OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 40 1834/The Orange-bough

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 40, Pages 292-293
VII. The Orange-bough.
Bring from the grove an orange-bough,
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow,
And bind it, mother! on my breast,
When I am laid in dreamless rest.
The myrtle that I loved hath died,
Blighted, like me, in vernal pride!
The rose looks all too festive now,—
Bring from the grove an orange-bough!
The grove along the sunny shore,
Whose odours I must breathe no more,
Oh! love's vain sighs, and parting prayer,
And wild farewell, are lingering there.
Then bear me thence one branch, to shed
Life's last faint sweetness round my bed;
One branch, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!
# Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 40 1834/The Rio Verde Song

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 40, Pages 26-27
SONGS OF SPAIN.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
I. The Rio Verde Song.*
Flow, Rio Verde!
 In melody flow;
Win her that weepeth
 To slumber from woe!
Bid thy wave's music
 Roll through her dreams;
Grief ever loveth
 The kind voice of streams.
Bear her lone spirit
 Afar on the sound,
Back to her childhood,
 Her life's fairy ground:
Pass like the whisper
 Of love that is gone.—
Flow, Rio Verde,
 Softly flow on!
Dark glassy waters,  So crimson'd of yore, Love, Death, and Sorrow  Know the green shore. Thou should'st have Echoes  For Grief's deepest tone.— Flow, Rio Verde!
 Softly flow on!
# Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 40 1834/The Rock of Cader Idris

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 40, Page 365
THE ROCK OF CADER-IDRIS.
A LEGEND OF WALES.—BY MRS. HEMANS.
[It is an ancient tradition of Wales, that whoever should pass a night alone on the summit of the Mountain Cader-Idris, would be found in the morning either dead, in a state of frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.]
I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud;
Around it for ever deep music is swelling,
The voice of the Mountain-wind, solemn and loud.
'Twas a midnight of shadows, all fitfully streaming,
Of wild gusts and torrents that mingled their moan,
Of dim-shrouded stars, as thro' gulphs faintly gleaming,
And my strife with stern nature was darksome and lone.
I lay there in silence:—a spirit came o'er me;
Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw!
Things glorious, unearthly, pass'd floating before me,
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe!
I viewed the dread Beings around us that hover,
Tho' veiled by the mists of Mortality's breath;
And I called upon Darkness the vision to cover,
For within me was battling of madness and death!
I saw them—the Powers of the Wind and the Ocean,
The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storm;
Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion,
I felt their dread presence, but knew not their form.
I saw them—the mighty of ages departed—
The dead were around me that night on the hill;
From their eyes, as they pass'd, a cold radiance they darted;
There was light on my soul, but my heart's blood was chill.
I saw what man looks on, and dies!—but my spirit
Was strong, and triumphantly lived thro' that hour,
And as from the grave I awoke, to inherit
A flame all immortal, a voice and a pow'r!
Day burst on that Rock with the purple cloud crested,
And high Cader-ldris rejoiced in the sun;
But oh! what new glory all nature invested,
When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won!
# Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 40 1834/The Rock beside the Sea

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 40, Page 292
VI. The Rock beside the Sea.
Oh! tell me not the woods are fair,
 Now Spring is on her way;—
Well, well I know how lightly there,
 In joy, the young leaves play;
How sweet, on winds of morn or eve,
 The violet's breath may be;—
Yet ask me, woo me not to leave
 My lone Rock by the Sea.
The wild wave's thunder on the shore,
 The curlew's restless cries,
Are to my watching heart more dear
 Than all earth's melodies.
Come back, my ocean rover, come!
 There's but one place for me
Till I can greet thy swift sail home—
 My lone Rock by the Sea!
# Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 40 1834/Sing, Gondolier!

