OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 7/Inspired Talks/Saturday, June 29

(RECORDED BY MISS S. E. WALDO, A DISCIPLE)
SATURDAY, June 29, 1895. (The Swami came this morning with a Gita in his hand.)
Krishna, the "Lord of souls", talks to Karna or Vrishâ, "the embodiment of truth and Dharma" (one who donates to the Brahmins, one who speaks the truth). The "field of virtue" (the battlefield) is this world; the five brothers (representing righteousness) fight the hundred other brothers (all that we love and have to contend against); the most heroic brother, Karna(the master of all qualities), is the general. We have to fight all sense-delights, the things to which we are most attached, to come to the Pandavas. Karna represents a human being who stimulated Yoga in Krishna also and then Krishna preached this lesson to Arjuna. Karna also represents a human being who had to fight his own family and yet he sacrificed his everything for their brothers' victory. He was to raise weapons against his own brothers which seemed difficult.
Krishna did everything but without any attachment; he was in the world, but not of it. "Do all work but without attachment; work for work's sake, never for yourself."
Freedom can never be true of name and form; it is the clay out of which we (the pots) are made; then it is limited and not free, so that freedom can never be true of the related. One pot can never say "I am free" as a pot; only as it loses all ideas of form does it become free. The whole universe is only the Self with variations, the one tune made bearable by variation; sometimes there are discords, but they only make the subsequent harmony more perfect. In the universal melody three ideas stand out — freedom, strength, and sameness.
If your freedom hurts others, you are not free there. You must not hurt others.
"To be weak is to be miserable", says Milton. Doing and suffering are inseparably joined. (Often, too, the man who laughs most is the one who suffers most.) "To work you have the right, not to the fruits thereof."
Evil thoughts, looked at materially, are the disease bacilli.
Each thought is a little hammer blow on the lump of iron which our bodies are, manufacturing out of it what we want it to be.
We are heirs to all the good thoughts of the universe, if we open ourselves to them.
The book is all in us. Fool, hearest not thou? In thine own heart day and night is singing that Eternal Music — Sachchidânanda, soham, soham — Existence-Knowledge-Bliss Absolute, I am He, I am He.
The fountain of all knowledge is in every one of us, in the ant as in the highest angel. Real religion is one, but we quarrel with the forms, the symbols, the illustrations. The millennium exists already for those who find it; we have lost ourselves and then think the world is lost.
Perfect strength will have no activity in this world; it only is, it does not act.
While real perfection is only one, relative perfections must be many.
# The Earliest English Translations of Bürger's Lenore: a Study in English and German Romanticism/Chapter 8

VIII. The Lenore Translations and Bürger's Lenore.
* Leonora by J. T. Stanley
* Lenora by William Taylor
* Lenore by H. J. Pye
* Leonora by W. R. Spencer
* William and Helen by Walter Scott
* Ellenore by William Taylor
* Lenore by Gottfried August Bürger
# The Elocutionist (1815-1830)/The Battle of Blenheim

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
It was a summer's evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother, Peterkin, Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large and smooth and round.
Old Kasper took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, ' 'Tis some poor fellows scull,' said he, 'Who fell in the great victory!
'I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out: ​For many thousand men, 'said he, 'Were slain in that great victory!
'Now tell us what 'twas all about, Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes: 'Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for.'
'It was the English,' Kaspar cried, 'Who put the French to route; But what they killed each other for, I could not well make out. But every body said,' quoth he, 'That 'twas a famous victory!
'My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by: They burned his dwelling to the ground, And he was forc'd to fly: So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head!
'With firc and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide: And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby died!
But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.
They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun! But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.
'Great praise the Duke of Marbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene,' ​Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!' Said little Wilhelmine, 'Nay—Nay—my little girl,' quoth he, 'It was a famous victory!
'And every body praised the Duke, Who this great fight did win.' 'But what good came of it last?' Quoth little Peterkin. 'Why that I cannot tell,' quoth he, 'But 'twas a famous victory!Southey.
# The Elocutionist (1815-1830)/The Death of Sir John Moore

ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse o'er the ramparts we hurried, Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We burried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeams dusky light, And our lanterns dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him: But he lay-like a warrior taking his rest- With his martial cloak around him!
Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of to-morrow-
We thought-as we hallowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow- How the foe and the stranger would tread ohis head, And we far away on the billow!
​Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But nothing he'll reek, if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half our heavy task was done, When the eloek toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing———
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory! We earved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone in his glory!
Wolfe
# The Elocutionist (1815-1830)/Lord Ullin's Daughter

