OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Soldier poets, songs of the fighting men/Geoffrey Howard

GEOFFREY HOWARD
Lieut., Royal Fusiliers
The Beach Road by the Wood
I KNOW a beach road, A road where I would go, It runs up northward From Cooden Bay to Hoe; And there, in the High Woods, Daffodils grow.
And whoever walks along there Stops short and sees, By the moist tree-roots In a clearing of the trees, Yellow great battalions of them, Blowing in the breeze.
While the spring sun brightens, And the dull sky clears, They blow their golden trumpets, Those golden trumpeteers! They blow their golden trumpets And they shake their glancing spears.
​And all the rocking beech-trees Are bright with buds again, And the green and open spaces Are greener after rain, And far to southward one can hear The sullen, moaning rain.
Once before I die I will leave the town behind, The loud town, the dark town That cramps and chills the mind, And I'll stand again bareheaded there In the sunlight and the wind.
Yes, I shall stand Where as a boy I stood Above the dykes and levels In the beach road by the wood, And I'll smell again the sea breeze, Salt and harsh and good.
And there shall rise to me From that consecrated ground The old dreams, the lost dreams That years and cares have drowned: Welling up within me And above me and around The song that I could never sing And the face I never found.
"Without Shedding of Blood . . ."
GOD gave us England from of old, But we held light the gift He gave; Our royal birthright we have sold, And now the land we lost for gold Only our blood can save.
Not till thousands have been slain Shall the green wood be green again; Not till men shall fall and bleed Can brown ale taste like ale indeed. Blood and blood must yet be shed To make the roses red.
For minds made vile, and blind with greed, For sins that spread from sire to son; For loss of honour, loss of creed, There yet remains one cure indeed— And there remains but one.
Malvern men must die and kill That wind may blow on Malvern Hill; Devonshire blood must fall like dew That Devon's bays may yet be blue; London must spill out lives like wine That London's lights may shine.
​Lord, for the years of ease and vice, For hearts unmanned and souls decayed, Thou hast required a sacrifice— A bitter and a bloody price— And lo! the price is paid.
We have given all things that were ours, So that our weeds might yet be flowers; We have covered half the earth with gore That our houses might be homes once more The sword Thou hast demanded, Lord: And, now, behold the sword!
England
HER seed is sown about the world. The seas For Her have path'd their waters. She is known In swamps that steam about the burning zone, And dreaded in the last white lands that freeze. For Her the glory that was Nineveh's Is nought: the pomp of Tyre and Babylon Nought: and for all the realms that Cæsar won— One tithe of hers were more than all of these.
​And she is very small and very green And full of little lanes all dense with flowers That wind along and lose themselves between Mossed farms, and parks, and fields of quiet sheep. And in the hamlets, where her stalwarts sleep, Low bells chime out from old elm-hidden towers.
# Soldier poets, songs of the fighting men/John Lodge

JOHN LODGE
Lieut., 8th Battalion, Bedfordshire Regiment (B.E.F.)
God and the Child
THE blessing of all blessings did attend The marriage of my friend, And gave him, to his comfort and his joy, A baby boy; To whom, as day by day The growing mind took strength and spread its wings In search of many things, The father would display Nothing that was not true and pure and fair, Withholding whatsoe'er, Being born of ugliness and pain, Turns to its own again. So for the child was every season bright And made for his delight; No fear he knew of anger and the rod, But, led by love and gentleness and care, Found gifts of goodness everywhere And babbled of the giver, even God.
​And so it came to pass That, having lately come to his fifth year, One evening he was playing on the grass, Bestriding his toy engine, not less dear For being old and quaint, Batter'd and wooden and devoid of paint; And by it stood a Chinaman of tin, His wagging head now still, Perchance because the trumpet at his side Awhile had ceas'd to fill His ears with din; And happy in his playthings was the child. But suddenly his brown eyes open'd wide And he no longer smil'd But in a pensive posture held his head, As tho' the fastness of his young content Had been assail'd by doubt and wonderment And threaten'd were his joys: Until at last he slowly spake and said— "Daddy, has God got any toys?"
On Zeppelin Picquet:
Christmas Eve, 1916
CHRISTMAS EVE and we stared at the sky Where the clouds and the stars went galloping by, And strict was the watch we kept for the flight Of the death-dealing terror that flieth by night.
​Christmas Eve—and we watch'd till the morn Should rise and repeat how a Babe was born; And our hearts within us were sad as we scann'd The stars that spake not of Peace for our land.
Christmas Eve—and oh, to espy, Like Bethlehem's shepherds, the hosts of the sky, Their voices blent in rapturous mirth— "Glory to God and Peace upon Earth!"
Christmas Eve—but set was the star That guided the kings from regions afar— Oh, soon may it rise and lead us again Where One doth in peace and equity reign.
To Our Child Unborn
NO offspring art thou of a dreamer's rhyme; But when my thought and hers, immaculate, Conceiv'd thee thou didst leap, full-grown, elate, Over the high-embattled walls of Time, To watch our ways from some invisible clime, Where, holding yet celestial estate, In quietude thou dost the call await To disarray thee of thy gear sublime. ​Then hither shalt them wing thy lonely flight And put upon thee robes of mortal mesh Laid up against the season of thy birth— And oh, I pray that undefil'd and bright The warp and woof may be of that fair flesh Wherewith endued thou shalt appear on earth.
# Soldier poets, songs of the fighting men/H. D'A. B.

