OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Scenes and Hymns of Life, with Other Religious Poems/A Thought of Paradise

A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.
We receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live: Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And would we aught behold of higher worth Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd; Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, Enveloping the earth— And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element. Coleridge.
Green spot of holy ground! If thou couldst yet be found, Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers; If not one sullying breath Of time, or change, or death, Had touched the vernal glory of thy bowers;
Might our tired pilgrim-feet, Worn by the desert's heat, On the bright freshness of thy turf repose? Might our eyes wander there Through heaven's transparent air, And rest on colours of the immortal rose?
Say, would thy balmy skies And fountain-melodies Our heritage of lost delight restore? Could thy soft honey-dews Through all our veins diffuse The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more?
And might we, in the shade By thy tall cedars made, With angel voices high communion hold? Would their sweet solemn tone Give back the music gone, Our Being's harmony, so jarred of old?
Oh! no—thy sunny hours Might come with blossom showers, All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might thrill; But we—should we not bring Into thy realms of spring The shadows of our souls to haunt us still?
What could thy flowers and airs Do for our earth-born cares? Would the world's chain melt off and leave us free? No!—past each living stream, Still would some fever dream Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee!
Should we not shrink with fear, If angel steps were near, Feeling our burdened souls within us die? How might our passions brook The still and searching look, The star-like glance of seraph purity?
Thy golden-fruited grove Was not for pining love; Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies! Oh! Thou wert but a part Of what man's exiled heart Hath lost—the dower of inborn Paradise!
# Songs of a Savoyard/Girl Graduates

From Princess Ida.
GIRL GRADUATES.
THEY intend to send a wire To the moon; And they'll set the Thames on fire Very soon; Then they learn to make silk purses With their rigs From the ears of Lady Circe's Piggy-wigs. And weazels at their slumbers They'll trepan; To get sunbeams from cucumbers They've a plan. They've a firmly rooted notion They can cross the Polar Ocean, And they'll find Perpetual Motion If they can!
These are the phenomena That every pretty domina Hopes that we shall see At this Universitee!
As for fashion, they forswear it, So they say, And the circle—they will square it Some fine day; Then the little pigs they're teaching For to fly; And the niggers they'll be bleaching Bye and bye! Each newly joined aspirant To the clan Must repudiate the tyrant Known as Man; They mock at him and flout him. For they do not care about him, And they're "going to do without him" If they can!
These are the phenomena That every pretty domina Hopes that we shall see At this Universitee!
# Songs of a Savoyard/He Loves

From Iolanthe.
HE LOVES!
HE loves! If the bygone years
Thine eyes have ever shed
Tears—bitter, unavailing tears,
For one untimely dead—
If in the eventide of life
Sad thoughts of her arise,
Then let the memory of thy wife
Plead for my boy—he dies!
He dies! If fondly laid aside
In some old cabinet,
Memorials of thy long-dead bride
Lie, dearly treasured yet,
Then let her hallowed bridal dress—
Her little dainty gloves—
Her withered flowers—her faded tress—
Plead for my boy—he loves!
# Songs of a Savoyard/Ah, Me!

From The Yeomen of the Guard.
AH ME!
WHEN maiden loves, she sits and sighs,
She wanders to and fro;
Unbidden tear-drops fill her eyes,
And to all questions she replies,
With a sad heigho!
'Tis but a little word—"heigho!"
So soft, 'tis scarcely heard—"heigho!"
An idle breath—
Yet life and death
May hang upon a maid's "heigho!"   When maiden loves, she mopes apart,
As owl mopes on a tree;
Although she keenly feels the smart,
She cannot tell what ails her heart,
With its sad "Ah me!"
'Tis but a foolish sigh—"Ah me!"
Born but to droop and die—"Ah me!"
Yet all the sense
Of eloquence
Lies hidden in a maid's "Ah me!"
# Songs of a Savoyard/Blue Blood

From Iolanthe.
BLUE BLOOD.
SPURN not the nobly born
With love affected,
Nor treat with virtuous scorn
The well connected.
High rank involves no shame—
I boast an equal claim
With him of humble name
To be respected!
Blue blood! Blue blood!
When virtuous love is sought,
Thy power is naught,
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood!
Spare me the bitter pain
Of stern denials,
Nor with lowborn disdain
Augment my trials.
Hearts just as pure and fair
May beat in Belgrave Square
As in the lowly air
Of Seven Dials!
Blue blood! Blue blood!
Of what avail art thou
To serve me now?
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood!
# Songs of a Savoyard/Eheu Fugaces—!

