OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 14/Letter: Swift to Pope - 26

DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE.
FEB. 9, 1735-6.
I CANNOT properly call you my best friend, because I have not another left who deserves the name, such a havock have time, death, exile, and oblivion made. Perhaps you would have fewer complaints of my ill health and lowness of spirits, if they were not some excuse for my delay of writing even to you. It is perfectly right what you say of the indifference in common friends, whether we are sick or well, happy or miserable. The very maid servants in a family have the same notion: I have heard them often say, oh, I am very sick, if any body cared for it! I am vexed when my visiters come with the compliment usual here, Mr. dean I hope you are very well. My popularity that you mention is wholly ​confined to the common people, who are more constant than those we miscal their betters. I walk the streets, and so do my lower friends, from whom and from whom alone, I have a thousand hats and blessings upon old scores, which those we call the gentry have forgot. But I have not the love, or hardly the civility, of any one man in power or station; and I can boast that I neither visit or am acquainted with any lord temporal or spiritual in the whole kingdom; nor am able to do the least good office to the most deserving man, except what I can dispose of in my own cathedral upon a vacancy. What has sunk my spirits more than even years and sickness, is, reflecting on the most execrable corruptions that run through every branch of publick management.
I heartily thank you for those lines translated, Singula de nobis anni, &c. You have put them in a strong and admirable light; but however I am so partial, as to be more delighted with those which are to do me the greatest honour I shall ever receive from posterity, and will outweigh the malignity of ten thousand enemies. I never saw them before, by which it is plain that the letter you sent me miscarried. — I do not doubt that you have choice of new acquaintance, and some of them may be deserving: for, youth is the season of virtue: corruptions grow with years, and I believe the oldest rogue in England is the greatest. You have years enough before you to watch whether these new acquaintance will keep their virtue when they leave you and go ​into the world; how long will their spirit of independency last against the temptations of future ministers, and future kings. — As to the new lord lieutenant, I never knew any of the family; so that I shall not be able to get any job done by him for any deserving friend.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Breeze

THE BREEZE.
The mists they are scattered, The blue sky looks brightly, And Eolus looses The wearisome chain! The winds, how they whistle! The steersman is busy— Hillio-ho, hillio-ho! We dash through the billows— They flash far behind us— Land, land, boys, again!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Best

THE BEST.
When head and heart are busy, say, What better can be found? Who neither loves nor goes astray, Were better under ground.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Bliss of Absence

THE BLISS OF ABSENCE.
'Tis sweet for him, the livelong day that lies, Wrapt in the heaven of his dear lady's eyes, Whose dreams her image blesseth evermore, Love knoweth not a sharper joy than this, Yet greater, purer, nobler is the bliss, To be afar from her whom we adore!
Distance and Time, eternal powers, that be Still, like the stars, o'erruling secretly, Cradle this tempest of the blood to' peace. Calm grows my soul, and calmer every hour, Yet daily feels my heart a springing power, And daily finds my happiness increase.
​All times she lives within my heart and brain, Yet can I think of her without a pain, My spirit soars away serene and free, And, by the strength of its divine emotion, Transforms its love to all a saint's devotion, Refines desire into idolatry.
The lightest cloudlet that doth fleck the sky, And floats along the sunshine airily, More lightly in its beauty floateth never, Than doth my heart, with tranquil joy elate. By fear untouched, for jealousy too great, I love, oh, yes, I love—I love her ever.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Cavalier's Choice