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 40, Page 292
V. Sing, Gondolier!
Sing to me, Gondolier!
 Sing words from Tasso's lay;
While pure, and still, and clear,
 Night seems but softer day.
The gale is gently falling,
 As if it paused to hear
Some strain, the past recalling;—
 Sing to me, Gondolier!
Oh! ask me not to wake
 Proud spirits of the brave;
Bid no high numbers break
 The silence of the wave!
Gone are the noble-hearted,
 Closed the bright pageants here;
And the glad song is departed
 From the mournful Gondolier!
# Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 40 1834/Spanish Evening Hymn

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 40, Page 28
V. Spanish Evening Hymn.
Ave! now let prayer and music
 Meet in love on shore and sea!
Now, sweet Mother! may the weary
 Turn from this cold world to thee.
From the dark and restless waters
 Hear the sailor's hymn arise!
From his watch-fire, 'midst the mountains,
 Lo! to thee the shepherd cries.
Yet, where thus full hearts find voices,
 If o'erburden'd souls there be,
Dark and silent in their anguish,—
 Aid those captives—set them free!
Touch them, every fount unsealing,
 Where the frozen tears lie deep;
Thou, the Mother of all sorrows,
 Aid, oh! aid to pray and weep!
# Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 40 1834/The Bird of Ebro

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 40, Page 28
IV. The Bird of Ebro.
Bird, that art singing on Ebro's side,
Where myrtle-shadows make dim the tide,
Doth Sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee?
Doth song avail thy full heart to free?
Bird of the midnight's purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.
Bird! is it wrong'd affection's pain,
Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain?
And is the wound of that arrow still'd,
When thy lone music the boughs hath fill'd?
Bird of the midnight's purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.
# Founder's Day in War Time/Front matter

MANCHESTER UNIVERSITY LECTURES No. XIX.
FOUNDERS' DAY IN WAR TIME
published by the university of manchester at the university press (h. m. mckecknie, secretary) 12 lime grove, oxford road. manchester
longmans, green and co. London: 39 paternoster row new york: 443-449 fourth avenue and thirtieth street Chicago: prairie avenue and twenty-fifth street bombay: hornby road calcutta: 6 old court house street madras: 167 mount road
# Foundling

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Foundling."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Foundling," by Alexandre Soumet in A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields (pp. 37−38), London: C. Kegan Paul & Co. (1876)
* The Foundlings (1911) by H. B. Marriott Watson
# Fountain's Abbey

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Fountain's Abbey."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* Fountain’s Abbey, a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833.
* Fountain’s Abbey, a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836.
# Fountain v. Filson

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
336 U.S. 681
Fountain v. Filson
Argued: April 18, 1949. --- Decided: May 31, 1949
See 337 U.S. 921, 69 S.Ct. 1153.
Mr. Charles A. Horsky, of Washington, D.C., for petitioner.
Mr. Camden R. McAtee, of Washington, D.C., for respondents.
PER CURIAM.

## 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
# Founders General Corporation v. Hoey

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
300 U.S. 268
Founders General Corporation v. Hoey
Argued: Jan. 8-11, 1937. --- Decided: March 1, 1937
Mr. Royal E. T. Riggs, of New York City, for petitioner Founders General Corporation.
The Attorney General and Mr. J. P. Jackson, of Washington, D.C., for petitioner United States and respondent Hoey.
Mr. Jesse I. Miller, of Washington, D.C., for respondent Automatic Washer Co.
Mr. George K. Bowden, of Chicago, Ill., for respondent A. B. Leach & Co., Inc.
Mr. Justice BRANDEIS 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
# Fountain

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Fountain."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Fountain", a poem by Gladys Cromwell
* "Fountain", a poem by Vyacheslav Ivanovich Ivanov
* "The Fountain", a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon ("Why startest thou back from that fount of sweet water?")
* "The Fountain", a poem by James Russell Lowell ("Into the sunshine, ⁠Full of the light")
* "The Fountain", a poem by Anna Shattuck Palmer ("In attitude benign the elm holds out")
* "The Fountain", a poem by Antoinette Quinby Scudder
* "The Fountain", a poem by Sara Teasdale ("Oh in the deep blue night")
* "The Fountain", a poem by John Greenleaf Whittier ("Traveller! on thy journey toiling")
* "The Fountain", a poem by William Wordsworth ("We talk'd with open heart, and tongue")

