OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Persian Letters/Letter 52
#### Letter 52

Rica to Usbek, at * * *
I WAS much amused in a certain house the other day. There were present women of all ages; one of eighty years, one of sixty, and one of forty; the last had with her a niece of from twenty to twenty-two. Instinct led me to choose the company of the youngest. She whispered to me, “What do you think of my aunt? Old as she is, she still tries to pass for a beauty, and wishes to have lovers.” She is wrong,” said I; “such an intention is becoming only in you.” A moment after I found myself beside her aunt, who said to me, “What do you think of that woman? Although she is at least sixty years old she has spent hours to-day over her toilet.” “It was a waste of time,” said I, “which only such charms as yours could have exhausted.” I crossed over to the unfortunate dame of threescore, and was pitying her in my heart, when she whispered to me, “Did you ever see anything so ridiculous? Fancy a woman of eighty wearing flame-coloured ribbons! She would like to be young, and she succeeds, for that is childish.”
“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed to myself; “must we be for ever blind to our own folly? Perhaps, after all,” I argued, “it is a blessing that we should find consolation in the absurdities of others.” However, I was bent on being amused, and I said, still to myself, “This is surely high enough; let us descend, beginning at the summit.” So, I addressed the lady of fourscore. “Madam,” I said, “you are so wonderfully like that lady, whom I have just left to speak to you, that I am certain you must be sisters – I should say about the same age.” “Indeed, sir,” she rejoined, “when one of us dies, the other will not have long to live; I do not believe there is two days’ difference between us.” Having left my decrepit dame, I went again to her of sixty. “Madam, you must decide a bet I have made. I have wagered that you and that lady,” indicating her of forty, “are of the same age.” “Well,” she said, “I believe there is not six months’ difference.” Good, so far; let us get on. Still descending, I returned to the lady of forty. “Madam, have the goodness to tell me if you were jesting when you called that young lady at the other table, your niece. You are as young as she; there is even a touch of age in her face, which you certainly have not; and the brilliancy of your complexion…” “Listen, she said; “I am her aunt; but her mother was at least twenty-five years older than me. We are not even children of the same marriage; I have heard my departed sister say that her daughter and I were born the same year?” “I was right, then, madam, and you cannot blame me for being astonished.”
My dear Usbek, women who feel that the loss of their charms is ageing them before their time, long ardently to be young again; and why should we blame them for deceiving others, since they take such trouble to deceive themselves, and to dispossess their minds of the most painful of all thoughts?
Paris, the 3rd of the moon of Chalval, 1713.
# Persian Letters/Letter 53
#### Letter 53

Zelis to Usbek, at Paris
NO passion was ever stronger or more vehement than that of Cosrou, the white eunuch, for my slave Zelida; he has asked her in marriage with such persistence, that I can no longer refuse him. And why should I object when her mother does not, and since Zelida herself seems satisfied with the idea of this mock union, and the empty shadow which it offers her?
What does she want with this wretched creature? She is marrying jealously personified, a husband who is no husband; who will only exchange his coldness for an impotent despair; who, by perpetually recalling the memory of what he was, will but remind her of what he no longer is; who, always ready to possess, but never possessing, will for ever deceive himself and her, keeping constantly alive to the wretchedness of her condition.
And then! to be always in dreams and fancies; to live only in imagination; to be always on the threshold, and never in the abode, of pleasure; languishing in the arms of impotence, responding, not to happy sighs, but to vain regrets!
How one ought to despise a man of that kind, made only to guard and not to own! I seek love, and cannot find it!
I speak to you freely, because you love my artlessness, and prefer my frankness and amorous disposition to the affected modesty of my companions.
I have heard you say a thousand times that eunuchs do enjoy a certain pleasure with women, which we know nothing of; that nature compensates them for their loss, having means with which to amend their unfortunate condition; that one may cease to be a man, but not to feel desire; and that in that state one acquires a third sense, and exchanges, as it were, one pleasure for another.
If that be so, Zelida, will have less to complain of. It is something to live with people who are not, after all, so miserable. Send me your instructions in the matter, and let me know if you wish the marriage to take place in the seraglio. Farewell.
The Seraglio at Ispahan, the 5th of the moon of Chalval, 1713.
# Persian Letters/Letter 5
#### Letter 5