THE CAVALIER'S CHOICE.
[This lively little ballad occurs in one of Goethe's operas, very charming compositions, which probably are less read than they deserve. It is not altogether original, being evidently founded on a popular Scottish ditty, called indiscriminately "Captain Wedderburn's Courtship," or the "Laird of Roslin's Daughter," in which precisely the same questions are propounded and answered. Truth compels us to say that, in point of merit, the superiority lies with the Scottish ballad. This being a case of disputed property, or rather commonly, the translator has allowed himself more license in rendering than has been used in any other instance in the present collection.]
It was a gallant cavalier Of honour and renown, And all to seek a ladye-love He rode from town to town. Till at a widow-woman's door He drew the rein so free; For at her side the knight espied Her comely daughters three.
​Well might he gaze upon them, For they were fair and tall; Ye never have seen fairer maids, In bower nor yet in hall. Small marvel if the gallant's heart Beat quicker in his breast; 'Twas hard to choose, and hard to lose— How might he wale the best?
"Now, maidens, pretty maidens mine, Who'll rede me riddles three? And she who answers best of all Shall be mine own ladye!" I ween they blushed as maidens do, When such rare words they hear— "Now speak thy riddles if thou wilt, Thou gay young cavalier!"
"What's longer than the longest path? First tell ye that to me; And tell me what is deeper yet, Than is the deepest sea? And tell me what is louder far, Than is the loudest horn? And tell me what hath sharper point, Than e'en the sharpest thorn?
"And tell me what is greener yet, Than greenest grass on hill? And tell me what is crueller Than a wicked woman's will?" The eldest and the second maid, They mused and thought awhile; But the youngest she looked upward, And spoke with merry smile.
​"Oh, love is surely longer far, Than the longest paths that be; And hell, they say, is deeper yet, Than is the deepest sea; The roll of thunder is more loud, Than is the loudest horn; And hunger it is worse to bear Than sharpest wound of thorn;
"The copper sweat is greener yet, Than is the grass on hill; And the foul fiend he is crueller Than any woman's will." He leapt so lightly from his steed, He took her by the hand; "Sweet maid, my riddles thou hast read, Be lady of my land!"
The eldest and the second maid, They pondered and were dumb, And there, perchance, are waiting yet Till another wooer come. Then, maidens, take this warning word, Be neither slow nor shy, But always, when a lover speaks, Look kindly, and reply.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Beauteous Flower

THE BEAUTEOUS FLOWER.
SONG OF THE IMPRISONED COUNT.
COUNT.
I know a flower of beauty rare, Ah, how I hold it dear! To seek it I would fain repair, Were I not prisoned here. My sorrow sore oppresses me, For when I was at liberty, I had it close beside me.
Though from this castle's walls so steep I cast mine eyes around, And gaze oft from the lofty keep, The flower cannot be found. Whoe'er would bring it to my sight, Whether a vassal he, or knight, My dearest friend I'd deem him.
THE ROSE
I blossarn fair,—thy tale of woes I hear from 'neath thy grate. Thou doubtless meanest me, the rose, Poor knight of high estate! Thou hast in truth a lofty mind; The queen of flowers then is enshrined, I doubt not, in thy bosom.
COUNT.
Thy red, in dress of green arrayed, As worth all praise I hold; ​And so thou'rt treasured by each maid, Like precious stones or gold. Thy wreath adorns the fairest face, But still thou'rt not the flower whose grace I honour here in silence.
THE LILY.
The rose is wont with pride to swell, And ever seeks to rise; But gentle sweethearts love full well The lily's charms to prize. The heart that fills a bosom true, That is, like me, unsullied, too, My merit values duly.
COUNT.
In truth, I hope myself unstained, And free from grievous crime; Yet I am here a prisoner chained, And pass in grief my time. To me thou art an image sure Of many a maiden, mild and pure, And yet I know a dearer.
THE PINK.
That must be me, the pink, who scent The warder's garden here. Or wherefore is he so intent My charms with care to rear? My petals stand in beauteous ring, Sweet incense all around I fling, And boast a thousand colours.
COUNT.
The pink, in truth, we should not slight, It is the gardener's pride; It now must stand exposed to light, Now in the shade abide. Yet what can make the Count's heart glow Is no mere pomp of outward show; It is a silent flower.
THE VIOLET.
Here stand I, modestly half hid, And fain would silence keep; Yet since to speak I now am bid, I'll break my silence deep. If, worthy Knight, I am that flower, It grieves me that I have not power To breathe forth all my sweetness.
COUNT.
The violet's charms I prize, indeed, So modest 'tis, and fair. And smells so sweet; yet more I need To ease my heavy care. The truth I'll whisper in thine ear: Upon these rocky heights so drear, I cannot find the loved one.
The truest maiden 'neath the sky Roams near the stream below, And breathes forth many a gentle sigh, Till I from hence can go. And when she plucks a floweret blue, And says "Forget-me-not!"—I, too, Though far away, can feel it.
​Ay, distance only swells love's might, When fondly love a pair; Though prisoned in the dungeon's night, In life I linger there; And when my heart is breaking nigh, "Forget-me-not!" is all I cry, And straightway life returneth.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Bridegroom

