OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# A Pipe of Tobacco/III

A parody of James Thomson. Thomson replied to the parody with "The Smoaker Smoak'd."
O Thou, matur’d by glad Hesperian Suns, Tobacco, Fountain pure of limpid Truth, That looks the very Soul; whence pouring Thought Swarms all the Mind; absorpt is yellow Care, And at each Puff Imagination burns. Flash on thy Bard, and with exalting Fires Touch the mysterious Lip that chaunts thy Praise In Strains to mortal Sons of Earth unknown. Behold an Engine, wrought from tauny Mines, Of ductile Clay, with plastic Virtue form’d, And glaz’d magnific o’er, I grasp, I fill. From Paetotheke with pungent Pow’rs perfum’d, Itself one Tortoise all, where shines imbib’d Each Parent Ray; then rudely ram’d illume, With the red Touch of Zeal-enkindling Sheet, Mark’d with Gibsonian Lore; forth issue Clouds, Thought-thrilling, Thirst-inciting Clouds around, And many-mining Fires: I all the While, Lolling at Ease, inhale the breezy Balm. But chief, when Bacchus went with thee to join, In genial Strife and Orthodoxal Ale, Stream Life and Joy into the Muses Bowl. Oh be Thou still my great Inspirer, Thou My Muse; Oh fan me with thy Zephyrs Boon, While I, in clouded Tabernacle shrin’d, Burst forth all Oracle and mystic Song.
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
# A Pipe of Tobacco/V

A parody of Alexander Pope. Jane Austen makes reference to this poem in Mansfield Park.
Blest leaf! whose aromatic Gales dispense To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense: So raptur'd Priests, at fam'd Dodona's Shrine Drank Inspiration from the Steam divine. Poison that cures, a Vapour that affords Content, more solid than the Smile of Lords: Rest to the Weary, to the Hungry Food; The last kind Refuge of the Wise and Good. Inspired by Thee, dull Cits adjust the Scale Of Europe's Peace, when other Statesmen fail. By Thee protected, and thy Sister Beer, Poets rejoice, nor think the Bailiff near. Nor less, the Critic owns thy genial Aid, While supperless he plies the piddling Trade. What tho' to Love and soft Delights a Foe, By Ladies hated, hated by the Beau; Yet social Freedom, long to Courts unknown, Fair Health, fair Truth, and Virtue are thy own. Come to thy Poet, come with healing Wings, And let me taste Thee unexcis'd by Kings.
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
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Wine of Jurançon (Charles Coran)

THE WINE OF JURANÇON.
CHARLES CORAN.
Small wine loved, of Jurançon, Fresh thou art in memory! Sang mine host;—we drank anon, Sheltered by a flowering tree.
Passing after twenty years, Good mine host I found again, On the same spot, and with tears Heard once more the old refrain.
Welcomed me with warmth the wine, As a friend of yesterday; Shone past times in light divine, Mirrored in the bottles gay.
Glass in hand, we cares forget, Clink, clink, clink, but as we pledge— Vinegar or else piquette— Faugh! To set one's teeth on edge.
Good the growth? Why—how's the thing? Same the wine, the very tun! Thou, O brightness of my spring, Vanished,—all the taste was gone.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Young Captive (André Chénier)

This poem bears the initials of Toru Dutt's sister, Aru, so was possibly translated by her.
THE YOUNG CAPTIVE.
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER.
The budding shoot ripens unharmed by the scythe, Without fear of the press, on vine-branches lithe, Through spring-tide the green clusters bloom. Is’t strange, then, that I in my life's morning hour, Though troubles like clouds on the dark present lower, Half-frighted shrink back from my doom?
Let the stern—hearted stoic run boldly on death! I—I weep and I hope; to the north wind's chill breath I bend,—then erect is my form! If days there are bitter, there are days also sweet, Enjoyment unmixed where on earth may we meet? What ocean has never a storm?
Illusions the fairest assuage half my pain, The walls of a prison enclose me in vain, The strong wings of hope bear me far; So escapes from the net of the fowler the bird, So darts he through ether, while his music is heard Like showers of sweet sound from a star.
Comes Death unto me? I sleep tranquil and calm, And Peace when I waken stands by with her balm, Remorse is the offspring of crimes; My welcome each morning smiles forth in all eyes, My presence is here, to sad brows, a surprise Which kindles to pleasure at times.
The end of my journey seemed so far to my view; Of the elm-trees which border the long avenue, The nearest are only past by; At the banquet of life I have barely sat down, My lips have but pressed the bright foaming crown Of the wine in my cup bubbling high,
I am only in spring,—the harvest I'd see, From season to season like the sun I would be Intent on completing my round; Shining bright in the garden,—its honour and queen; As yet but the beams of the morning I've seen, I wait for eve's stillness profound.
O Death, thou canst wait; leave, leave me to dream, And strike at the hearts where Despair is supreme, And Shame hails thy dart as a boon! For me, Pales has arbours unknown to the throngs, The world has delights, the Muses have songs, I wish not to perish too soon.
A prisoner myself, broken-hearted and crushed, From my heart to my lips all my sympathies rushed, And my lyre from its slumbers awoke; At these sorrows, these wishes, of a captive, I heard, And to rhyme and to measure I married each word As softly and simply she spoke.
Should this song of my prison hereafter inspire Some student with leisure her name to inquire, This answer at least may be given,— That grace marked her figure, her action, her speech, And such as lived near her, blameless might teach That life is the best gift of heaven.
A.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/To My Grandchildren (L'Année Terrible, Victor Hugo)