From The Sorcerer.
EHEU FUGACES—!
THE air is charged with amatory numbers—
Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers' lays.
Peace, peace, old heart! Why waken from its slumbers
The aching memory of the old, old days?
Time was when Love and I were well acquainted.
Time was when we walked ever hand in hand;
A saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted,
None better-loved than I in all the land!
Time was, when maidens of the noblest station,
Forsaking even military men,
Would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration—
Ah me, I was a fair young curate then!
Had I a headache? sighed the maids assembled;
Had I a cold? welled forth the silent tear;
Did I look pale? then half a parish trembled;
And when I coughed all thought the end was near!
I had no care—no jealous doubts hung o'er me—
For I was loved beyond all other men.
Fled gilded dukes and belted earls before me—
Ah me, I was a pale young curate then!
# Songs of a Savoyard/Advertisements

THE "BAB" BALLADS.
In small 4to, Cloth, price 3s. 6d.
FIFTY "BAB" BALLADS,
MUCH SOUND AND LITTLE SENSE.
By W. S. GILBERT.
WITH THE AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS.
The "Pocket Library" Edition.
In Imperial 32mo, Cloth, marble sides, cut or uncut edges, 1s.; with gilt tops, 1s. 6d.; or Red Roan Limp, gilt edges, 2s. 6d.
FIFTY "BAB" BALLADS.
By W. S. GILBERT
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited,
LONDON, GLASGOW, MANCHESTER AND NEW YORK.
MR. W. S. GILBERT'S COLLECTED PAPERS.
in Crown 8vo, Cloth, price 3s. 6d.
Foggerty's Fairy,
And Other Tales.
By W. S. GILBERT.
A COLLECTION OF
Tales and Essays contributed by Mr. Gilbert to the leading London Periodicals.
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited,
LONDON, GLASGOW, MANCHESTER AND NEW YORK.
# Songs of a Savoyard/An Appeal

From The Pirates of Penzance.
AN APPEAL.
OH! is there not one maiden breast
Which does not feel the moral beauty
Of making worldly interest
Subordinate to sense of duty?
Who would not give up willingly
All matrimonial ambition,
To rescue such a one as I
From his unfortunate position?   Oh, is there not one maiden here,
Whose homely face and bad complexion
Have caused all hopes to disappear
Of ever winning man's affection?
To such a one, if such there be,
I swear by Heaven's arch above you, If you will cast your eyes on me,—
However plain you be—I'll love you!
# Songs of a Savoyard/He and She

From Ruddigore.
HE AND SHE.
He.I KNOW a youth who loves a little maid—
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Silent is he, for he's modest and afraid—
(Hey, but he's timid as a youth can be!)
She.I know a maid who loves a gallant youth,
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
She cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth—
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
Both.Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?
He.He cannot eat and he cannot sleep—
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Daily he goes for to wail—for to weep—
(Hey, but he's wretched as a youth can be!)
She.She's very thin and she's very pale—
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
Daily she goes for to weep—for to wail—
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
Both.Now tell me pray, and tell me true.
What in the world should the poor soul do?
She.If I were the youth I should offer her my name—
(Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)
He.If I were the maid I should feed his honest flame—
(Hey, but he's bashful as a youth can be!)
She.If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day—
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
He.If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way—
(For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)
Both.I thank you much for your counsel true;
I've learnt what that poor soul ought to do!
# Songs of a Savoyard/Braid the Raven Hair

