OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# A Naval Biographical Dictionary/Kerr, Patrick

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​KERR. (Lieut., 1823. f-p., 14; h-p., 24.)
Patrick Kerr entered the Navy, 20 Sept. 1809, as Fst.-cl. Vol., on board the Désirée 36, Capt. Arthur Farquhar, employed off the Texel; and from Aug. 1810, until April, 1815, served on the North Sea and American stations, chiefly as Midshipman, in the San Domingo 74 and Cleopatra frigate, both commanded by Capt. Chas. Gill – the former as flag-ship to Sir Rich. Strachan and Sir John Borlase Warren. He then returned to England in the Tonnant 80, flag-ship of Hon. Sir Alex. Cochrane; and in Oct. 1815, after his name had been borne for short periods on the books of various ships, he removed to the Towey 24, Capts. Hew Steuart and Wm. Hill, fitting for the East Indies, where he was employed for a period of three years. He next, in April, 1819, joined the Dover 28, bearing the flag at Leith of Rear- Admiral Robt. Waller Otway, with whom he remained until Nov. 1821 . In the early part of 1822 we again find him sailing for the East Indies in the Liffey 50; of which ship, bearing the broad pendant of Commodore Chas. Grant, he was created an Acting-Lieutenant 23 Dec. in the same year. He was confirmed, 7 March, 1823, into the Madagascar frigate, Capt. Evan Nepean; but since his arrival home in the following Oct. has been on half-pay.
# A Naval Biographical Dictionary/Kerr, Frederick Herbert

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​KERR. (Commander, 1846.)
Lord Frederick Herbert Kerr, born 30 Sept. 1818, is third son of William, sixth Marquess of Lothian, K.T., by his second wife, Harriet, daughter of Henry, third Duke of Buccleuch. His lordship, who is half-uncle of the present Marquess, is brother of Lord Chas. Lennox Kerr, an officer in the 42nd Regt., and Aide-de-Camp to the late Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and of Lord Mark Ralph Geo. Kerr, a Captain in the Army; brother-in-law both of Lord Clinton and of Sir John Stuart Forbes, Bart.; and first-cousin of Commander Hon. M. Kerr, R.N., as also of Lieut. H. A. Kerr, R.N.
This officer entered the Navy 14 June, 1831; passed his examination in 1837; and was made Lieutenant, 21 Oct. 1840, into the Gorgon steamer, Capt. Wm. Honyman Henderson, on the Mediterranean station, where he removed, 16 Jan. 1841, to the Benbow 72, Capt. Houston Stewart. The latter ship being paid off in the spring of 1842, he was next appointed, 7 Feb. 1843, and 18 April, 1844, to the Thunderbolt steam-sloop, Capt. Geo. Nathaniel Broke, and Winchester 50, bearing the flag of Hon. Josceline Percy, in which ships he was for three years employed at the Cape of Good Hope. He attained his present rank 3 July, 1846, and has since been on half-pay. Agents – Hallett and Robinson.
# A Naval Biographical Dictionary/Kerr, George

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​KERR. (Lieutenant, 1844.)
George Kerr passed his examination 22 May, 1837; and was employed as Mate in the Hastings 72, Capt. John Lawrence, Agincourt 72, and Camperdown 104, flag-ships of Sir Thos. John Cochrane and Sir Edw. Brace, and Pluto steam-vessel, Lieut.Commander Wm. Pearson Crozier, on the Mediterranean and Home stations. He attained his present rank 14 Aug. 1844, and on 9 of the following Sept. was appointed to the Flying Fish 12, Capt. Robt. Harris, fitting at Portsmouth. He was almost immediately afterwards superseded, and has since been on half-pay.
# A Naval Biographical Dictionary/Kerr, Mark

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​KERR. (Commander, 1846.)
The Honourable Mark Kerr, born 3 April, 1814, is second surviving son (by Charlotte, late Countess of Antrim, third daughter of Randall, late Marquess of Antrim) of the late Lord Mark Robt. Kerr, Vice-Admiral of the White. He is grandson of Wm. John, fifth Marquess of Lothian, K.T., Colonel of the 11th Regt. of Dragoons; brother of the present Earl of Antrim; brother-in-law of the Earl of Abingdon; and first-cousin of Lord Fred. Herbert Kerr, Commander R.N.
This officer passed his examination in 1834; obtained his first commission 10 Oct. 1837; and was subsequently appointed – 29 April, 1838, to the Wellesley 72, Capt. Thos. Maitland, in which ship ​he served under Sir Gordon Bremer during the war in China – 9 Feb. 1842 and 15 April, 1844, to the Formidable 84 and Queen 110, both commanded by Sir Chas. Sullivan on the Mediterranean station – and 21 Aug. 184.5, to the President 50, flag-ship of Rear-Admiral Jas. Rich. Dacres at the Cape of Good Hope. He attained his present rank 12 Jan. 1846; and has since been on half-pay. Agents – Messrs. Halford and Co.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Fall of the Leaves (Charles Millevoye)