TO MY GRANDCHILDREN.
VICTOR HUGO.
(L'Année Terrible.)
Children beloved, they shall tell you later of me, How your grandsire dandled you well-pleased on his knee; How he adored you, and how he strove on the earth To do his best always; how, alas! from his birth, Of joy he had little, and of grief he had much; How many maligned him, though he cared not for such; How at the time you were very young and he old He never had harsh words and airs fretful or cold For you or for any: and then how at the close He left you for ever in the time of the rose; How he died—how he was a kind man after all; How in the famed winter when rained shell, shot, and ball, He traversed Paris through, Paris girt by a horde, Paris tragic, and full of the gleam of the sword, To get you heaps of playthings, strange puppets and dolls And bearded Jack-in—the-box, whose spring sudden appals, And sometimes a flower pearled with the bright morning dews: —And then pensive under the dark trees you will muse.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Willows (Nicolas Martin)

THE WILLOWS.
NICOLAS MARTIN.
I love the willow's mossy trunk That bends beside the river! Sprays veil its shoulders rough and shrunk, And o'er the waters quiver.
Arid it looks, and gaunt, and stark, As slant it forward presses, Time hardens into scales its bark, But crowns its brow with tresses.
Upon its mosses taking root Green herb and blossom ruddy A picture form, as up they shoot, That painters long might study.
Neglected, frail of frame, deep-scarred, It typifies the poet! A dream of spring both love to guard, And each is proud to show it.
In childhood's days of joy intense, O willow old and hoary! How oft thy twigs through hedge and fence I've gathered in their glory.
How oft the bark with fingers light In Flanders' towns medieval, I've shaped to flutes that shepherds might Have used in times primeval.
There, willow-slips the garden green Enclose and keep in order, And for the fields of flax and bean They make a simple border.
On willow trunks in summer still The birds delight to warble; And when the snows their hollows fill Those trunks seem Parian marble.
When axes wound the withered shoots In autumn's groves decaying, Alone the owl amid them hoots, The children's hearts affraying.
But oh,—in spring when leaf and bud Press forth to new expansion, And colours bright all quarters stud, The birds find back their mansion.
Nor birds alone,—for, generous trees Not niggard in bestowing! To all are free your treasuries, Abundant and o'erflowing.
The child that wants a pliant twig To weave a tiny basket, The wren that wants for seat a sprig, Not even have to ask it.
The traveller that the shade would gain May here repose securely, The steed, when hungry, may attain The crisp new foliage surely.
I love the willow's mossy trunk That bends beside the river! Sprays veil its shoulders rough and shrunk, And o'er the waters quiver.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/To Little Jeanne (L'Année Terrible, Victor Hugo)

