OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Popular Mechanics/Volume 49/Issue 1/Is This Your Home?

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Is This Your Home?
Copyright, Architects' Small House Service Bureau. Plan No. 5B16
Questions regarding home building addressed to this magazine will be answered by The Architects' Small House Service Bureau of the United States, Inc., controlled by the American Institute of Architects and indorsed by the United States department of commerce. Please inclose 10¢ in stamps or coin. Blueprints, specification forms, and material lists for the house shown here may be obtained from the Architects' Small House Service Bureau for a small fee. If further information is desired, literature describing the plan service and publications of The Architects' Small House Service Bureau will be sent you upon request. A booklet entitled "50 Ways to Lower Home Service Costs," illustrated by ten Bureau homes actually lived in and showing how as much as $1,000 can be saved on a home, may be obtained for 20¢.
This house is a model of compactness and economy of space. Omitting the sun room and rear porch, the over-all area of the plan is only about twenty-five by twenty-six feet. To many people whose means are limited and who must, therefore, reduce their requirements to the absolute minimum, this design will come as a welcome solution. This really is a six-room house, containing the usual living room, kitchen and dining room and three bedrooms with bath. In addition there are two porches, one more properly a sun room, which, opening on the living room, not only adds considerably to the living space, but lends an extra item of interest to the exterior, for the front wall of this room, continuing in unbroken plane with the main wall of the house, gives a feeling of breadth.
The porch at the rear is open. Square wooden posts with lintels and brackets of the same material help to make the rear of the house interesting. Its floor is of cement, marked in forms of tile, and is bordered with brick.
The living room is unusually well lighted, having windows on three sides; there is also the staircase in one corner, a fireplace, and the two porches opening upon it. The dining room and kitchen are small, but light and airy.
In the second story there are three bedrooms, well designed to accommodate the necessary furniture, each with a closet.
The kitchen equipment is complete, and with the working fixtures along the outside wall, there is an insurance of fine light and ventilation.
Suggested color scheme: Red and brown texture brick set in white mortar; woodwork painted white, the roof a combination of blue and gray.
Construction: Solid brick walls, shingle or slate roof. Size of lot: Approximately forty-five feet. Designed to face east or south, but may be built reversed for other facings.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The child is father to the man

Editor's Note
68
'The child is father to the man.' How can he be? The words are wild. Suck any sense from that who can: 'The child is father to the man.' No; what the poet did write ran, 'The man is father to the child.' 'The child is father to the man!' How can he be? The words are wild.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/To him who ever thought with love of me

Editor's Note
74
To him who ever thought with love of me Or ever did for my sake some good deed I will appear, looking such charity And kind compassion, at his life's last need That he will out of hand and heartily Repent he sinned and all his sins be freed.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend

Editor's Note
50
Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si disputem tecum: verumtamen justa loquar ad te: Quare via imporum prosperatur? &c.
Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just. Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why must Disappointment all I endeavour end?
​Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend, How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend, Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes Now, leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes Them; birds build—but not I build; no, but strain, Time's eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes. Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The furl of fresh-leaved dogrose down

Editor's Note
63
The furl of fresh-leaved dogrose down His cheeks the forth-and-flaunting sun Had swarthed about with lion-brown Before the Spring was done.
His locks like all a ravel-rope's-end, With hempen strands in spray— Fallow, foam-fallow, hanks—fall'n off their ranks, Swung down at a disarray.
Or like a juicy and jostling shock Of bluebells sheaved in May Or wind-long fleeces on the flock A day off shearing day.
Then over his turnèd temples—here— Was a rose, or, failing that, Rough-Robin or five-lipped campion clear For a beauty-bow to his hat, And the sunlight sidled, like dewdrops, like dandled diamonds Through the sieve of the straw of the plait. .......
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less

Editor's Note
60
The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less; The times are winter, watch, a world undone: They waste, they wither worse; they as they run Or bring more or more blazon man's distress. And I not help. Nor word now of success: All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one— Work which to see scarce so much as begun Makes welcome death, does dear forgetfulness.
Or what is else? There is your world within. There rid the dragons, root out there the sin. Your will is law in that small commonweal...
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The sea took pity: it interposed with doom

Editor's Note
55
The sea took pity: it interposed with doom: 'I have tall daughters dear that heed my hand: Let Winter wed one, sow them in her womb, And she shall child them on the New-world strand.'
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The shepherd's brow fronting forked lightning, owns

Editor's Note
69
The shepherd's brow fronting forked lightning, owns The horror and the havoc and the glory Of it. Angels fall, they are towers, from heaven—a story Of just, majestical, and giant groans. But man—we, scaffold of score brittle bones; Who breathe, from groundlong babyhood to hoary Age gasp; whose breath is our memento mori— What bass is our viol for tragic tones? He! Hand to mouth he lives, and voids with shame; And, blazoned in however bold the name, Man Jack the man is, just; his mate a hussy. And I that die these deaths, that feed this flame, That ... in smooth spoons spy life's masque mirrored: tame My tempests there, my fire and fever fussy.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Thee, God, I come from, to thee go