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
A chieftain to the Highlands bound, Gries, 'Boatman, do not tarry, And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry!'—
'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?' 'O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter:—
And fast before her father's men, Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather—
'His horseman hard behind us ride— Should they our steps discover, Then—who would cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover?—
​Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, I'll go, my chief— I'm ready; It is not for your silver bright, But for you winsome lady!
'And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So—though the wavcs are raging white— I'll row you o'er the ferry!'—
By this the storm grew loud арасе, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven, each face Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men! Their trampling sounded nearer!
'Oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'Though tempests round us gather, I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.'—
The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her— When—oh! too strong for human hand! The tempest gather'd o'er her—
And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, His wrath was change'd to wailing—
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover!— One lovely arm was stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover.
​'Come Back! come back!' he cried in grief, 'Aeross this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!—Oh! my daughter!
'Twas vain! the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his ehild— And he was left lamenting. Campbell.
# The Elocutionist (1815-1830)/The Battle of Hohenlinden

THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser rolling rapidly;
But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat; at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery!
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry:
Then shook the hills with thunder riven! Then rushed the steed to battle driven! And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flashed the red artillery!
But redder yet the light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stained snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser rolling rapidly!
'Tis morn — but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy!
​The combat deepens—On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry—
Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding sheet; And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre!Campbell.
# The Elocutionist (1815-1830)/Glenara

GLENARA.
Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly it weeping and wail? 'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire and her people are eallto her bier.
Glenara eame first with the mourners and shroud, Her kinsmen they followed but mourned not aloud; Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silenee—they looked to the ground.
In silenee they reached over mountain and moor, To a heath where the oak tree grew lonely and hoar, 'Now here let us place the grey stone of her eairn, Why speak ye no word?' said Glenara the stern.
'And tell me I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles? why eloud ye your brows?' So spake the rude ehieftain; no answer is made, But eaeh mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.
'I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud,' Cried a voice from the kinsmen all wrathful and loud; 'And empty that shroud and that eoffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream?'
Oh! pale grew the eheek of the ehieftain I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen; Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in seorn, 'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn.
​"I dreamed of my lady. I dreamed of her grief, I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean, fair Ellen did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!'
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is born; Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
Campbell
# The Elocutionist (1815-1830)/The Downfall of Poland

ON THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.
O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland—and to man!
Warsaw's last champion, from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid,— 'O Heaven!' he cried, 'my bleeding country save!— Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live!— with her to die!
He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed: Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm! ​Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death!—The watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud toesin tolled their last alarm!—
In vain—alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your vollied thunder flew: O! bloodiest picture in the book of time, Samartia fell, unwept, without a crime! Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor merey in her woe! Dropt from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high earreer: Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And freedom shrieked — as Kosciusko fell!
The sun went down, nor eaesed the earnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air— On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow— His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below. The storm prevails! the rampart yields away— Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay! Hark! as the mouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless merey call! Earth shook!—red meteors flashed along the sky! And eonseious nature shuddered at the ery!
O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save! Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of God? That erushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast; Then bade the deep in wild eommotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their mareh below?
​Departed spirits of the Mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return, The patriot tell—The Bruce of Bannockburn!
Campbell.
# The Elocutionist (1815-1830)/Young Lochinvar

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.
Oh, young Lochinvar is eome out of the west! Through all the wide border his steed was the best: And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone! So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none— But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had eonsented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!
So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 'Mong bride's men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all! Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword— For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word— 'O, come ye in peace here, or eome ye in war? Or to dance at our bridal? young Lord Loehinvar!
I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied: Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide! And now I am come with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine! ​There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Loehinvar!
The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup! She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh; With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,- 'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lord Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace! While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ' 'Twere better by far, To have mateh'd our fair eousin with young Loehinvar!
One toueh to her hand, and one word in her car, When they reach'd the hall door and the charger stood near, So light to the eroupc the fair lady he swung, So light on the saddle before her he sprung! 'Shc is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; Thcy'll have fleet steeds that follow!' quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwieks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing, and chasing on Connobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see! So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of a gallant like young Lochinvar!
Sir Walter Scott.
# The Elocutionist (1840-1850)

Dated from examination of text and style.
THE
ELOCUTIONIST;
A CHOICE SELECTION
of the most
POPULAR POEMS
for
RECITATION.
CONTENTS.
Glenara—The Death of Sir John Moore.—Lord Ullin's Daughter.—Young Locihnvar.—The field of Waterloo.—A Beth Gelert.—Fitz-James and Rhoderick Dhu—The Battle of Hohenlinden. The Battle of Blenheim.—The Downfall of Poland.—Flight of O'Connor's Child and Death of her Lover.
GLASGOW:
printed for the booksellers.
70.
* Glenara
* The Death of Sir John Moore
* Lord Ullin's Daughter
* Young Lochinvar
* The field of Waterloo
* A Beth Gelert
* Fitz-James and Rhoderick Dhu
* The Battle of Hohenlinden
* The Battle of Blenheim
* The Downfall of Poland
* Flight of O'Connor's Child and Death of her Lover
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
# The Elocutionist (1840-1850)/A Beth Gelert