THE FALL OF THE LEAVES.
CHARLES MILLEVOYE.
The autumn had bestrewed the vale With withered leaves,—the woods were left Bare, and of mystery bereft, And voiceless was the nightingale; Sad, almost dying in his dawn, A sick youth wandered slow, in tears, Once more in places far withdrawn That he had loved in earlier years. 'Woods that I love, adieu!—Your gloom, Your mourning, suits me, for I read In every leaf that falls, my doom! The hour approaches, and with speed. Epidaurus' fatal oracle! With every gust you seem to tell,— "Our leaves are yellow, see they die! They vanish, take a last long look, Thy night of death, too, draweth nigh; More pale than autumn, like the brook Thou glidest onward to the sea Wild-heaving of Eternity. Before the green grass on the mead, Before the vine-branch on the hill, Thy youth shall wither." And indeed I die. A breath, funereal, chill,
Has touched me, and my winter lowers Ere yet my spring has hardly flown, A shrub in one day overthrown! That had produced some common flowers, But had too little sap to deck Its branches thin with any fruit: Fall, fall ye leaves, the world's a wreck! And Hope no more hath room to shoot! Veil from all eyes the mournful road! Veil from my mother's blank despair The place which must be my abode To-morrow, and her sorrow spare. But if towards the lonely lane The maid I love should ever stray, To weep when daylight softly dies, With a slight rustle, wake again My shadow underneath the clay, And so console it where it lies.'
He said, and went. . . . and came not back. The last leaf from the bough that fell Signalled his last day on the earth. Clouds in the heavens hung scowling, black, When 'neath an oak of sovereign girth They laid him in his lonely cell. But she the loved one to the wood Came never. By the cold grey stone No sound is heard; the solitude Is undisturbed save when alone, The herdsman's steps, by chance, intrude, Or hidden dove coos monotone.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Emigration of Pleasure (Henriette Bourdic-Viot)

This poem bears the initials of Toru Dutt's sister, Aru.
THE EMIGRATION OF PLEASURE.
MADAME VIOT.
Affrighted by the ills that war Had drawn upon unhappy France, Pleasure sought in regions far, Encouragement and countenance. Through Germany and Spain to pass Was weary work for miles and miles, The Spaniard never jokes, alas! And the German never smiles.
To Russia next. His hopes are vain: The killing climate, in a week, Benumbed and sickened all his train, And robbed the colours from his cheek. By Catherine he was begged to take The halls of snow that flashed like gold; But could he, even for her sake, Expose his life to death by cold?
To England now. He wandered wild, And on the same fool's-errand bent; The Lord Mayor, fat, grey and mild, Conducted him to Parliament. Pleasure is courteous, full of grace, But from the truth he never shrinks: 'I cannot stay i' this horrid place, Where each one yawns and no one thinks.'
Once more adrift, on, on to Rome, Where burned the Muse's altar-fires! Ah me! it was only the home Of a sick old man and some friars. When he asked for Horace's verse, Doggerel hymns were sung through the nose, He felt he'd fallen from bad to worse, And tears in his eyes unbidden rose.
Poor Pleasure! How get back to France? That was the question for him now, Without papers or money, small his chance! A loan, but who would a loan allow? Heaven-helpt, he reached the country dear, And there at last saw Liberty; What has a pet spoilt-child to fear, Who falls with tears at his mother's knee?
A.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Grandmother (Victor Hugo)