### Encyclopaedia articles

* "Fountain," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
# Fifty spiritual homilies of St. Macarius the Egyptian/Homily 22

HOMILY XXII
Concerning the twofold state of those who depart out of this life.
1. WHEN the soul of a man departs out of the body, a great mystery is there accomplished. If it is under the guilt of sins, there come bands of devils, and angels of the left hand, and powers of darkness take over that soul, and hold it fast on their side. No one ought to be surprised at this. If, while alive and in this world, the man was subject and compliant to them, and made himself their bondman, how much more, when he departs out of this world, is he kept down and held fast by them. That this is the case, you ought to understand from what happens on the good side. God’s holy servants even now have angels continually beside them, and holy spirits encompassing and protecting them; and when they depart out of the body, the bands of angels take over their souls to their own side, into the pure world, and so they bring them to the Lord; to whom be glory and might for ever. Amen.
# General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems/The Gamblers

THE GAMBLERS
LIFE'S a jail where men have common lot. Gaunt the one who has, and who has not. All our treasures neither less nor more, Bread alone comes thro' the guarded door. Cards are foolish in this jail, I think, Yet they play for shoes, for drabs and drink. She, my lawless, sharp-tongued gypsy maid Will not scorn with me this jail-bird trade, Pets some fox-eyed boy who turns the trick, Tho' he win a button or a stick, Pencil, garter, ribbon, corset-lace— His the glory, mine is the disgrace.
Sweet, I'd rather lose than win despite Love of hearty words and maids polite. "Love's a gamble," say you. I deny. Love's a gift. I love you till I die. Gamblers fight like rats. I will not play. All I ever had I gave away. All I ever coveted was peace Such as comes if we have jail release.
Cards are puzzles, tho' the prize be gold, Cards help not the bread that tastes of mold, Cards dye not your hair to black more deep, Cards make not the children cease to weep.
Scorned, I sit with half shut eyes all day— Watch the cataract of sunshine play Down the wall, and dance upon the floor. Sun, come down and break the dungeon door! Of such gold dust could I make a key,— Turn the bolt—how soon we would be free! Over borders we would hurry on Safe by sunrise farms, and springs of dawn, Wash our wounds and jail stains there at last, Azure rivers flowing, flowing past. God has great estates just past the line, Green farms for all, and meat and corn and wine.
# General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems/The Proud Farmer

A GOSPEL OF BEAUTY
I recited these three poems more than any others in my late mendicant preaching tour through the West. Taken as a triad, they hold in solution my theory of American civilization.
THE PROUD FARMER
[In memory of E. S.. Frazee, Rush County, Indiana]
INTO the acres of the newborns state He poured his strength, and plowed his ancient name, And, when the traders followed him, he stood Towering above their furtive souls and tame.
That brow without a stain, that fearless eye Oft left the passing stranger wondering
To find such knighthood in the sprawling land,
To see a democrat well-nigh a king.
He lived with liberal hand, with guests from far, With talk and joke and fellowship to spare,— Watching the wide world's life from sun to sun, Lining his walls with books from everywhere. He read by night, be built his world by day. The farm and house of God to him were one. For forty years he preached and plowed and wrought— A statesman in the fields, who bent to none.
His plowmen-neighbors were as lords to him. His was an ironside, democratic pride. He served a rigid Christ, but served him well— And, for a lifetime, saved the countryside.
Here lie the dead, who gave the church their best Under his fiery preaching of the word. They sleep with him beneath the ragged grass. . . The village winters, by his voice unstirred.
And tho' his tribe be scattered to the wind From the Atlantic to the China sea, Yet do they think of that bright lamp he  burned Of family worth and proud integrity.
And many a sturdy grandchild hears his name In reverence spoken, till he feels akin To all the lion-eyed who built the world— And lion-dreams begin to burn within.
# General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems/The Queen of Bubbles

