OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Expatriated

The Expatriated.
No bird is singing In cloud or on tree, No eye is beaming Glad welcome to me; The forest is tuneless; Its brown leaves fast fall— Changed and withered, they fleet Like hollow friends all.
No door is thrown open, No banquet is spread; No hand smoothes the pillow For the Wanderer's head; But the eye of distrust Sternly measures his way, And glad are the cold lips That wish him—good day!
Good day!—I am grateful For such gentle prayer,
Though scant be the cost Of that morsel of air. Will it clothe, will it feed me, Or rest my worn frame? Good day! wholesome diet, A proud heart to tame.
Now the sun dusks his glories Below the blue sea, And no star its splendor Deems worthy of me; The path I must travel, Grows dark as my fate, And nature, like man, can Wax savage in hate.
My country! my country! Though step-dame thou be, Yet my heart, in its anguish, Cleaves fondly to thee; Still in fancy it lingers By mountain and stream, And thy name is the spirit That rules its wild dream.
This heart loved thee truly,— And O! it bled free, When it led on to glory Thy proud chivalry; And O! it gained much from Thy prodigal hand,— The freedom to break in The stranger's cold land!
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Fause Ladye

The Fause Ladye.
'The water weets my toe,' she said, 'The water weets my knee; Hand up, Sir Knicht, my horse's head, If you a true luve be!'
'I luved ye weel, and luved ye lang, Yet grace I failed to win; Nae trust put I in ladye's troth Till water weets her chin!'
'Then water weets my waist, proud lord, The water weets my chin; My achin' head spins round about, The burn maks sik a din— Now, help thou me, thou fearsome Knicht, If grace ye hope to win!'
'I mercy hope to win, high dame, Yet hand I've nane to gie— The trinklin' o' a gallant's blude Sae sair hath blindit me!'
'Oh! help!—Oh! help!—If man ye be Have on a woman ruth— The waters gather round my head And gurgle in my mouth!'
'Turn round and round, fell Margaret, Turn round and look on me— The pity that ye schawed yestreen I'll fairly schaw to thee!
'Thy girdle-knife was keen and bricht— The ribbons wondrous fine— 'Tween every knot o' them ye knit Of kisses I had nine!
'Fond Margaret! Fause Margaret! You kissed me cheek and chin— Yet, when I slept, that girdle-knife You sheathed my heart's blude in!
'Fause Margaret! Lewde Margaret! The nicht ye bide wi' me— The body, under trust, you slew, My spirit weds wi' thee!'
# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Forester's Carol

The Forester's Carol.
Lusty Hearts! to the wood, to the merry green wood, While the dew with strung pearls loads each blade, And the first blush of dawn brightly streams o'er the lawn, Like the smile of a rosy-cheeked maid.
Our horns with wild music ring glad through each shaw, And our broad arrows rattle amain; For the stout bows we draw, to the green woods give law, And the Alight is the Right once again!
Mark yon herds, as they brattle and brush down the glade; Pick the fat, let the lean rascals go, Under favor 'tis meet that we tall men should eat,— Nock a shaft and strike down that proud doe!
Well delivered, parfay! convulsive she leaps,— One bound more,—then she drops on her side; Our steel hath bit smart the life-strings of her heart, And cold now lies the green forest's pride.
Heave her up, and away!—should any base churl Dare to ask why we range in this wood, There's a keen arrow yare, in each broad belt to spare, That will answer the knave in his blood!
Then forward, my Hearts! like the bold reckless breeze Our life shall whirl on in mad glee; The long bows we bend, to the world's latter end, Shall be borne by the hands of the Free!
# The Red Shoes

English-language translations of De røde Skoe include:
* "The Red Shoes" in Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales (1872), translated by Mrs. Henry H. B. Paull
* "The Red Shoes" in The Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen (1899), translated by Mary Howitt, illustrated by Helen Stratton
* "The Red Shoes" in Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales (1913), translated by unknown translator, illustrated by W. Heath Robinson
* "The Red Shoes" in Fairy Tales and Other Stories (1914), translated by W. A. Craigie and J. K. Craigie
* "The Red Shoes" in Fairy tales from Hans Christian Andersen (1914), translated by unknown translator, illustrated by Dugald Stewart Walker
# The Pirate

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Pirate."
* 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.
* The Pirate (Marryat), the 1836 novel by Frederick Marryat.
* The Pirate (Scott), the 1822 novel by Sir Walter Scott.
# The Pirate (Marryat)

* related portals: Pirates.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
“The Pirate” was published in 1836, the ninth book to flow from Marryat’s pen.