THE GRANDMOTHER.
VICTOR HUGO.
'Sleep'st thou? Awaken, mother of our mother! We love thee—thee alone—we have no other! In sleeping thy lips moved: we've seen this often, For thy sleep was a prayer,—oh, relent and soften! But this evening thou seemest the Madonna of stone, And though thou art present, we feel all alone.
'Why bend'st thou thy forehead lower than ever? What wrong have we done, that thou claspest us never? See! the lamp flickers, the hearth sparkles as dying, If thou speakest no more, and art deaf to our crying— The fire that we feed now, and the lamp that we cherish, And we two thy loved ones—all, all shall perish.
'Thou shalt find us both dead, by the lamp without light, And what wilt thou do when thou meetest that sight? Thy children in turn shall be deaf to thy calling, To bring us to life, thou then shalt be falling On thy knees to thy Saints,—but long will it be, Yea, long must thou clasp us, ere they give us to thee.
'Oh, show us thy Bible, and the pictures we love, The Saints on their knees, the skies fretted above The child Jesus, the manger, the oxen, the kings With their gold, and their spices, and their rich offerings, And make us read, as we can, in this Latin so odd, Which we like (though 'tis hard), for it tells us of God.
'Mother! Alas! the light wanes by degrees, The shadows dance round; while we bend on our knees, The spirits, perhaps, are floating around, Oh, wake from thy slumber,—oh, breathe but a sound! Thou who gavest courage—would'st thou affrighten? The embers like eyes in the gray ashes lighten.
'God! How these hands are cold! Ope thine eyes!—of late Thou spakest of our world—our trial state, And of heaven, and of the tomb, and of the fleeting life, And of death—the last, last agony and strife; What then is death? Oh, tell us, mother dear, Alas! Thou answerest not—this silence kills with fear.'
Their sobbing voices long disturbed the night, At length the fresh spring dawn appeared with light: The steeple rang its melancholy chime From hour to hour,—but not till evening time, Did a lone traveller through the doorway see The mother, and the Book, and the children at her knee.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The History of a Soul (Eugène Manuel)

THE HISTORY OF A SOUL.
EUGÈNE MANUEL.
In secret from among the throng God sometimes takes a soul, And leads her slow, through grief and wrong, Unswerving to her goal.
He chooses her to be His bride, And gives her from His store, Meek tenderness and lofty pride, That she may feel the more.
He makes her poor, without a stay, Desiring all men's good, Searching the True, pure, pure alway, But still, misunderstood.
Beneath a weight of pains and fears He makes her often fall, He nourishes her with bitter tears, Unseen, unknown of all.
He spreads the clouds her head above, He tries her hour by hour, From Hate she suffers and from Love, And owns of each the power.
God's rigour never, never sleeps. She waits for peace? In vain. She struggles or resigned weeps, He strikes and strikes again.
In beings that she loves the most, He wounds her, till half mad She wanders like a restless ghost! A problem strange and sad.
Thus stricken, reft of joy and light, God makes her fair and clean, Like an enamel hard and bright, A sword of temper keen.
Subject to Adam's debt below, And every curse and pain, The Judge inflexible would know If she will staunch remain.
Will she fight on 'gainst every ill? Brave every storm? Stand fast, Her lofty mission to fulfil, With courage to the last?
And when He sees her ever true, Like needle to the pole, Upon His work He smiles anew,— Thus forges God a soul.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Last Day of the Year (Madame A. Tastu)

THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR.
MADAME A. TASTU.
Éternité, néant, passé, sombres abîmes,
A. De Lamartine.
The day declines, the hours draw near Of balmy and refreshing sleep; The sun, the last sun of the year, Has sunk beneath the waveless deep. Beside the hearth I sit alone, While shadows strange before me pass, The past and present dimly shown As in a wizard's magic glass. Long, long the flame arrests my sight, Waving capricious, then the hand That counts upon the dial white Time's footfall, silent, calm and grand. Another step, another hour, And then the old year shall be dead; What mortal can oppose the power That crumbles worlds beneath its tread? And why should I pursue that march? Can I retard its even course? The fallen pillar, mouldering arch, Attest its overwhelming force.
And if I could, would I bring back A single buried day? Oh no, Only lone journeying on my track, Each day's farewell oppresses so My heart, that I perforce must say, Lo! Lo! Another flower is gone, Dropped from my crown to whirl away— Where? In the wild and far unknown. Another shadow on the shade Already stretched across my path, Another spring retrenched and bade To join those that Oblivion hath. Hearken! The calm sonorous sound Slow shudders—twelve. 'Tis done! 'tis done! While darkness reigns on earth profound, The old year's dead, the new begun. Adieu! And hail! O veiled new year Greetings! What bearest thou in hand? Tell us what benefits are near? Shall peace and plenty rule the land? What do I say? Oh, rather hide The secrets dormant in thy breast: In youth and hope thou seem'st a bride, And fairy colours on thee rest. But not the less thy course may bring Regrets and tears and bitter sighs; Thus every day upon the wing Beholds our senseless vows arise, And thus, before its course is o'er, It sees our dearest things decay And vanish to return no more; Like bubbles,—all, all past away. All, all, save one, for Hope remains, And spreads her strange fantastic life—
A spell against our griefs and pains, Across the future's sombre night; And guides us on from year to year, Until at last the happy day That hath no end, dawn bright and clear. March, Time! And East the streak display!
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Forts of Paris (L'Année Terrible, Victor Hugo)