From The Mikado.
BRAID THE RAVEN HAIR.
BRAID the raven hair,
Weave the supple tress,
Deck the maiden fair
In her loveliness;
Paint the pretty face,
Dye the coral lip,
Emphasize the grace
Of her ladyship!
Art and nature, thus allied,
Go to make a pretty bride!
Sit with downcast eye,
Let it brim with dew;
Try if you can cry,
We will do so, too.
When you're summoned, start,
Like a frightened roe;
Flutter, little heart.
Colour, come and go!
Modesty at marriage tide
Well becomes a pretty bride!
# Songs of a Savoyard/Don't Forget

From The Gondoliers.
DON'T FORGET
Now, Marco dear,
My wishes hear:
While you're away
It's understood
You will be good,
And not too gay.
To every trace
Of maiden grace
You will be blind,
And will not glance
By any chance
On womankind!
If you are wise,
You'll shut your eyes
'Till we arrive,
And not address
A lady less
Than forty-five;
You'll please to frown
On every gown
That you may see;
And O, my pet,
You won't forget
You've married me!
O, my darling, O, my pet,
Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea,
O, don't forget you've married me!
You'll lay your head
Upon your bed
At set of sun.
You will not sing
Of anything
To any one:
You'll sit and mope
All day, I hope,
And shed a tear
Upon the life
Your little wife
Is passing here!
And if so be
You think of me,
Please tell the moon:
I'll read it all
In rays that fall
On the lagoon:
You'll be so kind
As tell the wind
How you may be,
And send me words
By little birds
To comfort me!
And O, my darling, O, my pet,
Whatever else you may forget,
In yonder isle beyond the sea,
O, don't forget you've married me!
# Selected letters of Mendelssohn/Letter 19

TO PASTOR SCHUBRING AT DESSAU.
Leipsic, 6th December, 1835.
Dear Schubring,—You no doubt know already what a heavy blow has fallen on the happiness of my life and on all who belong to me. It is the greatest misfortune possible; I must either endure it or sink under it. I say this now after three weeks; the keen pain of the first days is over, but I feel it only more assuredly; a new life must begin for me from this time, or all come to an end; the old life is torn away. It is our comfort and example that mother should be able to bear the loss with a wonderful quiet and steadfastness. She finds joy in her children and grandchildren, and thus tries to conceal from herself the blank which nothing can fill up. My sisters are doing everything to repay our debt to her, and give themselves up to this the more because it is so hard. I was ten days in Berlin, so that with my presence our mother might be surrounded by all that remains of our family, but what days those were I need not tell you. You understand well, and, I ​doubt not, have thought of me in this time of darkness. God granted my father’s often repeated petition; his end was as tranquil and gentle, and as unexpected in its rapidity as he had desired. On Wednesday, the 18th, we were all of us round him; late in the evening he went to bed; the next morning he complained a little; at half-past ten his life was ended. The doctors could give no name to his illness. My uncle says that my grandfather, Moses Mendelssohn died precisely in the same way, at the same age, and without illness, his mind bright and tranquil. I cannot say if you knew how especially good my father was to me of late years, how like a friend, so that my whole soul hung on him, and scarcely an hour of my long absence passed without bringing the thought of him into my mind. But you knew him in his own circle and knew how lovable was his character; you will realise what my feelings are. All that remains is duty, and I seek to do it with all my power, for that is what he would desire were he still present with us, and I shall not cease to struggle after what would content him, though the sight of his contentment is granted me no longer. In postponing a reply to your letter, I never thought I should have to answer thus: accept my thanks for it and for all your friendship. One passage for "St. Paul” is admirable: “Der Du der rechte Vater bist.” A chorus for it has been in my mind, and I shall write it very shortly. My especial aim is now to set about the completion of the “St. Paul” with double zeal, for my father’s last letter urged me to it. He awaited the finishing of this work with ​impatience, so it is to me as though I must throw myself into making the “St. Paul” as perfect as I can, and thus think he has still a share in it. If suggestions occur to you, pray continue to send them. You know how the work has shaped itself. To-day I have been writing at it again for the first time, and shall now do so daily. When it is finished, Heaven direct my further steps. Farewell, dear Schubring, and remember me.
Yours, Felix Mendlessohn Bartholdy.
# Selected letters of Mendelssohn/Letter 20