## Contents

* Chapter I: The Bay of Biscay
* Chapter II: The Bachelor
* Chapter III: The Gale
* Chapter IV: The Leak
* Chapter V: The Old Maid
* Chapter VI: The Midshipman
* Chapter VII: Sleeper's Bay
* Chapter VIII: The Attack
* Chapter IX: The Capture
* Chapter X: The Sand-Bank
* Chapter XI: The Escape
* Chapter XII: The Lieutenant
* Chapter XIII: The Landing
* Chapter XIV: The Meeting
* Chapter XV: The Mistake
* Chapter XVI: The Caicos
* Chapter XVII: The Trial
* Chapter XVIII: Conclusion
# The Return of Tarzan

The Return of Tarzan
* The Return of Tarzan
* By EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS
* Author of "Tarzan of the Apes"
* With Decorations By
* J. ALLEN ST. JOHN
* A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
* 114-120 East Twenty-third Street- -New York
* Published by Arrangement with A. C. McClurg & Company
Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1915 —— Published March, 1915 ——— Copyrighted in Great Britain
To My Mother
Layout 2
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 1950, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 73 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
# The Return of Tarzan/Adverts

Popular Copyright Novels
AT MODERATE PRICES
Ask your dealer for a complete list of A. L. Burt Company's Popular Copyright Fiction
Layout 3
# The Return of Spring

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Return of Spring."
* 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.
* "The Return of Spring", a poem by Alice Emily Argent
* "The Return of Spring", a poem by Augusta Baldwyn
# The Red One

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Red One."
* 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.
* "The Red One", a short story by Jack London
* "The Red One", a collection of short stories by Jack London
# The Red One (London collection)

* The Red One
* The Hussy
* Like Argus of the Ancient Times
* The Princess
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 Romance of Isabel, Lady Burton/Book 2

BOOK II
WEDDED
(1861—1890)
"Ellati Zaujuhá ma'ahá b'tadir el Kamar b'asbiha"
("The woman who has her husband with her can turn the moon with her finger.")
* CHAPTER I: FERNANDO
* CHAPTER II: MADEIRA
* CHAPTER III: TENERIFFE
* CHAPTER IV: A TRIP TO PORTUGAL
* CHAPTER V: BRAZIL
* CHAPTER VI: OUR EXPEDITION INTO THE INTERIOR
* CHAPTER VII: MORRO VELHO AND II- ENVIRONS
* CHAPTER VIII: MY LONELY RIDE TO RIO
* CHAPTER IX: HOME AGAIN
* CHAPTER X: MY JOURNEY TO DAMASCUS
* CHAPTER XI: IN AND ABOUT DAMASCUS
* CHAPTER XII: EARLY DAYS AT DAMASCUS
* CHAPTER XIII: THROUGH THE DESERT TO PALMYRA
* CHAPTER XIV: BLUDAN IN THE ANTI-LEBANON
* CHAPTER XV: GATHERING CLOUDS
* CHAPTER XVI: JERUSALEM AND THE HOLY LAND
* CHAPTER XVII: THE RECALL
* CHAPTER XVIII: THE TRUE REASONS OF BURTON'S RECALL
* CHAPTER XIX: THE PASSING OF THE CLOUD
* CHAPTER XX: EARLY YEARS AT TRIESTE
* CHAPTER XXI: THE JOURNEY TO BOMBAY
* CHAPTER XXII: INDIA
* CHAPTER XXIII: TRIESTE AGAIN
* CHAPTER XXIV: THE SHADOWS LENGTHEN
* CHAPTER XXV: GORDON AND THE BURTONS
* CHAPTER XXVI: THE SWORD HANGS
* CHAPTER XXVII: THE SWORD FALLS
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Grave of The Unfortunate
## The Grave of The Unfortunate