H. D'A. B.
Major, 55th Division (B.E.F., France)
Marthe
MARTHE of the lowered eyes; Eyes beautiful that seem to dim Like violets at the water's rim, Marthe of the lowered eyes.
Marthe of the pale, pale face; That shows the anxious soul's suspense, And sorrow veiled by reticence, Marthe of the pale, pale face.
Marthe of the heart of gold; Where hid as in a cloister-cell Abides her love for him who fell, Marthe of the heart of gold.
The March
LIKE lances of a phantom-troop The rain sweeps by in level lines Where stunted pollard-willows droop And slag-heaps lift o'er gutted mines.
​A sky morose, tempestuous, black, The low horizon misty-wan, And silent o'er the long, long track A khaki column trudging on.
Past gaping roofs and tumbled stalls, Past dismal yards and hovels damp, Where eyeless windows mock the walls, They march with hollow-thudding tramp.
Givenchy Field
THE dead lie on Givenchy field As lie the sodden Autumn leaves, The dead lie on Givenchy field, The trailing mist a cerement weaves.
Abandoned, save for murder's work, A mine-shaft bulks against the stars, And fast receding in the mirk The trenches show like umber scars.
"All's quiet," the sentry's message runs, Outwearied men to slumber yield; The rain drips down the hooded guns, All's quiet upon Givenchy field.
No-Man's-Land
THERE'S a zone Wild and lone None claim, none own, That goes by the name of No-Man's-Land; Its frontiers are bastioned, and wired, and mined, The rank grass shudders and shakes in the wind, And never a roof nor a tree you find In No-Man's-Land.
Sprung from hell Monsters fell Invisible Await who venture through No-Man's-Land, Like a stab in the dark is the death they deal From an eye of fire in a skull of steel When the echoes wake to their thunder-peal In No-Man's-Land.
They that gave Lives so brave Have found a grave. In the haggard fields of No-Man's-Land, By the foeman's reddened parapet, They lie with never a head-stone set, But their dauntless souls march forward yet In No-Man's-Land.
The Counter-attack
A WAXEN moon hung high in night's black tent, A ghost-wind in the branches stirring, And from the ridges tunnelled, scarred and rent, A deep and sullen boom recurring.
Flash follows flash. A lurid fan-like glare The ebon vault an instant blenches, While green and crimson rocket-signals flare In No-Man's-Land between the trenches.
Shells shriek, bombs crash and thunder, bullets whine, Tornado hideous, evil-boding, That rolls in vain against our serried line, Alert for onslaught, calmly loading.
Now up and at them. Shouts exultant, harsh, A mêlée of cold steel colliding, Gaunt shadows grappling in a bloody marsh, And low moans rising and subsiding.
# Soldier poets, songs of the fighting men/Edward Melbourne

"EDWARD MELBOURNE"
(W. N. HODGSON, M.C.)
Lieut., Devon Regiment
Killed in the Somme Advance, July, 1916
Durham
ABOVE the storied city, ringed about With shining waters, stands God's ancient house Over the windy uplands gazing out Towards the sea; and deep about it drowse The grey dreams of the buried centuries, And thro' all time across the rustling weirs The ancient river passes,—thus it lies Exceeding wise and strong and full of years.
Often within those dreaming isles we heard, Breaking the level flow of sombre chords, A trumpet-call of melody that stirred The blood and pierced the heart like flaming swords. Long years we learned and grew, and in this place Put on the harness of our manhood's state, And then with fearless heart and forward face Went strongly forth to try a fall with fate: And so we passed, and others had our place. But well we know that here till days shall cease, While the great stream goes seaward and trees bloom, God's kindness dwells about these courts of peace.
Before Action
BY all the glories of the day, And the cool evening's benison: By the last sunset touch that lay Upon the hills when day was done: By beauty lavishly outpoured, And blessings carelessly received, By all the days that I have lived, Make me a soldier, Lord.
By all of all men's hopes and fears, And all the wonders poets sing, The laughter of unclouded years, And every sad and lovely thing: By the romantic ages stored With high endeavour that was his, By all his mad catastrophes, Make me a man, O Lord.
I, that on my familiar hill Saw with uncomprehending eyes A hundred of Thy sunsets spill Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, Ere the sun swings his noonday sword Must say good-bye to all of this:— By all delights that I shall miss, Help me to die, O Lord.
Back to Rest
(Composed on the way back to the Rest Camp after severe fighting at Loos.)
A LEAPING wind from England, The skies without a stain, Clear cut against the morning Slim poplars after rain, The foolish noise of sparrows And starlings in a wood— After the grime of battle We know that these are good.
Death whining down from Heaven, Death roaring from the ground, Death stinking in the nostril, Death shrill in every sound: Doubting we charged and conquered— Hopeless we struck and stood, Now when the fight is ended We know that it was good.
We that have seen the strongest Cry like a beaten child, The sanest eyes unholy, The cleanest hands defiled; We that have known the heart blood Less than the lees of wine, We that have seen men broken, We know man is divine.
# Soldier poets, songs of the fighting men/G. Rountree Harvey

