Yours be the hand to give it back to God.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/A Name

A NAME.
"Let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad."—Genesis, xi., 4.
Make to thyself a name,  Not with a breath of clay, Which, like the broken, hollow reed,  Doth sigh itself away; Not with the fame that vaunts  The tyrant on his throne, And hurls its stigma on the soul  That God vouchsafes to own.
Make to thyself a name,  Nor such as wealth can weave, Whose warp is but a thread of gold,  That dazzles to deceive; Not with the tints of Love  Form out its letters fair, That scroll within thy hand shall fade  Like him who placed it there.
Make to thyself a name,  Not in the sculptured aisle, The marble oft betrays its trust,  Like Egypt's lofty pile; But ask of Him who quell'd  Of death, the victor-strife, To write it on the blood-bought page  Of everlasting life.
# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Abraham at Macpelah

ABRAHAM AT MACPELAH.
Deep wrapp'd in shades Olive and terebinth, its vaulted door Fleck'd with the untrain'd vine and matted grass, Behold Macpelah's cave.  Hark! hear we not A voice of weeping? Lo, yon aged man Bendeth beside his dead. Wave after wave Of memory rises, till his lonely heart Sees all its treasures floating on the flood, Like rootless weeds.  The earliest dawn of love Is present with him, and a form of grace, Whose beauty held him ever in its thrall: And then, the morn of marriage, gorgeous robes, And dulcet music, and the rites that bless The Eastern bride. Full many a glowing scene, Made happy by her tenderness, returns To mock his solitude, as the sharp lance Severs the quivering nerve. His quiet home Gleams through the oaks of Mamre. There he sat, Rendering due rites of hospitality To guests who bore the folded wing of Heaven Beneath their vestments. And her smile was there, Among the angels.  When her clustering curls Wore Time's chill hoar.frost, with what glad surprise,
What holy triumph of exulting faith, He saw fresh blooming in her wither'd arms A fair young babe, the heir of all his wealth. Forever blending with that speechless joy Which thrill'd his soul, when first a father's name Fell on his ear, is that pale, placid brow O'er which he weeps.  Yet had he seen it wear Another semblance, tinged with hues of thought, Perchance unlovely, in that trial-hour, When to sad Hagur's mute, reproachful eye He answer'd naught, but on her shoulder laid The water-bottle and the loaf, and sent Her and her son, unfriended wanderers, forth Into the wilderness.  Say, who can mourn Over the smitten idol, by long years Cemented with his being, yet perceive No dark remembrance that he fain would blot, Troubling the tear. If there were no kind deed Omitted, no sweet healing word of love Expected, yet unspoken; no light tone That struck discordant on the shivering nerve, For which the weeper fain would rend the tomb To cry forgive! oh, let him kneel and praise God amid all his grief.  We may not say If aught of penitence was in the pang That wrung the labouring breast, while o'er the dust Of Sarah, at Macpelah's waiting tomb, The proud and princely Abraham bow'd him down, A mourning stranger, mid the sons of Heth.
# Opals (Custance)/In a Boat

In a Boat
# Opals (Custance)/June

June
# Opals (Custance)/Sunset and Sunrise

Sunset and Sunrise
# Opals (Custance)/Flirtation

Flirtation
# Opals (Custance)/Harvest Noon

Harvest Noon
# Opals (Custance)/Ideal

Ideal
# Opals (Custance)/Spirit Speech

Spirit Speech
# Opals (Custance)/Glamour of Gold

Glamour of Gold
# Opals (Custance)/Love's Firstfruits

Love's Firstfruits
"As the sweet-apple blushes on the end of bough, the very end of the bough, which the gatherers overlooked, nay overlooked not, but could not reach."—Sappho.
# Of the Imitation of Christ/Book III/Chapter XLIV

CHAPTER XLIV.
OF NOT DRAWING TROUBLE TO OURSELVES FROM OUTWARD THINGS.
Y son, in many things it is thy duty to be ignorant, and to esteem thyself as dead upon earth, and to whom the whole world is crucified.
Many things thou must also pass by with a deaf ear, and think rather of those which belong to thy peace.
It is more profitable to turn away one's eyes from unpleasing things, and to leave every one to his own opinion, than to be a slave to contentious discourses.
If all stand well betwixt thee and God, and if thou hast His judgment in thy mind, thou shalt easily endure to be overcome.
2. O Lord, to what a pass are we come! Behold, we bewail a temporal loss: for a pitiful gain we toil and run; and the spiritual losses are forgotten, and hardly at last return to the memory of it.
That which little or nothing profiteth we heed; ​and that which is especially necessary, we pass over; because the whole man doth slide off into outward things; and unless he speedily repent, he willingly settleth down in them.
# Of the Imitation of Christ/Book III/Chapter XLVII

CHAPTER XLVII.
THAT ALL GRIEVOUS THINGS ARE TO BE ENDURED FOR THE SAKE OF ETERNAL LIFE.
E not dismayed by the labours which thou hast undertaken for Me, neither because of any tribulations be thou utterly cast down; but let My promise strengthen and comfort thee always.
I am able to reward thee above all measure and degree.
Thou shalt not long toil here, and always be oppressed with grief.
​Wait a little while, and thou shalt see a speedy end of thine evils.
There will come an hour when all labour and trouble shall cease.
Poor and brief is all that which passeth away with time.
2. Do with thy might what thou doest; labour faithfully in My vineyard; I will be thy reward.
Write, read, mourn, keep silence, pray, suffer crosses; life everlasting is worthy of all these, and of yet greater combats.
Peace shall come in the day which is known unto the Lord, and it shall be neither day nor night, but everlasting light, brightness, steadfast peace, and secure rest.
Then thou shalt not say, "Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" nor cry, "Woe is me, that I sojourn in Mesech!"
For death shall be cast down: there shall be no more anxious thoughts, but blessed joy, sweet and lovely company.
3. O if thou hadst seen the everlasting crowns of the saints in heaven, and with how great glory they now rejoice, who in times past suffered contempt in this world; truly thou wouldst humble thyself even unto the dust, and wouldst rather seek to be under the feet of all, than to have command even over one.
Neither wouldst thou desire the pleasant days of this life but rather wouldst rejoice to suffer affliction for God, and esteem nothing to be reputed as great amongst men.
4. O if thou hadst a relishing of these things, and ​didst suffer them to sink into the bottom of thy heart, how couldst thou dare once complain?
Are not all painful labours to be endured for the sake of life eternal?
It is no small matter, to lose or to gain the kingdom of God.
Lift up thy face therefore unto heaven; behold, I and all My saints with Me, who in this world had great conflicts, do now rejoice, are now comforted, now secure, now at rest, and shall remain with Me everlastingly in the kingdom of My Father.