TO LITTLE JEANNE.
VICTOR HUGO.
(L'Année Terrible.)
A year old, you were, my dear, yesterday: Content to yourself you prattle away; Opening its vague eyes in its sheltered nest, Thus chirps the bird new-born, by winds carest, Joyous to feel its plumes commence to grow. Jeanne, your mouth is a rose-blossom in blow. In those big books whose pictures are your joy, Pictures you clutch, and sometimes, too, destroy, There are sweet verses, but nought to compare To your little face,—nothing half as fair! It dimples with smiles like a summer lake As I approach, my wonted kiss to take: Poets the greatest have never written aught As good, as in your eyes the budding thought. Oh, the reverie there, strange and obscure! The contemplation, like an angel's pure! Jeanne, God cannot be far, since you are here.
Ah! You are a year old. It's an age, my dear. Charmed with all things, you look fitfully grave: O moment celestial of life!—We rave About happiness, but happy alone Are those on whose path no shadow is thrown,
Who, when their parents they hold in their arms, Hold the whole world and feel sheltered from harms; Your young soul from Alice your kind mother turns To Charles your father, and in them discerns Matter for laughter, for tears and for dreams; Their love is your all, and it sheds rainbow gleams O'er your horizon. Your universe, your heaven, Are in these,—one that rocks you at even, And one that smiling looks on. At this hour, The brightest of life, as light to the flower Is their presence to you. O blessed trust! In your parents you live, and this is but just. I stand by, humble grandsire; not to grudge To be your playmate, your slave, or your drudge; But content to follow you, and have my part As one of your toys, somewhere in your heart; You come and I go; awaiting for night I hail and worship the dawn of your light. Your blonde brother George and you are enough To a heart not seared by the world's contact rough. I see your glad sports and I wish for no more, After my numberless trials are o'er, Than that your shadow should fall on my tomb While smiling you play 'mid sunshine and bloom. Ah! Our new innocent guest, you were born In an hour for France most sad and forlorn,— Familiar with terrors you played with the asp, You smiled while Paris was at its last gasp, You murmured, dear Jeanne, like bees in a wood, While she girded her arms in wrathful mood; 'Mid clank of the sword and roar of the gun You woke and slept, as though danger were none; And when I see you, Jeanne, and when I hear Your timid accents breaking low, yet clear,
While your hands glide softly over my head, It seems as if the cloud, charged with tempests dread, Trembles and flies far off with hollow moan, And that God sends down from his holy throne To the Queen of cities, girdled with towers And ramparts, from which the fierce cannon lowers, Disabled, and ready to sink like a bark Under a sea heaving wildly and dark, Amid clamour, and terror, and outcry wild, A blessing of Peace, by the hand of a child.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/To Pépa (Alfred de Musset)

TO PÉPA.
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
Pépa, when the night has come, And mamma has bid 'Good-night,' By thy light, half-clad and dumb, As thou kneelest, out of sight;
Laid by cap and sweeping vest, Ere thou sinkest to repose, At the hour when half at rest, Folds thy soul as folds a rose;
When sweet Sleep, the sovereign mild, Peace to all the house has brought, Pépita, my charming child, What, oh, what is then thy thought?
Who knows! Haply dreamest thou Of some lady doomed to sigh; All that Hope a truth deems now, All that Truth shall prove—a lie.
Haply of those mountains grand, That produce, alas! but mice, Castles in Spain,—a prince's hand, Bonbons, lovers, or cream-ice.
Haply of soft whispers breathed 'Mid the mazes of a ball, Robes, or flowers, or hair enwreathed, Me,—or nothing, dear, at all.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/To Those Who Sleep (Les Châtiments, Victor Hugo)

TO THOSE WHO SLEEP.
VICTOR HUGO.
(Les Châtiments.)
Enough of shame—awake, Time cries, To brave the bullets and the guns, Still at its hour the tide must rise, And France relies upon her sons. Now tuck up sleeves of blouses blue, Remember, the men of Ninety-two Dared twenty kings on battle plains— Bastilles again and vilest chains! What, when the sires could Titans brave, Shall dwarfs like these the sons enslave?
Sweep away the tyrant, and his bandits accurst! God, God is with you, let Baal's priests do their worst! God is king over all. Before Him who is strong? Lo! He lifts up His hand, And the tigers fly howling through deserts of sand, And the sea-serpents crawl, Obedient and meek! He breathes on idols of gold In their temples of marble, gigantic and old, And like Dagon they fall!
You are not armed? It matters not, Tear out the hinges of the door!
A hammer has deliverance wrought; David had pebbles from the shore. Shout for the Cause—the flag advance! Become once more the mighty France! Paw as of old—with lowering horn! Deliver, amid blood and smoke, Your country from the despot's yoke, Your memory from contempt and scorn.
What, know ye not, the Royalists themselves were great In the fierce days of struggle past away? Men relate What courage urged them on. Valour in those times added a foot to men's height, Witness, O Vendée, if I speak not aright! Witness, thou land Breton! To conquer a bastion, or to break through a wall, Or spike a whole battery 'mid rain-showers of ball, Often one man has gone!
If in this sink still, still men live, If Frenchmen still, still act as slaves, Trumpets and drums be broken,—give Their fragments to the breezes. Graves Of our sires where slumber deep The old race, stir no more, but keep Their shades in closest prison bound: For never could they—would they own Such dastard sons; nor hare nor hound The lion breeds, but whelps alone.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/To a Bereaved Mother (Jean Reboul)