THE QUEEN OF BUBBLES
[Written for a picture]
THE Youth speaks:—
 "Why do you seek the sun
In your bubble-crown ascending?
Your chariot will melt to mist.
Your crown will have an ending."   The Goddess replies:— "Nay, sun is but a bubble,
Earth is a whiff of foam— To my caves on the coast of Thule
Each night I call them home.
Thence Faiths blow forth to angels
And loves blow forth to men— They break and turn to nothing
And I make them whole again.
On the crested waves of chaos
I ride them back reborn:
New stars I bring at evening
For those that burst at morn:
My soul is the wind of Thule And evening is the sign— The sun is but a bubble, A fragile child of mine"
# General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems/The Illinois Village

THE ILLINOIS VILLAGE
O YOU who lose the art of hope, Whose temples seem to shrine a lie, Whose sidewalks are but stones of fear, Who weep that Liberty must die, Turn to the little prairie towns, Your higher hope shall yet begin, On every side awaits you there Some gate where glory enters in.
Yet when I see the flocks of girls, Watching the Sunday train go thro' (As tho' the whole wide world went by) With eyes that long to travel too, I sigh, despite my soul made glad By cloudy dresses and brown hair, Sigh for the sweet life wrenched and torn By thundering commerce, fierce and bare. Nymphs of the wheat these girls should be: Kings of the grove, their lovers strong. Why are they not inspired, aflame? This beauty calls for valiant song—
For men to carve these fairy-forms
And faces in a fountain-frieze;
Dancers that own immortal hours;
Painters that work upon their knees;
Maids, lovers, friends, so deep in life,
So deep in love and poet's deeds,
The railroad is a thing disowned,
The city but a field of weeds.
Who can pass a village church
By night in these clean prairie lands
Without a touch of Spirit-power?
So white and fixed and cool it stands—
A thing from some strange fairy-town,
A pious amaranthine flower,
Unsullied by the winds, as pure
As jade or marble, wrought this hour:— Rural in form, foursquare and plain,
And yet our sister, the new moon,
Makes it a praying wizard's dream.
The trees that watch at dusty noon
Breaking its sharpest lines, veil not
The whiteness it reflects from God,
Flashing like Spring on many an eye,
Making clean flesh, that once was clod.
Who can pass a district school
Without the hope that there may wait
Some baby-heart the books shall flame With zeal to make his playmates great, To make the whole wide village gleam A strangely carved celestial gem, Eternal in its beauty-light, The Artist's town of Bethlehem!
# General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems/The Knight in Disguise

THE KNIGHT IN DISGUISE
[Concerning O. Henry (Sidney Porter)]
"HE could not forget that the was a Sidney."
Is this Sir Philip Sidney, this loud clown, The darling of the glad and gaping town?
This is that dubious hero of the press Whose slangy tongue and insolent address Were spiced to rouse of Sunday afternoon The man with yellow journals round him strewn. We laughed and dozed, then roused and read again, And vowed O. Henry funniest of men. He always worked a triple-hinged surprise To end the scene and make one rub his eyes.
He comes with vaudeville, with stare and leer. He comes with megaphone and specious cheer.
His troupe, too fat or short or long or lean,
Step from the pages of the magazine
With slapstick or sombrero or with cane:
The tube, the cowboy or the masher vain.
They over-act each part. But at the height
Of banter and of canter and delight
The masks fall off for one queer instant there
And show real faces: faces full of care
And desperate longing: love that's hot or cold;
And subtle thoughts, and countenances bold.
The masks go back. 'Tis one more joke. Laugh on!
The goodly grown-up company is gone.
No doubt had he occasion to address
The brilliant court of purple-clad Queen Bess,
He would have wrought for them the best he knew
And led more loftily his actor-crew.
How coolly he misquoted. 'Twas his art— Slave-scholar, who misquoted—from the heart.
So when we slapped his back with friendly roar
Æsop awaited him without the door,—
Æsop the Greek, who made dull masters laugh
With little tales of fox and dog and calf.
And be it said, mid these his pranks so odd With something nigh to chivalry he trod And oft the drear and driven would defend— The little shopgirls' knight unto the end. Yea, he had passed, ere we could understand The blade of Sidney glimmered in his hand. Yea, ere we knew, Sir Philip's sword was drawn With valiant cut and thrust, and he was gone.
# General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems/The Potato's Dance