Light fall the early dews of even, and out upon the air The cereus flowers fling lavishly the fragrance that they bear; One star, of all the eyes of heaven, is yet alone awake, And sends abroad its prying glance to gaze on bower and lake.
Come bid the silent lute breathe out a low and mournful strain, A sad and tearful melody, a wailing for the slain; And as the notes glide far away, I'll tell thee how one died, Who sleeps in quiet loneliness, forgotten, by thy side.
The weary slave had left his toil;—it was an eve like this, But to his heart its loveliness would bring no throb of bliss; He only thought of former days, when she who shared his chains Had roved in freedom by his side, amid their native plains.
A cry of anguish caught his ear—in shrieks she breathed his name, And forward to his cot he sprung with heart and pulse of flame; Amid her weeping babes she knelt, and o'er her crouching head The white man's lash in mockery swung, all newly stain'd with red.
One blow has fell'd him to the earth—one blow alone was lent, And from the cot in rage and shame the tyrant master went; But for that blow a felon's death the Afric chieftain died, And here, forgot by all but her, he slumbers by thy side.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Genius of Painting
## The Genius of Painting

ADDRESSED TO D——M——
The Genius of Painting one summer eve stray'd, In a moment of leisure, to Flora's bright bower, Where, scatter'd around, by the hand of the maid, In the richest profusion, bloom'd many a flower.
“Oh, see,” Flora cried, as the Genius drew nigh, “What an Eden of beauty is blossoming here! But yet”—and a tear-drop stood bright in her eye,— “How soon will its loveliness all disappear!
“Oh Genius! bid them still live in your art, And my gratitude well shall your kindness repay; To some favour'd mortal your spirit impart, And teach him to rescue my flowers from decay.”
Behold I have rear'd, in my favourite bower, A shrine, and an altar, dear Painting, for you; And there will I offer each loveliest flower, As often as morning their sweets shall renew.”
“Many thanks, dearest Flora!” the Genius cried, “Though many an altar and temple is mine, That with richer and costlier gifts are supplied, Yet none of them all shall be dearer than thine.
“I will gift with my spirit whoever you will, Yet choose not, dear Flora, the renegade man; For the ingrate from you will be wandering still, O'er fields more extended and varied to scan.”
At this instant, a maiden drew near to the bower, And Flora's own fondness beam'd soft from her eye, As with rapture she hung o'er each beautiful flower, Or heaved o'er the dying a tremulous sigh.
Flora turn'd on the Genius a smile of delight— “There, Painting,” she cried, “is my favourite maid! Infuse in her bosom your genius bright, And soon shall your altar be richly array'd.”
“On that maid, then,” said he, “shall my spirit descend, A bright, and unfading, and beautiful gem; The young favourite of Flora my shrine shall attend, And the priestess of painting shall still be D. M.”
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Kingfisher
## The Kingfisher

    A newspaper paragraph gives an account of the instance of maternal affection in a bird, which has been made the subject of the following lines,
The kingfisher sat on her hidden nest, Shielding her young with a downy breast; She had built her home where the wave went by, Soothing her ear with its melody; And the wild white blossoms bent to dip In the rushing waves, their thirsty lip.
Pleasant it was while the skies were fair, And perfume flung on the sunny air, While the wind in a low sweet whisper died, Ere it could ruffle the flowing tide; And the arching skies o'er the waters threw The deep clear tint of their own pure blue.
But what that is bright on earth may last? Soon were the days of her sunshine past; On came the storm-winds muttering loud, Sweeping before them the thunder-cloud; And faster, as flash'd the lightning's flame, Dashing to earth the sky-torrents came.
Yet with her cold wet wing unstirr'd, On her shaken nest sat the mother bird; Still ‘midst danger and death she clung, With faithful love, to her lifeless young, Till high around her hath risen the tide, And with her pinion stretch'd o'er them, she died.
Oh! if affection like this hath part In the warm depths of a wood-bird's heart— That even to die, is a better fate Than to leave her dear ones desolate;— What is the love of a mother's breast, With the seal of a deathless nature press'd?
Yet there are men who will rudely tear The dearest chords that are cherish'd there; Wrench from its mother's frantic hold, Her weeping babes, to be pawn'd for gold; And scourge her amidst that living death, If she dares but give her woe to breath!
Know ye the land where such deeds are done, In the broad light of the blessed sun? Where the spoiler bursts, with savage hand, The holy links of the household band; And the ties of natural love are cast, With a daring hand, to the idle blast?
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Indian Camp
## The Indian Camp