G. ROUNTREE HARVEY
2/A.M., Royal Flying Corps
The Maid of France
JOAN heard a Voice above the whispering trees: "Arise, scatter mine enemies!"
She took a banner, but no sword— Veterans hung on her lightest word; And, ah, the splendour of the fight, Proud victory where right was might! . . .
Alas! that ruling frailty could So mar and betray such glorihood. . . .
Prisoned, fettered to an iron ring, Her spirit knew no prisoning!
They burned her body at a stake of shame— As who would quench a flame with flame! But out of the pyre men watched upsoar Her grail-like soul, that evermore Gleams above the lily meads— And men still follow where she leads. . . .
​Across her fields this later day A blacker tyrant hacks his way; The sons of France are forth to wage The war that darkens every age— Might against Right—and once again God-sent maid leads fighting men.
This day they name her—LIBERTY . . . God grant she'll win the victory!
Mother of Sons
YOUR hands are tired with their long day's labour, Toil-worn hands that have worked with a will; Must they know no rest till they lie forever In the last firm clasp, so white and still?
Your dark-rimmed eyes are dim with weeping, Their heavy lids are fain to close— Must they know more sorrow ere the last mist rising Heralds the hour of the long repose? . . .
Twilight is filling the valley hollows, The dew is falling, the wind grows cold But look, on the height, the rose of promise With crimson petals and heart of gold!
# Soldier poets, songs of the fighting men/George C. Michael

GEORGE C. MICHAEL
Lance-Corporal, R.E.
An April Song
ORCHARD land! Orchard land! Damson blossom, primrose bloom: Avon, like a silver band Winds from Stratford down to Broome: All the orchards shimmer white For an April day's delight: We have risen in our might, Left this land we love, to fight, Fighting still, that these may stand, Orchard land! Orchard land!
Running stream! Running stream! Ruddy tench and silver perch: Shakespeare loved the water's gleam Sparkling on by Welford church: Water fay meets woodland gnome Where the silver eddies foam Thro' the richly scented loam: We are fain to see our home, See again thy silver gleam, Running stream! Running stream!
​Silver throats! Silver throats! Piping blackbird, trilling thrush: Shakespeare heard your merry notes; Still you herald morning's blush: You shall sing your anthems grand When we've finished what He planned, God will hear and understand, God will give us back our land Where the water-lily floats, Silver throats! Silver throats!
# Soldier poets, songs of the fighting men/Gilbert Waterhouse

GILBERT WATERHOUSE
Lieut., 2nd Essex
The Casualty Clearing Station
A BOWL of daffodils, A crimson-quilted bed, Sheets and pillows white as snow— White and gold and red— And sisters moving to and fro, With soft and silent tread.
So all my spirit fills With pleasure infinite, And all the feathered wings of rest Seem flocking from the radiant West To bear me thro' the night.
See, how they close me in, They, and the sisters' arms, One eye is closed, the other lid Is watching how my spirit slid Toward some red-roofed farms, And having crept beneath them, slept Secure from war's alarms.
# Shakespeare - First Folio facsimile (1910)/The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eight/Act 1 Scene 2

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# Shakespeare - First Folio facsimile (1910)/The Two Gentlemen of Verona

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# Shelley, a poem, with other writings relating to Shelley, to which is added an essay on the poems of William Blake/Notice of Rossetti's Edition of Shelley's Works

