OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Gleneden's Dream

XX
GLENEDEN'S DREAM
Tell me, whether is it winter? Say how long my sleep has been? Have the woods, I left so lovely, Lost their robes of tender green?
Is the morning slow in coming? Is the night-time loth to go? Tell me, are the dreary mountains Drearier still with drifted snow?
'Captive, since thou sawest the frost, All its leaves have died away; And another March has woven Garlands for another May.
'Ice has barred the Arctic waters, Soft southern winds have set it free; And once more to deep green valley Golden flowers might welcome thee.'
Watching in this lonely prison, Shut from joy and kindly air, Heaven, descending in a vision, Taught my soul to do and bear.
It was night, a night of winter; I lay on the dungeon floor, And all other sounds were silent, All, except the river's roar. ​Over Death, and Desolation, Fireless hearths, and lifeless homes; Over orphans' heartsick sorrows, Patriot fathers' bloody tombs;
Over friends, that my arms never Might embrace in love again; Memory pondered until madness Struck its poniard in my brain.
Deepest slumbers followed raving, Yet, methought, I brooded still; Still I saw my country bleeding, Dying for a tyrant's will.
Not because my bliss was blasted, Burned within the avenging flame: Not because my scattered kindred Died in woe, or lived in shame.
God doth know I would have given Every bosom dear to me, Could that sacrifice have purchased Tortured Gondal's liberty!
But that at Ambition's bidding, All her cherished hopes should wane, That her noblest sons should muster, Strive and fight and fall in vain;
Hut and castle, hall and cottage, Roofless, crumbling to the ground; Mighty heaven, a glad avenger Thy eternal Justice found! ​Yes, the arm that once would shudder, Even to grieve a wounded deer, I beheld it, unrelenting, Clothe in blood its sovereign's prayer.
Glorious Dream! I saw the city, Blazing in imperial shine; And among adoring thousands Stood a man of form divine.
None need point the princely victim, Now he smiles with royal pride! Now his glance is bright as lightning, Now the knife is in his side!
Ha! I saw how death could darken, Darken that triumphant eye! His red heart's blood drenched my dagger; My ear drank his dying sigh.
Shadows came! what means this midnight? O my God, I know it all! Know the fever-dream is over, Unavenged, the Avenger's fall!
May 21, 1838.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Far, far is mirth withdrawn

XLII
Far, far is mirth withdrawn; 'Tis three long hours before the morn, And I watch lonely, drearily; So come, thou shade, commune with me.
Deserted one! thy corpse lies cold And mingled with a foreign mould. Year after year the grass grows green Above the dust where thou hast been.
I will not name thy blighted name, Tarnished by unforgotten shame, Though not because my bosom torn Joins the mad world in all its scorn.
Thy phantom face is dark with woe, Tears have left ghastly traces there, Those ceaseless tears! I wish their flow Could quench thy wild despair.
They deluge my heart like the rain On cursed Zamornah's howling plain. Yet when I hear thy foes deride, I must cling closely to thy side.
Our mutual foes! They will not rest From trampling on thy buried breast. Glutting their hatred with the doom, They picture thine beyond the tomb. ​But God is not like human kind, Man cannot read the Almighty mind; Vengeance will never tortue thee, Nor hunt thy soul eternally.
Then do not in this night of grief, This time of overwhelming fear, O do not think that God can leave Forget, forsake, refuse to hear!
What have I dreamt? He lies asleep, With whom my heart would vainly weep; He rests, and I endure the woe, That left his spirit long ago.
March 1840.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Geraldine