TO HERE ADVOCAT CONRAD SCHLEINITZ AT LEIPSIC.
Berlin, 1st August, 1838.
Dear Schleinitz,—What you say of your increased occupation gives me great pleasure. You know how often we have talked over the question, but still I cannot admit your opinion that one profession is to be preferred to another. I persist in thinking that anything which the ordinary right sort of man can put his heart into and get well hold of is in itself a noble calling. The only things I could not feel a very strong interest in are precisely those in which there is no personal element, in which the individual disappears, such as the military career in times of peace, and of that Berlin has sufficient examples. But your whole contention is more or less untrue. In comparing one profession to another, people generally take the naked reality of one, and the most imposing ideal of the other, so, naturally, the decision is easy. And how easy it is for an artist to feel the bare realities of his trade, and then perhaps to envy practical men who have the chance of observing all the relations of life, and knowing all the diversities there are among men, to envy them especially when ​one considers all the actual, useful, beneficent things they may accomplish. And then, just because the man of honour has the hardest task in dealing with a public which is more concerned about appearances than realities, therefore one cannot suffer the needs of the moment to guide or perturb one’s conscience, but above all external considerations must always maintain in one’s heart a something that can raise and sustain it. This tells very directly for my view, for that higher impulse is the best thing in every calling, and it is common to all—shared equally by yours and mine and every other. After all, what is the beauty you find in a quartette or a symphony that I have worked into shape? Surely it is nothing but the piece of myself that I have put into it, given voice to in that fashion. You do the same in your defence of a pickpocket or a claim for damages, or whatever it may be that makes you exert yourself, just in the same measure that any man can do it, and that is the great point of concern. If only what is within a man can get issue and declare itself, and if this inward part of him can become more and more worthy of declaration, that is all; the rest is indifferent. With many thanks for news of all your doings.
Yours, Felix Mendlessohn Bartholdy.
# Selected letters of Mendelssohn/Letter 21

TO PASTOR JULIUS SCRUBRING AT DESSAU.
Leipsic, 2nd November, 1838.
Dear Schubring,—Many thanks indeed for your letter and the packet that followed it. You offer me a most essential service, for which I am very grateful; yet you ask if I desire it! I should have told you that the notes I sent were not designed for a completed plan, but only for a collection of material; however, when you have put them together, you leave me nothing to do but only to add the music. I agree that the passage about the widow should go out, also the raven, and that all the beginning should be brought more together so as to expand in the chief passages as one wants it to do. I earnestly beg you, if your time and convenience permit, to continue the first part and send it me—(it will have to be very long)—starting from the point at which your last contribution stopped; do so and you will earn my truest gratitude.
You say that at first you saw nothing to cut out, but then a light suddenly broke on you. For my own part, what struck me was to make Elijah a prophet through and through, the man we may really ​need to-day—a man strong and zealous, full of bitterness and scorn, the antagonist of the rabble, whether of courtiers or populace, well nigh the antagonist of all the world, yet borne aloft as on the wings of angels. Did that strike you also, and how came you to think of it? My object is to make the story dramatic; as you say, the epic style of narrative cannot come into it. That you look for the universal significance which goes to one’s heart in the Biblical words pleases me much: one thing I might say, which is that the dramatic element should here and there be very pregnantly and forcibly apparent. Speech and retort, question and answer, interruption of one speaker by another, all these and similar points are wanted. It is not that I object to Elijah being made first to speak of the assembly of the people, then immediately to the assembly; such a freedom is, of course, among the privileges of the oratorio; but in this mode of presentation I would gladly see as much naturalness as possible. Thus it puts me out that Elijah should only answer in ‘number 18’ to Ahab’s words in ‘16’ with several speeches and a chorus placed between. I would have liked a vigorous piece of dialogue there, etc. But on these points we shall very soon agree, only remember this if you can, in working further. With many thanks for your kindness.—Always yours,
Felix M. B.
# Selected letters of Mendelssohn/Letter 22