Editor's Note
73
Thee, God, I come from, to thee go, All day long I like fountain flow From thy hand out, swayed about Mote-like in thy mighty glow.
What I know of thee I bless, As acknowledging thy stress On my being and as seeing Something of thy holiness.
Once I turned from thee and hid, Bound on what thou hadst forbid; Sow the wind I would; I sinned: I repent of what I did.
Bad I am, but yet thy child. Father, be thou reconciled. Spare thou me, since I see With thy might that thou art mild.
I have life before me still And thy purpose to fulfil; Yea a debt to pay thee yet: Help me, sir, and so I will.
But thou bidst, and just thou art, Me shew mercy from my heart Towards my brother, every other Man my mate and counterpart.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/To R. B.

Editor's Note
51
To R. B.
The fine delight that fathers thought; the strong Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame, Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came, Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song. Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same: The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim Now known and hand at work now never wrong. Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this; I want the one rapture of an inspiration. O then if in my lagging lines you miss The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation, My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/To his Watch

Editor's Note
70
To his Watch
Mortal my mate, bearing my rock-a-heart Warm beat with cold beat company, shall I Earlier or you fail at our force, and lie The ruins of, rifled, once a world of art? The telling time our task is; time's some part, Not all, but we were framed to fail and die— One spell and well that one. There, ah thereby Is comfort's carol of all or woe's worst smart.
Field-flown the departed day no morning brings Saying 'This was yours' with her, but new one, worse. And then that last and shortest...
# Poems (Freston)

Sincerely Elizabeth Heléne Freston
POEMS
by
Elizabeth Heléne Freston
Photo frontispiece
Broadway Publishing Compay at 835 Broadway, in New York
Copyright, 1908,
by
ELIZABETH HELENE FRESTON
All rights reserved.
DEDICATED TO MRS. GEORGE WELLINGTON BUTTS
CONTENTS.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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.
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# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 17

Scans
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# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 29/October 1886/Le Play's Studies in Social Phenomena

Layout 4
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Monthly Magazine Volume 1 1826/Tasso and his Sister

The Monthly Magazine, Volume 1, Pages 20-21
TASSO AND HIS SISTER.
"Devant vous est Sorrente; là demeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand il vint en Pélerin demander à cette obscure amie, un asile contre 1'injustice des Princes: ses longues douleurs avaient presque égaré sa raison; il ne lui restait plus que du génie." Corinne, vol. ii, p. 269.
She sat where, on each wind that sighed,  The citron's breath went by, While the deep gold of eventide  Burn'd in th' Italian sky. Her bower was one where day-light's close  Full oft sweet laughter found, As thence the voice of childhood rose  To the high vineyards round.
But still and thoughtful, at her knee,  Her children stood that hour— Their bursts of song and dancing glee,  Hush'd as by words of power. With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes, that gaz'd  Up to their mother's face, With brows through parted ringlets rais'd,  They stood in silent grace.
While she—yet something o'er her look  Of mournfulness was spread— Forth from a poet's magic book,  The glorious numbers read: The proud undying lay which pour'd,  Its light on evil years; His of the gifted pen and sword,*  The triumph—and the tears.
She read of fair Erminia's flight,  Which Venice once might hear Sung on her glittering seas, at night,  By many a gondolier: Of Him she read, who broke the charm  That wrapt the myrtle grove, Of Godfrey's deeds—of Tancred's arm,  That slew his Paynim-love.
Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd;  Young holy hearts were stirr'd, And the meek tears of woman flow'd  Fast o'er each burning word; And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,  Came sweet each pause between, When a strange voice of sudden grief  Burst on the gentle scene.
The mother turn'd—a way-worn man  In pilgrim-garb stood nigh, Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,  Of proud, yet restless eye: But drops, that would not stay for pride,  From that dark eye gush'd free, As, pressing his pale brow, he cried—  "Forgotten! ev'n by thee!"
"Am I so changed?—and yet we two,  Oft hand in hand have play'd; This brow hath been all bath'd in dew,  From wreaths which thou hast made! We have knelt down, and said one prayer,  And sang one vesper-strain; My thoughts are dim with clouds of care—  Tell me those words again!
"Life hath been heavy on my head;  I come, a stricken deer, Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled,  To bleed in stillness here!" She gaz'd—till thoughts that long had slept  Shook all her thrilling frame,— She fell upon his neck and wept,  And breath'd her Brother's name.
Her Brother's name!—and who was He,  The weary one, th' unknown, That came, the bitter world to flee,  A stranger to his own? He was the Bard of gifts divine  To sway the hearts of men— He of the song for Salem's shrine,  He of the sword and pen! F. H.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1830/The Mirror in the Deserted Hall

THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
I.
 O dim, forsaken Mirror!
 How many a stately throng
Hath o'er thee gleamed, in vanished hours,
 Of the wine-cup and the song!
II.
 The song hath left no echo,
 The bright wine hath been quaffed,
And hushed is every silvery voice
 That lightly here hath laughed.
III.
 O Mirror, lonely Mirror,
 Thou of the silent Hall!
Thou hast been flushed with beauty's bloom—  Is this too vanished all?
IV.
 It is, with the scattered garlands
 Of triumphs long ago,
With the melodies of buried lyres,
 With the faded rainbow's glow.
V.
 And for all the gorgeous pageants,
 For the glance of gem and plume,
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath,
 And vase of rich perfume;
VI.
 Now, dim, forsaken Mirror,
 Thou giv'st but faintly back
The quiet stars and the sailing moon,
 On her solitary track.
VII.
 And thus with man's proud spirit
 Thou tellest me 't will be,
When the forms and hues of this world fade
 From his memory as from thee:
VIII.
 And his heart's long-troubled waters
 At last in stillness lie,
Reflecting but the images
 Of the solemn world on high.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Monthly Magazine Volume 1 1826/The Songs of our Fathers

The Monthly Magazine, Volume 1, Page 597
THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.
———"Sing aloud
Old Songs, the precious Music of the Heart."Wordsworth.
Sing them upon the sunny hills,
 When days are long and bright,
And the blue gleam of shining hills
 Is loveliest to the sight!
Sing them along the misty moor,
 Where ancient hunters rov'd,
And swell them through the torrent's roar,
 The songs our fathers lov'd!
The songs their souls rejoiced to hear,
 When harps were in the hall,
And each proud note made lance and spear
 Thrill on the bannered wall:
The songs that through our valleys green,
 Sent on from age to age,
Like his own river's voice, have been
 The peasant's heritage.
The reaper sings them when the vale
 Is filled with plumy sheaves;
The woodman, by the starlight pale,
 Cheered homeward through the leaves:
And unto them the glancing oars
 A joyous measure keep,
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores
 Dash back the foaming deep.
So let it be!—a light they shed
 O'er each old fount and grove;
A memory of the gentle dead,
 A lingering spell of love.
Murmuring the names of mighty men,
 They bid our streams roll on,
And link high thoughts to every glen
 Where valiant deeds were done.
Teach them your children round the hearth,
 When evening-fires burn clear,
And in the fields of harvest mirth,
 And on the hills of deer:
So shall each unforgotten word,
 When far those lov'd ones roam,
Call back the hearts which once it stirred,
 To childhood's holy home.
The green woods of their native land
 Shall whisper in the strain,
The voices of their household band,
 Shall breathe their names again;
The heathery heights in vision rise
 Where, like the stag, they rov'd—
Sing to your sons those melodies,
 The songs your fathers loved!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Pledge of Friendship, 1828

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
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Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Pledge of Friendship, 1828
Compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* A Strain of Music
* The Faith of Love
* The Memory of the Dead
Due to the poor quality of the only scan currently available, these have been gathered from other sources.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Pledge of Friendship, 1828/The Faith of Love

From Poems of Felicia Hemans, 1872, page 507.
THE FAITH OF LOVE.
Thou hast watch'd beside the bed of death,  O fearless human Love! Thy lip received the last faint breath,  Ere the spirit fled above.
Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier,  In a low and farewell tone; Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear—  —O Love! thy task is done.
Then turn thee from each pleasant spot  Where thou were wont to rove; For there the friend of thy soul is not,  Nor the joy of thy youth, O Love!
Thou wilt meet but mournful Memory there;  Her dreams in the grove she weaves, With echoes filling the summer air,  With sighs the trembling leaves.
Then turn thee to the world again,  From those dim, haunted bowers, And shut thine ear to the wild, sweet strain  That tells of vanish'd hours.
And wear not on thine aching heart  The image of the dead; For the tie is rent that gave thee part  In the gladness its beauty shed.
And gaze on the pictured smile no more  That thus can life outlast: All between parted souls is o'er.—  Love! Love! forget the past!
"Voice of vain boding! away, be still!  Strive not against the faith
That yet my bosom with light can fill,  Unquenched, and undim'd by death.
"From the pictured smile I will not turn,  Though sadly now it shine; Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn  For the step once link'd with mine;
"Nor shut mine ear to the song of old,  Though its notes the pang renew. —Such memories deep in my heart I hold,  To keep it pure and true.
"By the holy instinct of my heart,  By the hope that bears me on, I have still my own undying part  In the deep affection gone.
"By the presence that about me seems  Through night and day to dwell, Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams!  —I have breathed no last farewell!"
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Pledge of Friendship, 1828/The Memory of the Dead