XLV
GERALDINE
'Twas night, her comrades gathered all Within their city's rocky wall; When flowers were closed and day was o'er Their joyous hearts awoke the more.
But lonely in her distant cave She heard the river's restless wave Chafing its banks with dreamy flow, Music for mirth and wail for woe.
Palm trees and cedars towering high Deepened the gloom of evening's sky, And thick did raven ringlets veil Her forehead, drooped like lily pale.
Yet I could hear my lady sing; I knew she did not mourn; For never yet from sorrow's spring Such witching notes were born.
Thus poured she in that cavern wild The voice of feelings warm, As bending o'er her beauteous child She clasped its sleeping form. ​'Why sank so soon the summer sun From our Zedona's skies? I was not tired, my darling one, Of gazing in thine eyes.
'Methought the heaven, whence thou hast come, Was lingering there awhile; And earth seemed such an alien home They did not dare to smile.
'Methought each moment, something strange Within their circles shone, And yet, through every magic change, They were my darling's own.
'Methought—what thought I not, sweet love? My whole heart centred there; I breathed not but to send above One gush of ardent prayer.
'Bless it! My gracious God!' I cried. 'Preserve Thy mortal shrine, For Thine own sake, be Thou its guide, And keep it still divine—
'Say, sin shall never blanch that cheek, Nor suffering change that brow. Speak, in Thy mercy, Maker, speak, And seal it safe from woe. ​'Why did I doubt? In God's control Our mutual fates remain, And pure as now, my Angel's soul Must go to heaven again.'
The revellers in the city slept, My lady in her woodland bed; I watching o'er her slumber wept, As one who mourns the dead.
August 17 1841.
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Evans, Lewis

Edition of 1879. See also Lewis Evans (surveyor) on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
EVANS, Lewis, an American geographer and surveyor, born about 1700, died in June, 1756. During an active professional life he collected many materials for a map of the British North American colonies, and in 1749 published one of the middle colonies, chiefly of New York, New Jersey, and Delaware, and of the Indian country adjacent. A second edition appeared in 1755, much enlarged, and containing in addition Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and a part of New England. He also published “Geographical, Historical, Political, Philosophical, and Mechanical Essays” (No. 1, Philadelphia, 1755; No. 2, London, 1756). A new edition of his map appeared in 1776.
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Evans, Edward P.

Edition of 1879. See also Edward Payson Evans on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
EVANS, Edward P., an American scholar and author, born at Remsen, N. Y., Dec. 8, 1833. His father was a Welsh Presbyterian clergyman, who emigrated to the west in 1842. Edward graduated at the university of Michigan in 1854, taught an academy in Hernando, Miss., one year, and then became professor in Carroll college, Waukesha, Wis. From 1858 to 1862 he travelled in Europe, and studied
in the universities of Göttingen, Berlin, and Munich. In the autumn of 1862 he became professor of modern languages in the university of Michigan, which position he resigned in 1870 to travel in Europe and collect materials for a history of German literature. He has published translations of Stahr's life of Lessing (2 vols., Boston, 1866) and Coquerel's “First Historical Transformations of Christianity” (Boston, 1867); Abriss der deutschen Literaturgeschichte (New York, 1869); and various philosophical articles in periodicals.
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Evans, Frederick William

Edition of 1879. See also Frederick William Evans on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
EVANS, Frederick William, presiding elder of the community of Shakers at New Lebanon, Columbia co., N. Y., born in Leominster, England, June 9, 1808. His father settled in the United States in 1820, and apprenticed him to a hatter in New York. He was a diligent student in his leisure hours, was attracted by the theories of Owen and Fourier, and after a brief visit to England joined the Shaker community, whose leader he became in the United States. He has published “Tests of Divine Revelation,” “Anne Lee, or Shakers and Shakerism,” “Compendium,” “Autobiography of a Shaker,” and “Religious Communism.”
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Eridanus

Edition of 1879. See also Eridanos (river of Hades) on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
​ ERIDANUS, the Greek name of a large northern river which Æschylus confounded with the Rhodanus (Rhône), but which later writers made identical with the Roman Padus, or modern Po, the chief river of North Italy. According to Hesiod and the tragic poets, Phaëthon, in a futile attempt to guide the chariot of his father Helios, was struck with a thunderbolt by Jupiter, and fell into this river. His sisters, the Heliadæ, were changed into poplar trees, and their tears into amber, for which this river was chiefly famous. The name was also given to a river of Attica, which flowed into the Ilissus near Athens.
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Montalant, Mlle

Edition of 1879. See also the disclaimer.
MONTALANT, Mlle. See Damoreau.
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Montalvan, Juan Perez de

Edition of 1879. See also Juan Pérez de Montalbán on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
MONTALVAN, Juan Perez de, a Spanish dramatist, born in Madrid in 1602, died in June, 1638. His father was bookseller to the king, and the son became a licentiate in theology at the age 17. He enjoyed the instruction of Lope de Vega, and very early wrote for the stage. At the age of 30 he had written 36 dramas and 12 autos sacramentales; and he became crazy from overwork. He left about 60 plays (Alcalá, 1638; Madrid, 1639). He wrote Orfeo, a poem (1624); “Life and Purgatory of St. Patrick” (1627); a collection of stories Para todos (“For Everybody,” 1632); and a panegyric on Lope de Vega (1636).
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Moffat, Robert