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.
JEAN REBOUL.
An angel with a radiant face Bent o'er the cradle of a child, As in a waveless brook to trace His own sweet image undefiled.
'O charming child, that seem'st my shade,' Said he,—'come, come away with me; Oh come, and let no fears dissuade, This earth is not a place for thee.
'Here never is an unmixed joy, Distinct from suffering and from pain, Nothing, alas, without alloy; No smile but has its sigh again.
'Ah! Not one pleasure here is sure! The calmest day,—the brightest sun, A murky tempest will obscure Perhaps before its course be run.
'And what! Shall griefs disturb or fears This brow as pure as summer skies And shall the bitterness of tears Bedim the lustre of these eyes!
'No! No! With me through boundless space, Thou shalt delight, my child, to rove; The great good Father sends this grace And spares thee further years, in love.
'I take thee hence away, my flower, From those that thee have fondly nurst, But let them greet the last, last hour As joyful as they hailed the first.
'Let none wear mourning in this home, No heart keep sorrow as its guest; For souls as pure as ocean-foam The last day is of all the best.'
The angel spoke, and shook his wings, And to the Throne eternal sped, Whence gush for man Life's crystal springs. ——Poor mother! there thy child lies dead.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Young Girl (Charles Nodier)

THE YOUNG GIRL.
CHARLES NODIER.
She was lovely indeed,—at the dawn of the day, When her plainness of dress set a foil to her grace, As her labyrinths of flowers and her bees to survey, She glided about in the old garden-place.
She was lovely, more lovely, at eve, in the ball, When the light joyed to rest on her forehead's expanse, As decked with blue sapphires, and roses, 'mid all, She whirled like a sylph in the maze of the dance.
She was lovelier yet;—more lovely by far, When the night-wind filled out the folds of her veil. In the silence returning by the beams of a star, What a rapture it was, such a vision to hail!
She was lovely indeed—and what was her crown? A hope vague and soft that embellished each day; Love to perfect her seemed loth to come down,— Peace!—There's her hearse passing by on its way.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hanmer, Meredith

From volume 2 of the work.
​Hanmer, Meredith (s. Thomas of Pentrepant), chaplain Corpus Christi Coll. 9 April, 1567, B.A. 18 Nov., 1568, M.A. (sup. 26 April), 1571, B.D. 5 July, 1581 (a nobleman's chaplain), D.D. 5 July, 1582, rector of Long Ditton, Surrey, 1571, of Astbury, Cheshire, 1572, vicar of St. Leonard's, Shoreditch, 1581-92, vicar of Hanmer, Flints, 1574-84, vicar of Islington, Middlesex, 1583-90, treasurer of Christ Church, Dublin, 1594, warden of Youghall Coll., Ireland, died of the plague in Dublin 1684. See Ath. i. 746; Lansdowne MS. 983, f. 63; Thomas, 827; D.N.B.; & Foster's Index Eccl.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hanmer, Maurice

From volume 2 of the work.
​Hanmer, Maurice, B.A., of Christ Church 1547, M.A. (sup.) 1549.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hanmer, Samuel

From volume 2 of the work.
​Hanmer, Samuel, "serv." Christ Church, matric. 28 June, 1659; perhaps vicar of Weaverham, Cheshire, 1684. See Foster's Index Eccl.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hanmer, (Sir) Thomas

From volume 2 of the work.
​Hanmer, (Sir) Thomas, s. William, of Bettesfeild, co. Flint, gent. Christ Church, matric. 17 Oct., 1693, aged 17; LL.D. Cambridge (comitiis regiis), 16 April, 1705, 4th bart., M.P. Thetford March, 1701-2, 1705-8, Flintshire 1702-5, Suffolk 1708-27, speaker 1713; died s.p. 7 May, 1746. See Rawl. i. 431; Foster's Parliamentary Dictionary; & D.N.B.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hanmer, Job

From volume 2 of the work.
​Hanmer, Job, s. Tho., of Fenns, co. Flint, gent. Balliol Coll., matric. 18 June, 1695, aged 17; bar.-at-law, Lincoln's Inn, 1705, bencher 1730; died 1738; brother of William 1691, and father of Sir Walden Hanmer, bart. See Foster's Judges and Barristers.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hanmer, John (1)

From volume 2 of the work.
​Hanmer, John, of Salop, pleb. Trinity Coll., matric. 25 June, 1585, aged 18; bar.-at-law, of Gray's Inn, 1592, as of Oswestry, Salop. See Foster's Judges and Barristers.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hanmer, John (2)