THE FORTS OF PARIS.
VICTOR HUGO.
(L'Année Terrible.)
They are the watch-dogs, terrible, superb, Enormous, faithfully that Paris guard. As at each moment we could be surprised, As a wild horde is there, as ambush vile Creeps sometimes even to the city walls, Nineteen in number, scattered on the mounts They watch,—unquiet, menacing, sublime, Over dark spaces limitless, at eve, And as the night advances, warn, inform, And one another aid, far stretching out Their necks of bronze around the walls immense. They rest awake, while peacefully we sleep, And in their hoarse lungs latent thunders growl Low premonitions. Sometimes from the hills, Sharply and suddenly bestrewed with stars, A lightning darts athwart the sombre night Over the valleys; then the heavy veil Of twilight thick, or utter darkness, falls Upon us, masking in its silence deep A treacherous snare, and in its peace, a camp; Like a huge crawling serpent round us winds The enemy, and enlaces us in coils Inveterate, interminable, but in vain.
At a respectful distance keep the forts A multitude, a populace of monstrous guns, That, in the far horizon, wolf-like prowl. Bivouac, and tomb, and prison, Paris now is all. Upright and straight before the universe That has become a solitude, she stands A sentinel, and surprised with weariness From over-watching, slumbers; all is still. Men, women, children, sobs passionate, bursts Of triumphant laughter, cars, footsteps, quays, Squares, crossways, and the river's sandy banks, The thousand roofs whence issue murmurs low, The murmurs of our dreams, the hope that says I trust and I believe, the hunger, that I die, The dark despair that knows not what it says, All, all keep silence. O thou mighty crowd! O noises indistinct and vague! O sleep, Of all a word! And O great glorious dreams, Unfathomable, that ever one and all Mock our frail wisdom, now are ye submerged In one vast ocean of oblivion deep. But they are there, formidable and grand,
On a sudden spring
And bend to listen. What is it they hear? A subterraneous roar, a voice profound As from a mountain's bowels. All the town Listens intent, and all the country round Awakes. And hark! to the first rumbling sound Succeeds a second, hollow, sullen, fierce, And in the darkness other noises crash, And echo follows echo flying far! A hundred voices terrible through night,
Rolling, reverberating, and dying off! It is the forts. It is that they have seen In depths profound of spaces vast and dim, The sinister cannon-waggons darkly grouped; It is, that they the outlines have surprised Of cannons ranged; it is that in some wood From whence the owl has fled on hurried wings, Beside a field, they faintly have descried The black swarm of battalions on the march, With bayonet gleams, like points of silver sharp Commingled; it is that in thickets dense They have found out the flash of traitorous eyes
How grand they are,
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Foundling (Alexandre Soumet)

THE FOUNDLING.
ALEXANDRE SOUMET.
I have shaken off the painful, painful sleep Unvisited by happy dreams; Ere the first ray of sunlight gleams Upon the hill—thereon in dark I creep. With smiling Nature, waking up, The young bird twitters under the white-thorn in flower; Its mother brings it sweet, soft food this hour; Mine eyes are like an over-brimming cup. Ah! Wherefore have I not a mother? Wherefore am I not like that young bird Whose nest is balanced on the boughs wind-stirred? Nothing on earth is mine—no brother— Not even a cradle had I; on a stone Before the village church I had been left; A passer found me lying all alone, Homeless and friendless, and of help bereft. Far from my banished parents, never known, Of all caresses ignorant I live, And the children of the valley never own Or call me sister, or aught in kindness give. I never join in games of evening's hour When women spin and children stories hear. Under his roof of thatch, that trees embower, The peasant never calls me when I'm near.
But from afar I see his children all Around the crackling vine-leaves in a glow, Search on his knees the sweet caress of eve. Towards the open chapel tired I crawl, Oft weeping—the only house below Where I am not a stranger; the only door Which does not shut at my approach. I grieve But feel consoled when kneeling on that floor. Then at the hour of prayer Often my wandering footsteps stray Among the lonely tombs. No peace is there. The tombs are all indifferent unto me. The poor girl has no kinsfolk 'mid the dead, As on the earth no help or stay. For fourteen springs I've wept for thee, And longed to rest upon thy breast my head. Return, oh mother, that hast so long fled, I wait here by the stone; return, by pity led, Where once in agony wild Thou hadst forsaken thy poor child.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Grand Pint (Auguste de Châtillon)