Edition of 1879. See also Robert Moffat (missionary) on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
MOFFAT, Robert, a Scottish missionary, born at Inverkeithing, Fifeshire, in 1795. He was reared in the Secession church, but his religious associations from 1811 till 1816 were largely with the Methodists of England, where he then
lived. He was a gardener, but devoted his leisure hours to study, and in 1815 offered himself as a missionary. He was originally destined to accompany Williams to the South sea, but was finally sent to South Africa. He sailed in 1817, and immediately on his arrival at Cape Town went to Namaqualand, where he entered upon his labors at the kraal of Africaner, a chief whose name had long been a terror to the neighboring districts, but who had lately become an enthusiastic convert to Christianity. Here Moffat labored for three or four years with great success. But the situation being unsuitable for a principal mission station, he set out in search of a better locality, and labored successively with much promise in the countries to the north and northeast of Cape Colony, and in every place guided the people in the arts of civilized life. He often made tours among barbarous warlike tribes. His remarkable adventures in these journeys are described in his “Missionary Labors and Scenes in Southern Africa” (8vo, London, 1842), which he wrote and published during a visit of several years to Britain, rendered necessary by the state of his health. During his stay there, he also carried through the press a version of the New Testament and the Psalms in the Bechuana language. He returned to Africa in 1842, and continued there until recently, when he went back to London. He has compiled a “Seeuana Hymn Book” (London, 1843), and his “Farewell Services” were edited by Dr. Campbell, and published in 1843. Dr. Livingstone was Moffat's son-in-law.
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Moller, Georg

Edition of 1879. See also Georg Moller on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
MOLLER, Georg, a German architect, born at Diepholz, Hanover, Jan. 21, 1784, died March 13, 1852. He studied in Carlsruhe and in Italy, and was architect of the grand ducal court at Darmstadt. He published in 1818 a facsimile of the original design of the cathedral of Cologne, which he had discovered in Darmstadt, and which, with an additional design found subsequently, is followed in the completion of the two towers of that edifice. His works include many public and private buildings in Darmstadt and other places, and the ducal palace in Wiesbaden. His principal publications are: Denkmäler deutscher Kunst (3 vols., Darmstadt, 1815-'45); Denkmäler deutscher Baukunst (1821); and Beiträge zur Constructionslehre (6 numbers, 1835-'42).
# The American Cyclopædia (1879)/Mogila, Peter

Edition of 1879. See also Peter Mogila on Wikipedia; and the disclaimer.
MOGILA, or Mogilas, Peter, a Russian author, born in Moldavia about 1597, died Dec. 31, 1646. He studied at several of the European high schools, but stayed longest at the university of Paris. He served in the Polish army with distinction, and in 1625 entered a monastery at Kiev. In 1629 he became archimandrite, and in 1633 metropolitan of Kiev, Galicia, and Little Russia. He was the first to introduce in the study of theology at Kiev the developments which it had acquired in the European universities. He improved the courses of study in every particular, obtained permission to erect a printing press, invited many learned men to the academy, settled upon them sources of revenue which had formerly gone to the metropolitan, and gave them his own valuable collection of books. To confirm the views and feelings of the oriental church in opposition to the encroachments of Roman and Protestant elements, Mogila wrote a “Confession of Faith,” which was examined and approved by two councils, and, being indorsed by the four œcumenical patriarchs, and by the Russian patriarchs Joachim and Adrian, became the first symbolic book of the eastern church, and has continued to be the standard book in theology. Mogila published also a “Catechism” (Kiev, 1645), and some pamphlets. Many of his dramas were acted by his pupils at Kiev, and that on the nativity of Christ was for a long time very popular.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/Before the War of Cooley