Rustan to Usbek, at Erzeroum
You are the one subject of conversation at Ispahan; nothing is talked of but your departure: some ascribe it to a giddy spirit, others to some heavy affliction; your friends are your only defenders, and they make no converts. People fail to understand why you should forsake your wives, your relations, your friends, and your native country, to visit lands of which Persians know nothing. Rica's mother is inconsolable; she wants her son again, whom, she declares, you have decoyed away. As for me, my dear Usbek, I am, of course, anxious to approve of all your actions; but I do not see how I am to pardon your absence, and, however good your reasons may be, my heart will never appreciate them.
Ispahan, the 28th of the first moon of Rebiab, 1711.
# Persian Letters/Letter 50
#### Letter 50

Rica to * * *
I HAVE met some people to whom virtue was so natural, that they were not even conscious of it; they applied themselves to their duty without any compulsion, and were led to it instinctively; far from making their own admirable qualities a subject of conversation, it seemed as if they were quite ignorant of their existence. Such people I love; not those men who seem to be astonished at their own virtue, and who look upon a good deed as a marvel the relation of which should excite wonder.
If modesty is a necessary virtue in those to whom Heaven has given great talents, what is to be said of those insects who dare to exhibit a pride which would dishonour the greatest men?
On every hand I meet people who talk constantly about themselves; their conversation is a mirror which reflects only their own impertinent faces; they will tell you of the merest trifles that happen to them, and expect the interest they take in them to magnify their importance in your eyes; they have done everything, seen everything, said everything, thought everything; they are a pattern of mankind, a subject of inexhaustible comparisons, a source of precedents which never dries up. Oh! how insipid is self-praise!
Some days ago a man of this type worried us for two hours, about himself, his worth, his talents; but, since there is no such thing as perpetual motion, he had to cease. It was then our turn to talk and we took it.
A man, who seemed sufficiently splenetic, commenced to grumble at the tediousness of conversation. “What! are there none but fools, who describe their own character and bring everything home to themselves?” “You are right,” replied our tattling friend abruptly. “Nobody does as I do; I never praise myself; I have means, am well-born, spend freely, and my friends say that I have some wit; but I never talk of all that; if I have any good qualities, that which I set most store by, is my modesty.”
I wondered at this malapert; and while he was talking very loudly, I whispered, “Happy is he who has enough of vanity never to boast of his own qualities, who dreads the ridicule of his audience, and never hurts the pride of others by exalting himself!”
Paris, the 20th of the moon of Rhamazan, 1713.
# Persian Letters/Letter 56
#### Letter 56

Usbek to Ibben, at Smyrna
GAMING is very common in Europe. To be a gamester is to have a position in society, although one is neither well-born, wealthy, nor a man of integrity: it entitles one, without any inquiry, to rank as a gentleman. All know that it is often a most untrustworthy credential, but people have made up their minds to be deceived.
Above all, the women follow it. It is true that the attractions of a dearer passion prevent them from giving it much attention in their youth; but as they grow old, their love of gaming seems to grow young, and when all others are decayed, that passion fills up the void.
Their desire is to ruin their husbands; and for that purpose, they have means suitable to all ages, from the tenderest youth to the most decrepit age; dress and luxury begin the disorder, which gallantry increases, and gaming completes.
I have often seen nine or ten women, or rather, nine or ten centuries, seated round a table; I have watched them hoping, fearing, rejoicing--above all, in their transports of anger: you would have said that they would never grow calm again, and that life would leave them before their despair; you would have been in doubt whether they were paying their creditors or their legatees.
It seems to have been the chief aim of our holy Prophet to restrain us from everything that might disturb the reason: he has prohibited the use of wine, which steals away man's brains; by a special law he has forbidden games of chance; and where the cause of passion could not be removed he has subdued it. Love among us brings with it no trouble, no frenzy: it is a languid passion which leaves our souls serene: plurality of wives saves us from the dominion of women, and tempers the violence of our desires.
Paris, the 18th of the moon of Zilhage, 1714.
# Persian Letters/Letter 58
#### Letter 58