Dated from examination of text and style.
A BETH GELERT
The spearman heard the bugle sound, and cheerily smiled the morn, And many a brach, and many a hound, attend Llewellyn’s horn;
And still he blew a louder blast, and gave a louder cheer; Come, Gelert! why art thou the last Llewellyn’s horn to hear!
‘Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam; the flower of all his race! So true, so brave, a lamb at home— a lion in the chase!’
Twas only at Llewellyn’s board, the faithful Gelert fed He watch’d, he serv’d, he cheer’d his lord, and sentinel’d his bed.
In south, he was a peerless hound, the gift of Royal John; But now no Gelert could be found, and all the chase rode on.
That day Llewellyn little loved the chase of hart or hare, ​⟨And⟩ scant and small the bounty proved, for Gelert was not there.
⟨Unpleased⟩, Llewellyn homeward hied, when near the portal seat, ⟨His⟩ truant Gelert he espied, hounding his lord to greet.
⟨But⟩ when he gained the castle door, aghast the chieftain stood, ⟨the⟩ hound was smear’d with gouts of gore, his lips and fangs ran blood;
⟨Onward⟩ in haste Llewellyn passed, (and on went Gelert too,) ⟨And⟩ still where'er his eyes he cast, fresh blood gouts shock’d his view!
⟨O’erturned⟩ his infant’s bed he found, the blood-stain’d covert rent, ⟨And⟩ all around, the walls and ground with recent blood besprent.
⟨Hell-hound⟩! by thee my child’s devour’d!’ the frantic father cried, ⟨And⟩ to his hilt, his vengeful sword, he plung’d in Gelerts side!
⟨His⟩ suppliant, as to earth he fell, no pity could impart; ⟨But⟩ still his Gelert’s dying yell, passed heavy o’er his heart.
⟨Aroused⟩ by Gelert’s dying yell, some slumberer ’wakened nigh; ⟨What⟩ words the parent’s joy can toll, to hear his infant cry.
​Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap, his hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, his cherub boy he kissed!
Nor scratch had he, nor harm nor dread- but the same couch beneath, Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead- tremendous still in death!
Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain! for now the truth was clear; The gallant hound the wolf had slain, to save Llewellyn's heir.
Vain, vain was Llewellyn's woe: best of thy kind adieu! The frantic deed which laid the low, this heart shall ever rue!
And now a gallant tomb they raise, with costly sculpture decked; And marbles, storied with his praise, poor Gelert's bones protect.
And hear he hung his horn and spear; and oft as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear poor Gelert's dying yell.
Spencer.
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
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Its faded buds already lie

II
Its faded buds already lie To deck my coffin when I die. Bring them here—'twill not be long, 'Tis the last line of the woeful song; And the final and dying words are sung To the discord of lute-strings all unstrung. O Adrian, do not harshly sweep The chords that are quivering to voiceless sleep. No; but I'd string them once more to a sound That should startle the nations that rest around. I'd call forth the glorious chorus again Which flooded the earth with a bloody main. Have I crushed you, Percy? I'd raise once more The beacon-light on the rocky shore. Percy, my love is so true and deep, That though kingdoms should wail and worlds should weep, I'd fling the brand in the hissing sea, The brand that must burn unquenchably. Your rose is mine; when the sweet leaves fade, They must be the chaplet to wreathe my head, The blossoms to deck my home with the dead. I repent not—that which my hand has done Is as fixed as the orb of the burning sun; But I swear by Heaven and the mighty sea That wherever I wander, my heart is with thee.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/In dungeons dark I cannot sing

XXXIV
In dungeons dark I cannot sing, In sorrow's thrall 'tis hard to smile; What bird can soar with broken wing? What heart can bleed and joy the while?
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/It is too late to call thee now

XLIII
It is too late to call thee now, I will not nurse that dream again; For every joy that lit my brow Would bring its after-storm of pain.
Besides the mist is half withdrawn, The barren mountain-side lies bare, And sunshine and awaking morn Paint no more golden visions there.
Yet ever in my grateful breast Thy darling shade shall cherished be; For God alone doth know how blessed My early years have been in thee!
April 1840.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/If grief for grief can touch thee

XLIV
If grief for grief can touch thee, If answering woe for woe, If any ruth can melt thee, Come to me now!
I cannot be more lonely, More drear I cannot be! My worn heart throbs so wildly 'Twill break for thee.
And when the world despises, When Heaven repels my prayer, Will not mine angel comfort? Mine idol hear?
Yes, by the tears I've poured, By all my hours of pain, O I shall surely win thee, Beloved, again.
May 18, 1840.