BEFORE THE WAR OF COOLEY
At daybreak Maeve rose up from where she prayed And took her prophetess across her door To gaze upon her hosts. Tall spear and blade Burnished for early battle dimly shook The morning's colours, and then Maeve said: "Look And tell me how you see them now." And then The woman that was lean with knowledge said: "There's crimson on them, and there's dripping red." And a tall soldier galloped up the glen ​With foam upon his boot, and halted there Beside old Maeve. She said, "Not yet," and turned Into her blazing dun, and knelt in prayer One solemn hour, and once again she came And sought her prophetess. With voice that mourned, "How do you see them now?" she asked. "All lame And broken in the noon." And once again The soldier stood before her. "No, not yet." Maeve answered his inquiring look and turned Once more unto her prayer, and yet once more "How do you see them now?" she asked. "All wet With storm rains, and all broken, and all tore ​With midnight wolves." And when the soldier came Maeve said, "It is the hour." There was a flash Of trumpets in the dim, a silver flame Of rising shields, loud words passed down the ranks, And twenty feet they saw the lances leap. They passed the dun with one short noisy dash. And turning proud Maeve gave the wise one thanks, And sought her chamber in the dun to weep.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/Evening in May

EVENING IN MAY
There is nought tragic here, tho' night uplifts A narrow curtain where the footlights burned, But one long act where Love each bold heart sifts And blushes in the dark, but has not spurned The strong resolve of noon. The maiden's head Is brown upon the shoulder of her youth, Hearts are exchanged, long pent up words are said, Blushes burn out at the long tale of truth.
The blackbird blows his yellow flute so strong, And rolls away the notes in careless glee, ​It breaks the rhythm of the thrushes' song, And puts red shame upon his rivalry. The yellowhammers on the roof tiles beat Sweet little dulcimers to broken time, And here the robin with a heart replete Has all in one short plagiariséd rhyme.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/Bound to the Mast

BOUND TO THE MAST
When mildly falls the deluge of the grass, And meads begin to rise like Noah's flood, And o'er the hedgerows flow, and onward pass, Dribbling thro' many a wood When hawthorn trees their flags of truce unfurl, And dykes are spitting violets to the breeze; When meadow larks their jocund flight will curl From Earth's to Heaven's leas;
Ah! then the poet's dreams are most sublime, A-sail on seas that know a heavenly calm, And in his song you hear the river's rhyme, ​And the first bleat of the lamb. Then when the summer evenings fall serene, Unto the country dance his songs repair, And you may meet some maids with angel mien, Bright eyes and twilight hair.
When Autumn's crayon tones the green leaves sere, And breezes honed on icebergs hurry past; When meadow-tides have ebbed and woods grow drear, And bow before the blast; When briars make semicircles on the way; When blackbirds hide their flutes and cower and die; When swollen rivers lose themselves and stray Beneath a murky sky;
​Then doth the poet's voice like cuckoo's break, And round his verse the hungry lapwing grieves, And melancholy in his dreary wake The funeral of the leaves. Then when the Autumn dies upon the plain, Wound in the snow alike his right and wrong, The poet sings,—albeit a sad strain,— Bound to the Mast of Song.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/August

AUGUST
She'll come at dusky first of day, White over yellow harvest's song. Upon her dewy rainbow way She shall be beautiful and strong. The lidless eye of noon shall spray Tan on her ankles in the hay, Shall kiss her brown the whole day long.
Ill know her in the windrows, tall Above the crickets of the hay. I'll know her when her odd eyes fall, One May-blue, one November-grey. I'll watch her from the red barn wall Take down her rusty scythe, and call, And I will follow her away.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/Before the Tears

BEFORE THE TEARS
You looked as sad as an eclipséd moon Above the sheaves of harvest, and there lay A light lisp on your tongue, and very soon The petals of your deep blush fell away; White smiles that come with an uneasy grace From inner sorrow crossed your forehead fair, When the wind passing took your scattered hair And flung it like a brown shower in my face.
Tear-fringéd winds that fill the heart's low sighs And never break upon the bosom's pain, ​But blow unto the windows of the eyes Their misty promises of silver rain, Around your loud heart ever rose and fell. I thought 'twere better that the tears should come And strike your every feeling wholly numb, So thrust my hand in yours and shook farewell.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/God's Remembrance