Rica to Rhedi, at Venice
My dear Rhedi, there are in Paris a great many trades. Some good-natured creature will offer you for a little money the secret of making gold. Another promises you the love of the spirits of the air, if you will see no women for a small trifle of thirty years.
Then you will meet with wizards so skilful, that they can tell you all your life, with the simple proviso of a quarter of an hour’s conversation with your servants.
Adroit women turn virginity into a flower, which withers and blooms again every day, and is gathered for the hundredth time with more anguish than the first.
There are other women as skilful, who, repairing by the force of their art all the ravages of time, know how to restore to a face beauty enough to strike one blind, and even to summon a woman from the very end of life’s journey back to its tender youthful opening.
All these people live, or seek a livelihood, in this great city, the mother of invention.
The incomes of citizens cannot be farmed: they consist only in skill and industry: each has his own, and makes the best of it.
He who would wish to count the dervishes who run after the revenue of some mosque, might as well attempt to number the sands of the sea, or the slaves of our monarch.
An infinite number of professors of languages, of arts, and of sciences, teach what they do not know; and their talent is not by any means despicable; for much less wit is required to exhibit one’s knowledge, than to teach what one knows nothing of.
One cannot die here, except suddenly: death is left no other method of exercising his power; because, in every hole and corner, people are ready with infallible cures for every imaginable disease.
All the shops are hung with invisible nets, in which the customers are snared. Sometimes, however, one gets off with a good bargain. A shopgirl will wheedle a man for a stricken hour, and all to make him buy a packet of tooth-picks.
Every one who goes from this city, leaves it a warier man than when he entered: by dint of throwing away his means on others, he learns how to keep it to himself – the only benefit a stranger carries away from this sorceress of a city.
Paris, the 10th of the moon of Saphar, 1714.
# Oregon Historical Quarterly/Volume 4/Number 4 note

NOTE—A CORRECTION.
# Oregon Historical Quarterly/Volume 8/Number 4

* Address of Frederick V. Holman [dedication of McLoughlin Institute, Oregon City, 1907]
* History of Organization of Oregon State Agricultural Society. by George H. Himes
* Recollections of an Indian Agent, Part 4. by T. W. Davenport
* Bibliography of Hall J. Kelley. by F. W. Powell
* Diary of Asahel Munger and Wife
* Notes and Reviews
* Accessions
# Pelléas and Melisande

* related portals: Operas.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
Debussy's only complete opera, with text adapted from the play by Maurice Maeterlinck.
Layout 2
PELLÉAS
AND
MELISANDE
LYRIC DRAMA
IN FIVE ACTS
TAKEN FROM THE PLAY BY
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
MUSIC BY
CLAUDE DEBUSSY
ENGLISH VERSION BY
CHARLES ALFRED BYRNE
English Version Copyrighted 1907, by Steinway & Sons
PUBLISHED BY
FRED RULLMAN. INC., NEW YORK. N. Y.
* Argument
* Act I
* Act II
* Act III
* Act IV
* Act V
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 1946, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 77 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
# Poems (Jackson)/Charlotte Cushman

CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN
# Poems (Jackson)/A Christmas Symphony

POEMS.
# Poems (E. L. F.)/Tweedsmuir

THE END.
# Poems for the Sea

POEMS
FOR
THE SEA.
BY
MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.
"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, they see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep."
HARTFORD:
H S. PARSONS & CO.
1850.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by
H. S. PARSONS AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Connecticut.
J. GILES, Printer.
HARTFORD.
CONTENTS
| Parting, | 9 |
| Our Ships, | 11 |
| The two Teachers, | 15 |
| My first Sabbath at Sea, | 19 |
| Song of the Icelandic Fishermen, | 25 |
| Reef Sails, | 29 |
| Icebergs, | 33 |
| Prayers at Sea, | 37 |
| Oracle for Seamen, | 39 |
| The Trusting Child, | 41 |
| Laura, | 45 |
| Teachings of the Sea, | 51 |
| Drink, Friends, | 53 |
| Homeward Bound, | 55 |
| The Prophet's Vision, | 57 |
| Midnight Thoughts at Sea, | 59 |
| The Angel of the Waters, | 61 |
| To the Ocean, | 65 |
| The Brother, | 69 |
| Return to Native Land, | 75 |
| The Geranium Plant at Sea, | 83 |
| Farewell to Fellow Voyagers, | 85 ​ |
| The Mother's blessing on her Sailor Son, | 91 |
| The Sister's Farewell, | 95 |
| Tom Hardy, | 97 |
| The Happy Mariner, | 101 |
| Hymn at Parting, | 105 |
| I went to Sea, | 109 |
| Intemperance, | 113 |
| The Sailor's Sick Child, | 117 |
| A Bible Story, | 121 |
| Thoughts in Sickness, | 125 |
| The Hero, | 127 |
| Gratitude, | 131 |
| Burial at Sea, | 133 |
| Hope in God, | 135 |
| The Whaler's Song, | 139 |
| Thanksgiving Day on Shore, | 137 |
| What could they do without us?, | 143 |
| To a Retired Seaman, | 147 |
| Ho Landsmen!, | 149 |
| My happy Home, | 151 |
​The little embellishments of this Book were designed expressly for it, by Mr. W. R. Lawrence, a young artist, of Hartford, Conn., and engraved by Mr. W. H. Dodd.
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
# Poems for the Sea/Burial at Sea