I stood amidst its solitude! where erst The mighty of the desert dwelt, ere yet The thunder-cloud of desolation burst In darkness o'er them; ere their sun had set, And pale-faced strangers from the ocean's strand, Had look'd with evil eye across their fathers’ land.
When, like the wild-deer of their own dark woods, They trod with bounding steps its gloomy maze Fearless and free; or stemm'd the rushing flood In light canoe; and pausing but to raise Their whoop of terror, rush'd to distant war, With breast and brow still mark'd with many a former scar.
Methinks I see them now, as evening came, Returning homeward from the lengthen'd chase, The haughty fierceness of their brows grown tame, And round their necks fond childhood's soft embrace; While lips of age their simple welcome spoke, And silent smiles of love in gentle eyes awoke.
But there was left no relic of them there, Save that tradition told of one lone spot, Where they had long been sepulchred; it bore No stone, no monument, that they might not Be all forgotten; but the forest bough, In aged strength bent down above each mouldering brow.
The gushing stream beside whose limpid waves They oft had flung them when the chase was o'er, Or paused amid its hurrying course to lave Their thirsty lips, and heated brows, of yore, Still rushes nigh them with its shining waves, But pours them only round their silent graves.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Negro Father's Lamentation Over the Body of His Infant Son
## The Negro Father's Lamentation Over the Body of His Infant Son

Thou'rt dead, my boy!—my son!—my only child!— And yet I may not shed one tear for thee, Nor hanging o'er thy bier in anguish wild, Upbraid the hand that bore thee far from me: I cannot wish that thou hadst lived to share Thy father's fate—his woes—and his despair!
I loved thee—oh! I need not say how well! Thou wert my all of hopes or bliss on earth! Yet I will not repine that thou dost dwell In happiness, with her who gave thee birth, While I, like yon dark rock of naked stone, Must bear the storms that round me beat, alone.
'T is well! Thou wilt not share those storms with me, That is my all of comfort in this hour— I weep not, though I would have died for thee! Ay, more than died— that sacrifice were poor— I would have spurn'd the hand that set me free, And clasp'd my chain, and lived a slave, for thee.
My boy! my darling boy! farewell, farewell! Thou ne'er shalt feel the pangs that rend me now, For still my heart with agony will swell, To think, that never more upon my brow, Thy little lips with fondness shall be prest, As when I oft have clasp'd thee to my breast.
Yes! fare thee well! thy fond caress no more Shall soothe the tortured throbbing of my heart, As it full oft has done, when tyrant power Has trampled me to earth, and round me prest The chain of slavery, till my swelling heart Has madden'd into frenzy with the smart.
Yet even then, though thou couldst calm my soul, With thy soft lisping voice and childish glee, While clasping thee, sad thoughts would o'er me roll, Of what must be thy future destiny, Till my hot tears have wet thy little face, And thou hast wonder'd at my wild embrace.
But thou art dead!—it ne'er will be thy fate To tremble at a cruel tyrant's frowns— To bend in servile toil, to feed his state, To feel the lash, and hear him mock thy groans. Then fare thee well!—thy father will not weep, Or wish to wake thee from thy peaceful sleep.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Outcast
## The Outcast