GOD'S REMEMBRANCE
There came a whisper from the night to me Like music of the sea, a mighty breath From out the valley's dewy mouth, and Death Shook his lean bones, and every coloured tree Wept in the fog of morning. From the town Of nests among the branches one old crow With gaps upon his wings flew far away. And, thinking of the golden summer glow, I heard a blackbird whistle half his lay Among the spinning leaves that slanted down.
And I who am a thought of God's now long Forgotten in His Mind, and desolate ​With other dreams long over, as a gate Singing upon the wind the anvil song, Sang of the Spring when first He dreamt of me In that old town all hills and signs that creak:— And He remembered me as something far In old imaginations, something weak With distance, like a little sparking star Drowned in the lavender of evening sea.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/An Old Pain

AN OLD PAIN
What old, old pain is this that bleeds anew? What old and wandering dream forgotten long Hobbles back to my mind? With faces two, Like Janus of old Rome, I look about, And yet discover not what ancient wrong Lies unrequited still. No speck of doubt Upon to-morrow's promise. Yet a pain Of some dumb thing is on me, and I feel How men go mad, how faculties do reel When these old querns turn round within the brain.
​'Tis something to have known one day of joy, Now to remember when the heart is low, An antidote of thought that will destroy The asp bite of Regret. Deep will I drink By'n by the purple cups that overflow, And fill the shattered heart's urn to the brink. But some are dead who laughed! Some scattered are Around the sultry breadth of foreign zones. You, with the warm clay wrapt about your bones, Are nearer to me than the live afar.
My heart has grown as dry as an old crust, Deep in book lumber and moth-eaten wood, So long it has forgot the old love lust, So long forgot the thing that made youth dear, ​Two blue love lamps, a heart exceeding good, And how, when first I heard that voice ring clear Among the sering hedges of the plain, I knew not which from which beyond the corn, The laughter by the callow twisted thorn, The jay-thrush whistling in the haws for rain.
I hold the mind is the imprisoned soul, And all our aspirations are its own Struggles and strivings for a golden goal, That wear us out like snow men at the thaw. And we shall make our Heaven where we have sown Our purple longings. Oh! can the loved dead draw Anear us when we moan, or watching wait ​Our coming in the woods where first we met, The dead leaves falling on their wild hair wet, Their hands upon the fastenings of the gate?
This is the old, old pain come home once more, Bent down with answers wild and very lame For all my delving in old dog-eared lore That drove the Sages mad. And boots the world Aught for their wisdom? I have asked them, tame, And watched the Earth by its own self be hurled Atom by atom into nothingness, Loll out of the deep canyons, drops of fire, And kindle on the hills its funeral pyre, And all we learn but shows we know the less.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/Behind the Closed Eye

BEHIND THE CLOSED EYE
I walk the old frequented ways That wind around the tangled braes, I live again the sunny days Ere I the city knew.
And scenes of old again are born, The woodbine lassoing the thorn, And drooping Ruth-like in the corn The poppies weep the dew.
Above me in their hundred schools The magpies bend their young to rules, And like an apron full of jewels The dewy cobweb swings.
​And frisking in the stream below The troutlets make the circles flow, And the hungry crane doth watch them grow As a smoker does his rings.
Above me smokes the little town, With its whitewashed walls and roofs of brown And its octagon spire toned smoothly down As the holy minds within.
And wondrous impudently sweet, Half of him passion, half conceit, The blackbird calls adown the street Like the piper of Hamelin.
I hear him, and I feel the lure Drawing me back to the homely moor, I'll go and close the mountains' door On the city's strife and din.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/Desire in Spring

DESIRE IN SPRING
I love the cradle songs the mothers sing In lonely places when the twilight drops, The slow endearing melodies that bring Sleep to the weeping lids; and, when she stops, I love the roadside birds upon the tops Of dusty hedges in a world of Spring.
And when the sunny rain drips from the edge Of midday wind, and meadows lean one way, And a long whisper passes thro' the sedge, Beside the broken water let me stay, While these old airs upon my memory play, And silent changes colour up the hedge.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/Evening in February

EVENING IN FEBRUARY
The windy evening drops a grey Old eyelid down across the sun, The last crow leaves the ploughman's way, And happy lambs make no more fun.
Wild parsley buds beside my feet, A doubtful thrush makes hurried tune, The steeple in the village street Doth seem to pierce the twilight moon.
I hear and see those changing charms, For all—my thoughts are fixed upon The hurry and the loud alarms Before the fall of Babylon.