BURIAL AT SEA.
Down to the unfathom'd realms,
 Where hidden fountains flow,
Alone, his silent couch to find,
 The child of earth must go.
For him no funeral bell
 May weeping friends convene,
Nor dust, to kindred dust be laid
 Within the church-yard green.
Farewell! one heavy plunge!
 One cleft in ocean's floor!
And then the deaf and sullen surge
 Sweeps on, and all is o'er.
We give thee earnest charge,
 Oh sad, and solemn deep,
Safe in thy cold and strong embrace
 This precious form to keep;
Till at the trumpet's sound,
 Which fills the world with dread,
Thy caverns, and the graves of earth
 Shall render up their dead:
Then clothed in glorious light,
 May this our friend arise,
And change thy dark, imprisoning cell,
 For freedom in the skies.
# Poems for the Sea/Farewell to Fellow Voyagers

FAREWELL TO FELLOW VOYAGERS.
When shall we all meet again?
When, shall we all meet again?
We, who side by side, so long,
Listen'd to the billows' song,
Saw the Sun, enrob'd in gloom,
Plunging 'mid his ocean-tomb,
And, anon, its bursting floor
To the skies, their king restore;
Days of hope, and nights of fear
Drew us, heart to heart more near,
And though now serenely fair
Gleams the haven of our prayer,
Still this parting hath its pain,
When, shall we all meet again?
When the watch of time is sped,
When its beacon-fires are dead,
When our sails no more are furl'd
From the tempests of the world,
And no more, expanding wide,
Woo its gales of joy or pride,
When those ties the heart that sway,
Pass, like smoking flax away,
When the judgment-seat is set,
When the tribes of earth are met,
When those Books, whose awful scroll
Seal the sentence of the soul,
Ope,—for endless bliss, or pain;
Then, shall we all meet again.
# Poems for our Children/The Thunder Storm

THE THUNDER STORM.
Look! the black cloud rises high— Now it spreads along the sky— See! the quivering lightnings fly— Hark! the thunder 'll roar
​Yet I will not shrink with fear When the thunder crash I hear; Soon the rainbow will appear, And the storm be o'er.
In the summer's sultry day, When hot winds around us play, We should sink, the fever's prey, And revive no more.
But the dark clouds fill the skies, And the vivid lightning flies; Then the cooling winds arise, And our pains are o'er.
And I will not feel alarm— God can shield me from all harm; In the sunshine, or the storm, God I will adore.
# Poems for the Sea/Homeward Bound

HOMEWARD BOUND.
Hail, distant mountain! rearing dim  O'er my loved land, thy lofty head, How welcome is thy sight to him  So long by chart and compass led; Speck though thou art, and wrapped in haze, Right pleasant 'tis on thee to gaze.
I've masked the lordly Teneriffe  Rise with rough forehead from the sea, Gay songsters warbling round the cliff,  Rich strains of dulcet melody; Yet rather would my listening ear The wild birds of my country hear.
I've sailed where Chimborazo towers
 Amid old Andes' giant chain,
And where the bright Brazilian flowers
 Pour living fragrance o'er the plain;
But sweeter is the clustering vine
That doth my home's lov'd porch entwine.
I've roamed where Himmaleh aspires
 With snowy crest o'er Indian vales,
And where perfumed from spicy groves
 The freighted vessel fills her sails;
But dearer far, yon mountain hoar,
Blest herald of my native shore.
# Poems for the Sea/Drink, Friends

DRINK, FRIENDS.
Drink, friends!—the parting hour draws nigh,
 Drink and forget your care,
The sultry summer-noon is high,
 Drink, and your strength repair;
The farmer with his toil-brown hands,
 The soldier, tired of slaughter,
The camel mid the burning sands,
 Drink deep the crystal water.
Our father Sun the example gives,
 Our mother Earth also;
He, jocund drinks, above the cloud,
 She, thirsting, drinks below:
Drink friends, drink deep, before we part,
 To loving wife, or daughter,
Or bright-eyed maid who rules your heart,
 Drink deep, but only water.
# Poems for the Sea/Gratitude