From volume 2 of the work.
​Hanmer, John, of Salop, pleb. Oriel Coll., matric. 2 June, 1592, aged 16; fellow All Souls' Coll. 1596, B.A. 14 July, 1596, M.A. 5 April, 1600, proctor 1605, licenced to preach 23 Jan., 1614-15, B. and D.D. 1 Dec., 1615, rector of Stoke Lacy, co. Hereford, 1603, of Hutton, Somerset, 1608-15, canon of Worcester 1614, rector of Bingham, Notts, 1615-24, chaplain to James I. 1614, bishop of St. Asaph 1624, and rector of Llanfyllin, co. Montgomery, 1627, until his death at Pentrepant 23 June, 1629. See Ath. ii. 879; Lansdowne MS. 984, f. 118; Thomas, 227; D.N.B.; & Foster's Index Eccl.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hanmer, Lewis

From volume 2 of the work.
​Hanmer, Lewis, of Salop, pleb. Jesus Coll., matric. entry under date 20 Sept., 1575, aged 18.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hanmer, (Sir) John

From volume 2 of the work.
​Hanmer, (Sir) John, of co. Flint, militis fil. nat. max. Oriel Coll., matric. 13 March, 1606-7, aged 15; B.A. 2 July, 1608, a student of Lincoln's Inn 1610 (as son of Sir Thomas, of Hanmer, Flints, kt.), created a baronet 8 July, 1620, M.P. Flints 1624, died same year; father of Thomas 1642. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hanmer, David

From volume 2 of the work.
​Hanmer, David, B.A. 7 Dec., 1568, M.A. 25 June, 1572.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Abbott, John (4)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Abbott, John, s. William, of Preston, co. Lancaster, gent. Brasenose Coll., matric. 15 Feb., 1632-3, aged 18; of Gray's Inn 1635. See Foster's Gray's Inn Reg.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Abbott, Morris

From volume 1 of the work.
​Abbott, Morris (Maurice in Mat. Reg.), of Middlesex, gent. Balliol Coll., matric. 15 Oct., 1619, aged 17; bar.-at-law of the Inner Temple 1630, father of George 1655, and son and heir of Maurice of London. See Foster's Judges and Barristers.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Abbotte, George

From volume 1 of the work.
​Abbotte, George, of Surrey, pleb. Balliol Coll., matric.-entry under date 2 May, 1581, aged 18; B.A. 31 May, 1582, M.A. 17 Dec., 1585, sup. for licence to preach 2 March, 1593-4, B.D. 4 March, 1593-4, D.D. 9 May, 1597, master of University College 1597-1610, vice-chancellor 1600-3-5, was mainly instrumental in establishing Pembroke College, out of Broadgates Hall in 1624, one of the translators of the New Testament, was never beneficed, dean of Winchester 1600, bishop of Lichfield & Coventry 1609, and of London 1610 (of the Inner Temple 1611), archbishop of Canterbury 1611, until his death 4 Aug., 1633, aged 71, son of Maurice Abbot, of Guildford, Surrey, sherman. See Ath., ii. 561, 882; & Cole's MS., 5862, 21.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Abbott, George

From volume 1 of the work.
​Abbott, George, arm. Wadham Coll., 'subscribed' 7 Nov., 1655 (? bar.-at-law of Inner Temple 1665), son of Maurice, of London, licence 5 May, 1665, to marry Mrs. Mary Reynolds, of Lee, Kent, widow. See Foster's Judges and Barristers.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Abbott, John (2)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Abbott, John, of London, gent. Balliol Coll., matric. 16 Nov., 1604, aged 16; B.A. 20 April, 1608.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Abbott, John (3)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Abbott, John, 'subscribed' 16 April, 1613; B.A. from Balliol Coll. 26 Oct., 1616, B.C.L. from All Souls' Coll. 1622.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Abbott, John (1)

From volume 1 of the work.
​Abbott, John, of Surrey, pleb. Balliol Coll., matric. 1 Feb., 1593-4, aged 17; B.A. 17 June, 1597, M.A. 26 March, 1601, licence to preach 1 Feb., 1607-8, B.D. 25 June, 1608, D.D. 27 Jan., 1612-13, preb. of Canterbury 1613, rector of Great Chart, Kent, 1613, buried 1 Sept., 1615. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Abbott, Maurice

From volume 1 of the work.
​Abbott, Maurice, arm. Wadham Coll., matric. 14 Nov., 1650; B.A. 24 Feb., 1651-2 (? of the Inner Temple 1655). See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Abbott, Francis

From volume 1 of the work.
​Abbott, Francis, s. Francis, of Wimborne, Dorset, pleb., p.p. New Inn Hall, matric. 1 April, 1664, aged 17.