NOTICE OF ROSSETTI'S EDITION OF SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS.
ENGLAND is at length beginning to do something like justice to its supreme Poet of this century. Quite recently, besides the cheap popular Editions of the Poems, of which the best we have examined is by Mr. Rossetti, there have been issued the reprint of the original Editions of the complete Works (so far as obtainable) under the care of Mr. R. Herne Shepherd, and the library edition, in four vols., of the Poetical Works by Mr. H. Buxton Forman; and now Mr. Rossetti has been encouraged to issue, with improvements up to date, a second edition of that which appeared in 1870. Those who, like ourselves, have had occasion to examine minutely the 1870 edition, know in how many and what important cases it rectified and tended to rectify the very inaccurate text of Mrs. Shelley; and both in the Memoir and the text this second issue is a marked improvement on the first. In Mr. Rossetti's own words: ​"I can say that the editorial work has been to me a true labour of love, and has been gone through diligently and deliberately. Indeed, the pleasure of having anything to do with Shelley's poems is to myself so great that I should have been my own tormentor had I stinted or slurred work in any particular. I took very great pains with the edition of 1870, and have taken equal or still greater pains with this of 1878. I have now cancelled, I suppose, a full third of the notes to the former edition, and have introduced a rather larger bulk of new notes; and the same, in minor proportion, has been done with the Memoir." This Memoir, we may add, occupies a hundred and fifty pages, and is a full record and discussion of all that has hitherto come to light concerning the career of the poet. Now that his eldest daughter is dead, we think his family owe, both to his memory and to the considerable public for whom it is really sacred, a prompt revelation of the documents regarding his separation from his first wife and the causes that impelled her to suicide. We elders, whose love and reverence for the Poet of Poets were nurtured on a text abounding with mistakes, and in a society which mainly regarded him with horror when it regarded him at all, can heartily congratulate the younger generation who have been brought up to appreciate and revere him, and who have such an Edition as the present to assist their study.
1878
# Shelley, a poem, with other writings relating to Shelley, to which is added an essay on the poems of William Blake

SHELLEY:
BY
JAMES THOMSON.
This book is printed for Private Circulation only, and the impression is limited to One Hundred and Ninety Copies, viz.: One Hundred and Sixty Copies on toned paper, and Thirty Copies on Whatman's hand-made paper. Each copy is numbered and signed by the editor.
No.
PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION,
BY CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
AT THE CHISWICK PRESS.
1884.
CONTENTS.
| | PAGE |
| Prefatory Note | vii |
| Shelley (Poem) | 1 |
| Shelley (Essay) | 14 |
| Shelley's Religious Opinions | 26 |
| Moxon's Cheap Edition of Shelley's Poems | 32 |
| An Inspired Critic on Shelley | 36 |
| Notice of Rossetti's Edition of Shelley's Works | 38 |
| Review of Symonds's Life of Shelley | 40 |
| Notes on the Structure of "Prometheus Unbound" | 48 |
| A Note on Shelley | 71 |
| Correspondence between James Thomson and W. M. Rossetti | 79 |
| The Poems of William Blake | 101 |
# Solesbee v. Balkcom

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.

## Dissenting Opinion

    Frankfurter
United States Supreme Court
339 U.S. 9
Solesbee v. Balkcom
Argued: and Submitted Nov. 15, 1949. --- Decided: Feb 20, 1950
See 339 U.S. 926, 70 S.Ct. 618.
Mr. Benjamin E. Pierce, Augusta, Ga., for appellant.
Mr. Eugene Cook, Atlanta, Ga., for appellee.
Mr. Justice BLACK delivered the opinion of the Court.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Solemn Declaration of 1893

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.
We, the Bishops, together with the Delegates from the Clergy and Laity of the Church of England in the Dominion of Canada, now assembled in the first General Synod, hereby make the following Solemn Declaration:
We declare this Church to be, and desire that it shall continue, in full communion with the Church of England throughout the world, as an integral portion of the One Body of Christ composed of the Churches which, united under the One Divine Head and in fellowship of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, hold the One Faith revealed in Holy Writ, and defined in the Creeds as maintained by the undivided primitive Church in the undisputed Ecumenical Councils; receive the same Canonical Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments, as containing all things necessary to salvation; teach the same Word of God; partake of the same Divinely ordained Sacraments, through the ministry of the same Apostolic Orders; and worship One God and Father through the same Lord Jesus Christ, by the same Holy and Divine Spirit who is given to them that believe to guide them into all truth.
And we are determined by the help of God to hold and maintain the Doctrine, Sacraments, and Discipline of Christ as the Lord hath commanded in his Holy Word, and as the Church of England hath received and set forth in The Book of Common Prayer and Administration of the Sacraments and other Rites and Ceremonies of the Church according to the use of the Church of England; together with the Psalter or Psalms of David, pointed as they are to be sung or said in Churches; and the Form and Manner of Making, Ordaining and Consecrating of Bishops, Priests and Deacons and in the Thirty-nine Articles of Religion; and to transmit the same unimpaired to our posterity.

## Source

* Text of document