THE BRIDEGROOM
I slept,—'twas midnight,—in my bosom woke, As though 'twere day, my love-o'erflowing heart; To me it seemed like night, when day first broke; What is't to me, whate'er it may impart?
She was away; the world's unceasing strife For her alone I suffered through the heat Of sultry day; oh, what refreshing life At cooling eve!—my guerdon was complete.
The sun now set, and wand'ring hand in hand, His last and blissful look we greeted then; While spake our eyes, as they each other scanned: "From the far east, let's trust, he'll come again!"
​At midnight!—the bright stars, in vision blest, Guide to the threshold where she slumbers calm; Oh, be it mine, there too at length to rest,— Yet howsoe'er this prove, life's full of charm!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Brothers

THE BROTHERS.
Slumber, Sleep—they were two brothers, servants to the Gods above: Kind Prometheus lured them downwards, ever filled with earthly love; But what Gods could bear so lightly, pressed too hard on men beneath. Slumber did his brother's duty—Sleep was deepened into Death.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Buyers

THE BUYERS.
To an apple-woman's stall Once some children nimbly ran; Longing much to purchase all, They with joyous haste began Snatching up the piles there raised, While with eager eyes they gazed On the rosy fruit so nice; But when they found out the price, Down they threw the whole they'd got. Just as if they were red hot.
The man who gratis will his goods supply Will never find a lack of folks to buy!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Castle on the Mountain

THE CASTLE ON THE MOUNTAIN.
There stands an ancient castle On yonder mountain height, Where, fenced with door and portal, Once tarried steed and knight.
But gone are door and portal, And all is hushed and still; O'er ruined wall and rafter I clamber as I will.
A cellar with many a vintage Once lay in yonder nook; Where now are the cellarer's flagons And where is his jovial look?
No more he sets the beakers For the guests at the wassail feast; Nor fills a flask from the oldest cask For the duties of the priest.
No more he gives on the staircase The stoup to the thirsty squires, And a hurried thanks for the hurried gift Receives, nor more requires.
​For burned are roof and rafter, And they hang begrimed and black; And stair, and hall, and chapel, Are turned to dust and wrack.
Yet, as with song and cittern, One day when the sun was bright, I saw my love ascending The slopes of yon rocky height;
From the hush and desolation Sweet fancies did unfold, And it seemed as they had come back again, The jovial days of old.
As if the stateliest chambers For noble guests were spread, And out from the prime of that glorious time A youth a maiden led.
And, standing in the chapel, The good old priest did say, "Will ye wed with one another?" And we smiled and answered "Yea!"
We sung, and our hearts they bounded To the thrilling lays we sung, And every note was doubled By the echo's catching tongue.
And when, as eve descended, The hush grew deep and still, And the setting sun looked upward On that great castled hill;
Then far and wide, like lord and bride, In the radiant light we shone— ​It sank; and again the ruins Stood desolate and lone!
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Cronin-Coltsmann, Daniel John

​CRONIN-COLTSMANN, Daniel John, Glenflesk, Co. Kerry. Educ.: Beaumont Coll., and University of Dublin; D.L. and J.P. for Co. Kerry; J.P. for Co. Cork; High Sheriff for Kerry in 1899; Chevalier of the Fleur de Lys: b. April 213t, 1855; eldest son of Daniel Cronin-Coltsmann, of Flesk Castle, Killarney: m., 1st Miss Margaret Murphy, dau. of Count Murphy, of Clifton, Co. Cork, she died in 1895; 2nd, Miss Lissa Baelot de la Bere, dau. of Kinard Baglot de la Bere, of Burbage Hall, Leicestershire. Issue living two daus. Recns.: shooting, angling, golfing. Res.: The Priory, Prestbury, Glos. Clubs: Union Club, London, S.W.; Wimbledon Park Golf Club.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Crosbie, Brig.-Gen. James Dayrolles