“There is a race of people inhabiting the Vale of Lieze, on the French side of the Pyrenees, who are supposed to be descended from the Saracens, and are entirely excluded from communion with the rest of mankind.—They are even obliged to enter the churches by a separate door, and no one will make use of the holy water which their touch has polluted.”
The vineyards of France ‘neath their fruitage were bending, And spread their rich clusters of blue to the sun, And high o'er the steep of the mountain ascending, The soft voice of song, with wild merriment blending, Told where the gay harvester's toil was begun.
The sun its last glance o'er the landscape was flinging, And sounds from afar came distinctly and clear; The birds from each covert their vespers were singing, And far in the vale the deep convent-bell ringing, Sent up its sad tones to the wanderer's ear.
He flung himself down with an aspect of sadness, And listlessly gazed on the landscape below; His spirit by scorn had been goaded to madness, And now that bright scene, and those murmurs of gladness, Seem'd rising before him to mock at his woe.
“Oh why,” he exclaim'd, as the bitter tear started, “Oh why was I form'd with a bosom to feel! Since thus I was doom'd from mankind to be parted, An outcast on earth, lone, and desolate-hearted, Too vile with the vilest in worship to kneel.
“And thou—loved and lost one—oh why didst thou nourish The weed that was trampled by all, save by thee; The gleamings of light in my young spirit cherish, And waken high feelings and hopes but to perish, And leave my dark fate doubly dreadful to me?
“In the hours of my slumber proud visions come o'er me, And life for a moment seems brightly to smile, The pathway of glory and fame is before me, The noble caress, and the lovely adore me, And every sad thought from my bosom beguile.
“But, ah! from those dreams soon and sadly I waken, To find all around me thrice gloomy and drear; To know that thou, too, from my arms hast been taken, Thou blest and revered one, whose friendship unshaken, The darkest, the saddest, of moments would cheer.
“Oh death! thou stern foe to the lovely and blooming, Thou terror to those who are blessing and blest! How freely this bosom would welcome thy coming, How gladly, thy garment of darkness assuming, Sink down into slumber and peace on thy breast!”
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Recaptured Slave
## The Recaptured Slave

Woe to thee, tyrant! woe! Does that white brow of thine which shows so fair And the rich tint thy cheek is wont to wear, Make thee the ruler of my destiny? Or does thy blood more freely flow, Than that which pours so madly now, Along my burning veins—that thou should'st be The favourite of fortune—proud and free— And I should be thy slave—thy vassal?—no!
'T is true, I was thy slave—the power was thine— And thou hadst made me such—through lingering years, One weary task of ceaseless toil was mine, Of servitude and tears— But didst thou think no kindly glow, Could warm my heart to joy or woe? Mistaken fool! I heard thee name a name, That rush'd like fire along my burning breast, And from that instant there awoke a flame, That ne'er has been, and ne'er shall be suppress'd— I heard the glorious name of liberty! And from that hour I panted to be free!
I had breathed on—not lived—in recklessness, And idle dull submission to my fate; But then the very sunbeams seem'd to press Upon my senses, with a bitter weight— As though they spake upbraidingly, That all around me should be free, And I should be so vile—that I should bow, And tremble at the gathering of thy brow!
I once had loved the gushing mirth Of the young spring—when bee, flower, bird, And every thing upon the earth, Seem'd fraught with joy—but now, one word, One only word, came o'er my brain, Again, again, again, As if 't were scorch'd in characters of flame And that one word was Freedom! all things seem'd To shape their voices only to that name— The wild bird's joyous song—the fish that gleam'd Through the bright flood—the murmur of the wave— Nay, even the breath of heaven—methought seem'd whispering, Slave! I fled, and ere another set of sun, My galling chains were broken—I was free! A new, a bright existence was begun— And my soul knew and felt its potency. The voice of eve seem'd sweeter to my ears, And all things brighter to my eye—till tears From my full heart gush'd up tumultuously— Wife, children, friends, were all forgotten—all— I only felt that I was free from thrall.
'T is over now—and I once more am thine— But thinkest thou that, having known the bliss— That though one moment only has been mine, I will live on in servitude like this, And wear the chains of bondage? tyrant, no! My blood be on thy head! woe rest upon thee, woe! Art thou my master! then come ask the wave, To give thee back thy slave!