Taken from The Christian Reformer, Vol 14, page 14
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. BY MRS. HEMANS.
[From "The Pledge of Friendship; a Christmas Present and New Year's Gift," for 1828,-—another of the beautiful Annuals]
By giving her, in idea, a perpetual presence, I found that relief which others can only ﬁnd by banishing things from their memories.—De Vere.
Forget them not! though now their name
 Be but a mournful sound;
Though by the hearth its utterance claim
 A stillness round;
Though for their sake this earth no more
 As it hath been may be;
And shadows never mark'd before,
 Brood o'er each tree.
And though their image dim the sky,
 Yet, yet forget them not!
Nor, when their life and love went by,
 Forsake the spot!
They have a breathing influence there,
 A charm not elsewhere found;
Sad—but it sanctiﬁes the air,
 The stream, the ground.
Then, though the wind an alter'd tone
 Through the young foliage bear;
Though every flower, of something gone,
 A tinge may wear;
Oh! ﬂy it not!—No fruitless grief
 Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf,
 There, where they dwelt.
Still trace the path which knew their tread,
 Still tend their garden-bower,
And call them back, the holy dead,
 To each lone hour!
The holy dead!—Oh! blest we are,
 That we may name them so,
And to their spirits look afar,
 Through all our woe!
Blest, that the things they lov’d on earth,
 As relics we may hold,
Which wake sweet thoughts of parted worth,
 By springs untold.
Blest, that a deep and chastening power,
 Thus o'er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
 Yet, all for heaven!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Pledge of Friendship, 1828/A Strain of Music

Title from The Lyre, 1841 Poem from a review in Spirit and Manners of the Age, 1827, Vol IV, page 304
A STRAIN OF MUSIC.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
I am never merry when I hear sweet music. Merchant of Venice.
Oh! joyously, triumphantly, sweet sounds! ye swell and float,
A breath of hope, of youth, of spring, is poured on every note;
And yet my full o'erburthened heart grows troubled by your power,
And ye seem to press the long past years into one little hour.
If I have look'd on lovely scenes, that now I view no more—
A summer sea, with glittering ships, along the mountain shore;
A ruin, girt with solemn woods, and a crimson evening sky,—
Ye bring me back those images fast as ye wander by.
If in the happy walks and days of childhood, I have heard,
And unto childhood's memory link'd, the music of a bird— A bird that with the primrose came, and in the violet's train;
Ye give me that wild melody of early life again.
Or if a dear and gentle voice, that now is changed or gone,
Hath left within my bosom deep the thrilling of its tone;
I find that murmur in your notes—they touch the chords of thought,
And a sudden flow of tenderness across my soul is brought.
If I have bid a spot farewell, on whose familiar ground,
To every path, and leaf, and flower, my soul in love was bound;
If I have watch'd the parting step of one who came not back— The feeling of that moment wakes in your exulting track.
Yet on ye float! the very air seems kindling with your glee!
Oh! do ye fling this mournful spell, sweet sounds! alone with me?
Or, have a thousand hearts replied, as mine doth now, in sighs,
To the glad music breathing thus of blue Italian skies!
I know not!—only this I know, that not by me on earth,
May the deep joy of song be found untroubled in its birth;
It must be for a brighter life—for some immortal sphere,
Wherein its flow shall have no taste of the bitter fountains here.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1830/The Magic Glass

THE MAGIC GLASS.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
How lived—how loved—how died they? Byron.
I.
"The Dead! the glorious Dead!—And shall they rise? Shall they look on thee with their proud, bright eyes?—
 Thou ask'st a fearful spell!
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?—
 The deep grave knows it well!
II.
"Wouldst thou behold earth's Conquerors?—Shall they pass
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
 With Triumph's long array?—
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
 As on their proudest day.
III.
"Or wouldst thou look upon the Lords of Song?—
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
 Shall waft a solemn gleam!
Passing with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
 But silent as a dream."
IV.
"Not these, O mighty Master!—Though their lays
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise,
 Hallowed for evermore!
And not the buried conquerors!—Let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep
 In joy, from shore to shore!
V.
"But, if the narrow-house may be so moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved,
 Back from their couch of rest!
That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled
With peace; if human love hath ever stilled
 The yearning human breast."
VI.
"Away, fond youth!—An idle quest is thine:
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine;
 I know not of their place!
Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low,
 Have passed, and left no trace.
VII.
"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,
 This covering turf may bloom;
But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers,—
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers,
 Or poet hailed their tomb."
VIII.
"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!
Some voice perchance by those lone graves may tell
 That which I pine to know!
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep,
 Records of joy and woe."