THE GRAND PINT.
AUGUSTE DE CHÂTILLON.
Round the Grand Pint when rough winds moan, And make the sign-board creak and groan In frosty weather, A huge log in the kitchen burns, And there the stranger's eye discerns Friends met together. An old Dutch picture! cheek by jowl Gosling and turkey, duck and fowl, The turnspit garnish! And then perchance the sun darts in, To gild the pots and pans of tin, And add the varnish.
Good cheer and noise and merry song Shorten the hours when hours are long, The wine flows steady; And if one ever asks mine host, Complaisant always at his post, Is dinner ready? 'Ready?' He cries, and low he bows, 'We're always ready in this house, Though it be humble; The best of all things at a word! And never, never have I heard A patron grumble.'
I come, salute and mount; up springs A table laid as if for kings! The glasses glitter! Where are my friends? The hard, hard frost Has bound the road in distance lost, The cold is bitter. Let me behold the hazy plains: The curtains part; the crystal panes Show Frost-king's traces, Lo! Mountains, lakes, and cypress-trees, And bending flowers! but idly, these My hand effaces.
Ah! Life is rude and hard to bear, We bend with weight of years and care, Whence comfort borrow? At the Grand Pint, all laugh at all, With merriment resounds the hall, Adieu to sorrow! Adieu one instant; joy and hope Colour in rose the prospect's-scope, Its darkness brightening, Awake to mirth! The hour commands! It is by blowing on the brands Flames start like lightning.
Farewell Ennui, and welcome Wit! As here with friends well pleased I sit, How swift time passes! When Friendship, Friendship, is the toast, Brims up the best wine of mine host, We drink full glasses.
Four friends! And shall it aye be thus, Hand linked in hand, one heart in us? No! Death may scatter. But should one die, we shall be three, Then two perchance, then one, ah me! And then—no matter.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Hope in God (Alfred de Musset)

THE HOPE IN GOD.
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
There exists, it is said, a philosophy That needs no revelation, but unlocks The gates with ease, that guard life's mystery, And safely steers between the dangerous rocks, Indifference and Religion. Be it so. Where are these system—makers that can find Truth without faith? It would be worth to know. Powerless sophists swelled with empty wind, What are their arguments? What authority Are they invested with? One proudly says, Two principles exist for all eternity That war on earth; by turns each strength displays, And triumphs o'er the other. One descries, Far in the solitary heavens, a god Who cares not, infinitely great and wise, For human altars, or for man—a clod. Pythagoras and Leibnitz think souls change; Descartes forsakes us in the whirlwind's breast; Montaigne inquires, but nothing can arrange; Pascal his own dream flies, by fear possessed; Pyrrho doubts all, and deems our natures blind; Zeno makes us insensible; Voltaire Throws down whatever stands with furious mind; Spinosa leaves his subject in despair: Searching in vain, he sees God everywhere, Or deems he sees; the metaphysician Locke
Makes man a mere machine; at last to scare All thinkers, and their futile efforts mock, And, as it were, the ruin to achieve Of all philosophy, comes the German Kant: A spectre in the fogs and clouds of eve, Not without eloquence, but arrogant, He sees heaven empty, and the end of all Chaos and nothingness. Oh, can it be! Must human science tumble thus and fall? Is this the fate of proud philosophy? After five thousand years of cruel doubt, After such bold and persevering toil, Is that the last word? Every hope shut out; Must speculation thus, alas! recoil? Oh, senseless efforts, miserable pains, That sought the truth in such erratic rings! Pinions we need to reach the heavenly plains; What is the wish, without faith's eagle wings? I pity you, O speculators wise! Your wounded pride and torments have I known, And felt the sudden shudder and surprise, Before the Infinite, as I stood alone! Ah well!—Together let us pray, we must, For all our labours have been vain, we feel; Or if your bodies be reduced to dust, Let me upon your tombs devoutly kneel. Come, pagan sages, in all science great, Dreamers bygone, and dreamers of to-day, Prayer is a cry—the cry of hope elate, That God may answer us. Oh, let us pray! Our pains and efforts note, O Holy One! The rest forget, O Merciful and True! If heaven be empty, prayer offend can none, If some One hear us, may He pity too!