TO PROFESSOR SCHIRMER AT DÜSSELDORF.
Berlin, 21st November, 1838.
……. It is said I have become pious! If by this is meant what I understand by pious, and what you from your way of speaking appear to understand too, then I can only say that, unhappily, I have not become so, but I strive towards it every day with what power I have, and seek to become so more and more. Frankly, I know it will never succeed with me outright, but to get nearer is something. But if people mean I have turned into a Pietist, one of those who folds his hands on his bosom and waits for God to accomplish all things for him, or one who, instead of struggling after perfection in his earthly calling, talks of a heavenly calling which is incompatible with mundane efforts, or one who cannot truly love any person or anything in this world—such a one I have not become, thank Heaven! nor will, I trust, all my life long. And for the very reason that I so much desire to be soundly and sanely pious, I need care, I hope, very little about that species of piety. But it is curious that people should pitch upon this special time for saying things of the ​sort, now that I am so happy inwardly and outwardly, both through my new home-like and also through busy work, that I never know how to set about being sufficiently thankful. And since you wish me on the way to quiet and peace, let me say I never hoped for so peaceful a life as has now fallen to my lot. Receive my best of thanks for your good wishes, and do not be troubled for my tranquillity.
What you write me of yourself and your work pleases me very much, especially your sharing the opinion that what people usually term fame and glory is a wretched business; while another higher spiritual glory is as needful as it is rare. One sees this most clearly with those who possess all conceivable distinctions, yet never have a moment’s joy in them, but hunger continually for more; this first became perfectly apparent to me in Paris. Yet I am glad that you do not speak so contemptuously of the French painters, for I have long taken great delight in the best men they have at present, and I cannot in the least imagine how people can be sincere who find a great poetic stimulus in your pictures and then look down on Horace Vernet from a critical altitude—it seems to me if one finds pleasure in one sort of beauty, another sort cannot remain quite indifferent; or at least such is the case with me.
# Selected letters of Mendelssohn/Letter 23

TO R. SIMROCK AT BONN.
Leipsic, 4th March, 1839.
……. The manuscripts I meant to send you last year are still incomplete. I want them to be good work, and for that good humour and leisure are necessary, things which these endless concerts often deprive me of. Now I hope soon to make an end of them, and discharge my debt.
But they are not “songs without words.” Indeed, I have no intention of producing any more of that species, let the Hamburgers say what they will. There are too many crawling between earth and heaven already, and in the end they grow insipid. There is too great a mass of music for the piano composed in that style. It is time to strike another note, say I. With most sincere respect.
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
# Selected letters of Mendelssohn/Letter 24

TO J. MOSCHELES, LONDON.
Leipsic, 30th November, 1839.
My Dear Friend,—I have not given Pott any musical assistance in his undertaking. If you could only see how abominably this business of monuments is carried on here, you would not do so either. People speculate on our great men to make themselves a name out of their names, send up a peal of trumpets in the newspapers, and make atrocious noises with real trumpets. “Unrefreshing as the winter wind.” If only they would found a decent orchestra at Halle for Handel, at Saltzburg for Mozart, at Bonn for Beethoven, and so on, so that their works might be well interpreted, I should be with them; but I will have nothing to do with their stones, while my musicians have stones for bread, nor with their conservatoires, where there is nothing to conserve. My present hobby-horse is the poverty of our orchestra and the remedy for it. By dint of unspeakable running about, writing letters, and tormenting people, I have managed to secure them an extra 500 thalers, and before I go away from here they must have as much again. If the town will do that then they may go further and erect a monument to ​Sebastian Bach. But the extra salaries first. You see I am quite a raving Leipsicer. But it would move you, too, if you could see it all for yourself, and had also the witness of your own ears for the efforts of my poor musicians to produce something good.