​CROSBIE, Brig.-Gen. James Dayrolles, C.M.G. (1919); D.S.O. (1917); D.L., J.P., Co. Kerry (High Sheriff, 1894). Joined 2nd Batt. R. Welch Fusiliers, 1885; resigned 1893; lived on own estate in Co. Kerry, and took an active interest in county work, serving on most county boards and committees and Chairman of local railways; rejoined army, Aug., 1914; commanded 11th Batt. Lancashire Fusiliers, and took it to France; commanded as Brig.-Gen., 12th Inf. Brigade; came home, 1917; commanded 16th Bat . The Queen's Regt., and in Nov. 1918, went as Base Commandant to Archangel; b. 19th Aug., 1865; son of late Colonel J. Crosbie, of Ballyheigue Castle, Co. Kerry, and dau. of Sir John Lister-Kaye, Bart; m. May, dau. of Major Leith, V.C.; one dau. Recns.: shooting, hunting, etc. Res.: Ballyheigue Castle, Ballyheigue, Co. Kerry. Clubs: Carlton, Naval and Military, M.C.C., London; Kildare Street, Dublin.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Crowe, Thomas

​CROWE, Thomas, D.L., J.P., Co. Clare (High Sheriff, 1877); late Lieut., 17th Lancers; eldest son of late Thos. Crowe, D.L., J.P., of Dromore, Co. Clare; b. 1844; m. 1890, Lily V., dau. of Thos. Flavin, of Passage East, Co. Waterford. Res.: Dromore House, Ruan, Co. Clare.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Crowley, James

​CROWLEY, James (M.P. for North Kerry from 1918). Res.: Listowel, Co. Kerry.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Crowley, John

​CROWLEY, John (T.D. for North Mayo from 1918; elected for Kerry and W. Limerick Cos., and Mayo N., and Mayo W., in Parliament of Southern Ireland, 1921); L.R.C.P. & S. Ed. Educ.: Queen's College, Cork; Dispensary Medical Officer of Ballycastle, Co. Mayo. Res.: Ballycastle, Co. Mayo.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Crooke-Lawless, Surgeon Lt.-Col. Sir Warren Rowland

​CROOKE-LAWLESS, Surgeon Lt.-Col. Sir Warren Rowland, Knt. (1910), C.B. (1918), C.I.E. (1907), C.B.E. (1918); M.D. (R.U.I.); LL.D. (Hon. Causa); Surg. Lt.-Col., Coldstream Gds. from 1898-1911; Surg, to Earl of Minto (Viceroy of ​India), 1905-10; House Governor and Medical Supt. King Edward VII. Convalescent Home for Officers, Osborne, Isle of Wight; served in S. Africa, 1899-1901; mentioned twice in despatches and promoted to rank of Surgeon Lt.-Col.; Knight of Grace, Order of St. John of Jerusalem, 1911. D.L., J.P., Co. Cork, Res.: Kilcrone, Cloyne, Co. Cork. Guards' and Albemarle Clubs, London.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Crowe, John Joseph

​CROWE, John Joseph. Educ.: St. Mel's College, Longford; Member of Royal Ulster Agricultural Society; was Assist. Sec, National Service Dept., Ireland, and Chief Inspector, Agricultural Wages Board, Ireland; Assistant Principal, Ministry of Agriculture, Northern Ireland, from 1921; b. 1885; m. 1909, Agnes, dau. of James McMullen, of Dublin. Address: Ministry of Agriculture, Belfast.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Crowley, Vincent Crowley

​CROWLEY, Vincent Crowley, Clontarf, Dublin; youngest son of the late Patrick Crowley, Professor of Mathematics, and Nephew of Mr. Michael Crowley, who was President of the Institute of Chartered Accountants in 1912-13; b. at Cavan in 1890; Educated by Christian Brothers and privately. Member of the firm of Kennedy, Crowley & Co., Public Auditors and Accountants, 37 Westmoreland Street, Dublin.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Cruice, Mary Josephine

​CRUICE, Mary Josephine; interested in Social work child welfare; founded St, Patrick's Guild "Save the Child," 1910; Co-founder of St. Patrick's Catholic Business Girls' Club, 1916; founded St, Patrick's Infant Home and Nursery College, 1919. dau. of the late Daniel Wm. Cruice, Fairfield, Co. Galway. Res.: 7 Northbrook Road, Dublin.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Cuffe, Sir Otway Fortescue Luke