THE POTATO'S DANCE
"DOWN cellar," said the cricket,
 "I saw a ball last night
In honor of a lady
Whose wings were pearly-white.
The breath of bitter weather
Had smashed the cellar pane:
We entertained a drift of leaves
And then of snow and rain.
But we were dressed for winters
And loved to hear it blow
In honor of the lady
Who makes potatoes grow— Our guest, the Irish lady,
The tiny Irish lady,
The fairy Irish lady
That makes potatoes grow.
"Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the band,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand:
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their arms were just the same,
They jigged and whirled and scrambled
In honor of the dame:
The noble Irish lady
Who makes potatoes dance,
The witty Irish lady,
The saucy Irish lady,
The laughing Irish lady
Who makes potatoes prance.
"There was just one sweet potato.
He was golden-brown and slim:
The lady loved his figure.
She danced all night with him.
Alas, he wasn't Irish.
So when she flew away,
They threw him in the coal-bin
And there he is to-day,
Where they cannot hear his sighs— His weeping for the lady,
The beauteous Irish lady,
The radiant Irish lady
Who gives potatoes eyes."
# General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems/The Song of the Garden-toad

THE SONG OF THE GARDEN-TOAD
DOWN, down beneath the daisy beds, O hear the cries of pain! And moaning on the cinder-path They're blind amid the rain. Can murmurs of the worms arise To higher hearts than mine? I wonder if that gardener hears Who made the mold all fine And packed each gentle seedling down So carefully in line?
I watched the red rose reaching up To ask him if he heard Those cries that stung the evening earth Till all the rose-roots stirred. She asked him if he felt the hate That burned beneath them there. She asked him if he heard the curse Of worms in black despair. He kissed the rose. What did it mean? What of the rose's prayer?
Down, down where rain has never come They fight in burning graves, Bleeding and drinking blood Within those venom-caves. Blaspheming still the gardener's name, They live and hate and go. I wonder if the gardener heard The rose that told him so?
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1931, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 92 years or less. 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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# General William Booth enters into Heaven, and other poems/The Trap

THE TRAP
SHE was taught desire in the street, Not at the angels' feet. By the good no word was said Of the worth of the bridal bed. The secret was learned from the vile, Not from her mother's smile. Home spoke not. And the girl Was caught in the public whirl. Do you say "She gave consent: Life drunk, she was content With beasts that her fire could please?" But she did not choose disease Of mind and nerves and breath. She was trapped to a slow, foul death. The door was watched so well, That the steep dark stair to hell Was the only escaping way . . . "She gave consent," you say?
Some think she was meek and good, Only lost in the wood
Of youth, and deceived in man When the hunger of sex began That ties the husband and wife To the end in a strong fond life. Her captor, by chance was one Of those whose passion was done, A cold fierce worm of the sea Enslaving for you and me. The wages the poor must take Have forced them to serve this snake. Yea, half-paid girls must go For bread to his pit below. What hangman shall wait his host Of butchers from coast to coast, New York to the Golden Gate— The merger of death and fate, Lust-kings with a careful plan Clean-cut, American?
In liberty's name we cry For these women about to die.
O mothers who failed to tell The mazes of heaven and hell, Who failed to advise, implore Your daughters at Love's strange door, What will you do this day?
Your dear ones are hidden away, As good as chained to the bed, Hid like the mad, or the dead:— The glories of endless years Drowned in their harlot-tears: The children they hoped to bear, Grandchildren strong and fair, The life for ages to be, Cut off like a blasted tree, Murdered in filth in a day, Somehow, by the merchant gay!
In liberty's name we cry For these women about to die.
What shall be said of a state Where traps for the white brides wait? Of sellers of drink who play The game for the extra pay? Who hope for the girl-child's fall? Of banks where hell's money is paid And Pharisees all afraid Of pandars that help them sin? When will our wrath begin?