GRATITUDE.
Ruler of the sea, and land,  Who the surging main doth hold In the hollow of Thy hand,  By thy slightest word controlled;
Thou the mighty winds hast curb'd  Warring in their midnight path, And our reeling vessel sav'd  From the madness of their wrath;
Thou from shipwreck and despair  Didst our souls in safety set,
When all human help was vain,  Can we e'er such love forget?
E'er that tender mercy grieve  That upheld us when we prayed, Or the sacred promise break  That in danger's hour we made?
No. Upon our spirits seal  This memorial of Thy praise, And the grateful love we feel  Make as lasting as our days.
# Poems for the Sea/Ho Landsmen!

HO LANDSMEN!
Ho! landsmen, in your sheltered homes,
 Of hardship what know ye,
Like us, who dwell amid the blast,
 And ride the wrathful sea?
The green trees shade you from the sun,
 You watch the harvests grow,
And taste the fragrance of the gale,
 When the first roses blow.
You slumber long on beds of down,
 In curtained chambers warm,
Lull'd only to a deeper dream
 By the descending storm:
While climbing high mid slippery shrouds  Our midnight path we take, When the strongest mast like a reed is bow'd,  And the roughest timbers quake.
But do ye ever know the joy  That cheers our ocean-strife, When o'er the waves, our gallant bark  Glides like a thing of life? When gaily toward the wish'd-for port  With favoring wind we stand, Or first the misty hill descry  Of our own native land?
Say you there's peril on the deep?  Well, so there is on land, And often when you idly sleep,  Some tempter's close at hand. Yet there's a Guiding Power aloft,  A pole-star mid the spheres, An Ararat to save the ark  That o'er the deluge steers.
# Poems for the Sea/Hope in God

HOPE IN GOD.
My hope is in the living God!
 Oh may His shield be spread
In every time of need, around
 My unprotected head.
His are the Ocean and the Land,
 And man's frail, dying race,
And those who walk in pride, His Hand
 Is able to abase.
But I have nought of which to boast,
 No refuge where to flee,
An atom mid the mighty main;
 Have mercy, Lord, on me.
When o'er temptation's boiling gulf,
 My dangerous course doth lie,
May heavenly wisdom be my guide
 And light the darkened sky;
And if, o'er hidden reefs we steer,
 When all around is fair,
Nor chart nor compass give a sign
 Of evil lurking there,
Deign Thou, the erring heart to warn
 That hath its trust in Thee,
And as thy goodness hath no bound,
 Have mercy, Lord on me.
# Poems for the Sea/A Bible Story

A BIBLE STORY.
They told a story to me, when a child,
Ere I could read, that fill'd my heart with awe,
And wondering love,—a story of the Sea,
And Him who walked upon it.
 Dreary night
 Settled on Galilee, and angry winds
Lash'd the rebellious waves. Yet o'er their heads
Toss'd high in maddening fury, Jesus came,
As calm, as tho' the smooth, green earth he trod.
A storm-driven ship was there, and the strain'd eyes
Of the vex'd mariners, were wildly fix'd
On him astonish'd,—for they did not know
The Master, in that hour. Then, his blest voice
Assur'd their fainting hearts, and full of joy,
Peter, with eager footstep, fain would go
To meet his Lord.
 The loud and boisterous blast
Swept through his locks, and the cold surge rose high
Around his shuddering breast, and his foot fail'd
Amid the awful tides.
 "Oh save!" he cried,— "Save! or I perish!"
 Jesus stretch'd his hand
And snatch'd him from the waves. Then on the deck
Amid the glad disciples, safe he stood,
Fill'd with adoring gratitude,—while all
Gave praise and glory to the Son of God.
 So Peter learn'd it was not given to man
To plant his foot upon the stormy main
And rule its wrath, for in its thundering might
It sweeps him like a noteless weed away.
This Bible story was most sweet to me,
As on my childish ear, from lips revered,
At eventide it fell. And much I mused
On that Redeemer's power, who made the sea
A peaceful pavement for his feet divine.
 And afterwards, on Ocean's awful breast,
When reef, and tempest threatened, or the power
Of the dread iceberg chill'd our veins with awe,
Methought I saw Him walking on the Sea
With hand outstretch'd, the trusting soul to save,
And so, was comforted.