​CUFFE, Sir Otway Fortescue Luke, Bart. (Irld., 1799), M.I.C.E,; late Superintending Engineer P.W.D., Burma; Lt.-Col. Comdg. Up. Burma Batt. Indian Auxiliary Force; only son of Otway Wheeler (d. 1908), (who was 3rd son of 1st Bart.), and Louisa Frances Florence (d. 1906), only dau, of Rev. Luke Fowler; b. 9th Dec, 1866; s. his uncle, 15th Jan., 1915; m. 3rd June, 1897, Charlotte Isabel, dau. of Wm. Williams, of Park Side, Wimbledon, Res.: Leyrath, Co. Kilkenny.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Beau's Reply

This poem is a response to the previous poem, The Five Ladies Answer.
THE BEAU'S REPLY
TO THE
FIVE LADIES ANSWER.
WHY, how now dapper Black, I smell your gown and cassock, As strong upon your back, As Tisdal smells of a sock.
To write such scurvy stuff! Fine ladies never do't; I know you well enough, And eke your cloven foot.
Fine ladies, when they write, Nor scold, nor keep a splutter: Their verses give delight, As soft and sweet as butter.
But Satan never saw Such haggard lines as these: They stick athwart my maw, As bad as Suffolk cheese.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Stella's Birthday, 1721-2

TO STELLA.
ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1721-2.
WHILE, Stella, to your lasting praise The Muse her annual tribute pays, While I assign myself a task Which you expect, but scorn to ask; If I perform this task with pain, Let me of partial fate complain; You every year the debt enlarge, I grow less equal to the charge: ​In you each virtue brighter shines, But my poetick vein declines; My harp will soon in vain be strung, And all your virtues left unsung. For none among the upstart race Of poets dare assume my place; Your worth will be to them unknown, They must have Stellas of their own; And thus, my stock of wit decay’d, I dying leave the debt unpaid, Unless Delany, as my heir, Will answer for the whole arrear.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Stella's Birthday, 1722-3

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY:
A GREAT BOTTLE OF WINE, LONG BURIED, BEING THAT DAY DUG UP. 1722-3.
RESOLV'D my annual verse to pay, By duty bound, on Stella's day, Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink, I gravely sat me down to think: I bit my nails, and scratch'd my head, But found my wit and fancy fled: Or, if with more than usual pain, A thought came slowly from my brain; It cost me lord knows how much time To shape it into sense and rhyme: And, what was yet a greater curse, Long thinking made my fancy worse. ​Forsaken by th' inspiring Nine, I waited at Apollo's shrine: I told him what the world would say, If Stella were unsung to day: How I should hide my head for shame, When both the Jacks and Robin came; How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer, How Sheridan the rogue would sneer, And swear it does not always follow, That semel in anno ridet Apollo. I have assur'd them twenty times, That Phœbus help'd me in my rhymes; Phœbus inspir’d me from above, And he and I were hand and glove. But, finding me so dull and dry since, They'll call it all poetick licence; And when I brag of aid divine, Think Eusden's right as good as mine. Nor do I ask for Stella's sake; 'Tis my own credit lies at stake: And Stella will be sung, while I Can only be a stander by. Apollo, having thought a little, Return'd this answer to a tittle. Though you should live like old Methusalem, I furnish hints, and you shall use all 'em, You yearly sing as she grows old, You'd leave her virtues half untold. But, to say truth, such dulness reigns, Through the whole set of Irish deans, I'm daily stunn'd with such a medley, Dean W—, dean D—, and dean Smedley, That, let what dean soever come, My orders are, I'm not at home; ​And if your voice had not been loud, You must have pass’d among the crowd. But now, your danger to prevent, You must apply to Mrs. Brent; For she, as priestess, knows the rites Wherein the god of earth delights. First, nine ways looking, let her stand With an old poker in her hand; Let her describe a circle round In Saunders' cellar on the ground: A spade let prudent Archy hold, And with discretion dig the mould: Let Stella look with watchful eye, Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by. Behold the bottle, where it lies With neck elated toward the skies! The god of winds and god of fire Did to its wondrous birth conspire; And Bacchus for the poet's use Pour'd in a strong inspiring juice. See! as you raise it from its tomb, It drags behind a spacious womb, And in the spacious womb contains A sovereign medicine for the brains. You'll find it soon, if fate consents; If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents, Ten thousand Archys, arm'd with spades, May dig in vain to Pluto's shades. From thence a plenteous draught infuse, And boldly then invoke the Muse; But first let Robert on his knees, With caution drain it from the lees: The Muse will at your call appear, With Stella's praise to crown the year.