OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Elder Edda and the Younger Edda/Younger Edda/The Origin of Poetry

71. Ægir having expressed a wish to know how poetry originated, Bragi informed him that the Æsir and Vanir having met to put an end to the war which had ​long been carried on between them, a treaty of peace was agreed to and ratified by each party spitting into a jar. As a lasting sign of the amity which was thenceforward to subsist between the contending parties, the gods formed out of this spittle a being to whom they gave the name of Kvasir, and whom they endowed with such a high degree of intelligence that no one could ask him a question that he was unable to answer. Kvasir then traversed the whole world to teach men wisdom, but was at length treacherously murdered by the dwarfs, Fjalar and Galar, who, by mixing up his blood with honey, composed a liquor of such surpassing excellence that whoever drinks of it acquires the gift of song. When the Æsir inquired what had become of Kvasir, the dwarfs told them that he had been suffocated with his own wisdom, not being able to find any one who by proposing to him a sufficient number of learned questions might relieve him of its superabundance. Not long after this event, Fjalar and Galar managed to drown the giant Gilling and murder his wife, deeds which were avenged by their son Suttung taking the dwarfs out to sea, and placing them on a shoal which was flooded at high water. In this critical position they implored Suttung to spare their lives, and accept the verse-inspiring beverage which they possessed as an atonement for their having killed his parents. Suttung having agreed to these conditions, released the dwarfs, and carrying the mead home with him, committed it to the care of his daughter Gunnlauth. Hence poetry is indifferently called Kvasir's blood, Suttung's mead, the dwarf's ransom, etc.
# The Elder Edda and the Younger Edda/Younger Edda/The Ship Adapted to Sail on Sea or Land

44. "What hast thou to say," demanded Gangler, "of Skidbladnir, which thou toldst me was the best of ships? Is there no other ship as good or as large?"
"Skidbladnir," replied Har, "is without doubt the best and most artfully constructed of any, but the ship Nagffar is of larger size. They were dwarfs, the sons of Ivaldi, who built Skidbladnir, and made a present of her to Frey. She is so large that all the Æsir with their weapons and war stores find room on board her. As soon as the sails are set a favourable breeze arises and carries her to her place of destination, and she is made of so many pieces, and with so much skill, that when she is not wanted for a voyage Frey may fold her together like a piece of cloth, and put her in his pocket."
"A good ship truly, is Skidbladnir," said Gangler, ​"and many cunning contrivances and spells must, no doubt, have been used in her construction."
# The Elder Edda and the Younger Edda/Younger Edda/The Way that Leads to Heaven

13. "I must now ask," said Gangler, "which is the path leading from earth to heaven?"
"That is a senseless question," replied Har, with a smile of derision. "Hast thou not been told that the gods made a bridge from earth to heaven, and called it Bifrost? Thou must surely have seen it; but, perhaps, thou callest it the rainbow. It is of three hues, and is constructed with more art than any other work. But, strong though it be, it will be broken to pieces when the sons of Muspell, after having traversed great rivers, shall ride over it."
"Methinks," said Gangler, "the gods could not have ​been in earnest to erect a bridge so liable to be broken down, since it is in their power to make whatever they please."
"The gods," replied Har, "are not to be blamed on that account; Bifrost is of itself a very good bridge, but there is nothing in nature that can hope to make resistance when the sons of Muspell sally forth to the great combat."
# The Elder Edda and the Younger Edda/Younger Edda/The Wind and the Seasons

19. "Tell me," said Gangler, "whence comes the wind, which is so strong that it moves the ocean and fans fire to flame, yet, strong though it be, no mortal eye can discern it? wonderfully, therefore, must it be shapen."
"I can tell thee all about it," answered Har; "thou must know that at the northern extremity of the heavens sits a giant called Hræsvelgur, clad with eagles' plumes. When he spreads out his wings for flight, the winds arise from under them."
20. "Tell me further," said Gangler, "why the summer should be hot, and the winter cold."
"A wise man would not ask such a question, which every one could answer," replied Har; "but, if thou hast been so dull as not to have heard the reason, I will rather forgive thee for once asking a foolish question than suffer thee to remain any longer in ignorance of what ought to have been known to thee. The father of Summer is called Svasuth, who is such a gentle and delicate being that what is mild is from him called sweet. The father of Winter has two names, Vindloni and Vindsval. He is the son of Vasad, and, like all his race, has an icy breath, and is of a grim and gloomy aspect."
21. "I must now ask thee," said Gangler, "who are the gods that men are bound to believe in?'
"There are twelve gods," replied Har, "to whom divine honours ought to be rendered."
"Nor are the goddesses," added Jafnhar, "less divine and mighty."
"The first and eldest of the Æsir," continued Thridi, "is Odin. He governs all things, and, although the other deities are powerful, they all serve and obey him as children do their father. Frigga is his wife. She foresees the destinies of men, but never reveals what is to come. For thus it is said that Odin himself told Loki, 'Senseless Loki, why wilt thou pry into futurity, Frigga alone knoweth the destinies of all, though she telleth them never?'
"Odin is named Alfadir (All-father), because he is the father of all the gods, and also Valfadir (Choosing Father), because he chooses for his sons all of those who fall in combat. For their abode he has prepared Valhalla and Vingolf, where they are called Einherjar (Heroes or Champions). Odin is also called Hangagud, Haptagud, and Farmagud, and, besides these, was named in many ways when he he went to King Geirraudr," forty-nine names in all.
"A great many names, indeed!" exclaimed Gangler; "surely that man must be very wise who knows them all distinctly, and can tell on what occasions they were given."
​"It requires, no doubt," replied Har, "a good memory to recollect readily all these names, but I will tell thee in a few words what principally contributed to confer them upon him. It was the great variety of languages; for the various nations were obliged to translate his name into their respective tongues, in order that they might supplicate and worship him. Some of his names, however, have been owing to adventures that happened to him on his journeys, and which are related in old stories. Nor canst thou ever pass for a wise man if thou are not able to give an account of these wonderful adventures."
# The Elder Edda and the Younger Edda/Younger Edda/Thor and His Hammer

22. "I now ask thee," said Gangler, "what are the names of the other gods. What are their functions, and what have they brought to pass?"
"The mightiest of them." replied Har, "is Thor. He is called Asa-Thor and Auku-Thor, and is the strongest of gods and men. His realm is named Thrudvang, and his mansion Bilskirnir, in which are five hundred and forty halls. It is the largest house ever built."
"Thor has a car drawn by two goats called Tanngniost and Tanngrisnir. From his driving about in this car he is called Auku-Thor (Charioteer-Thor). He likewise possesses three very precious things. The first is a mallet called Mjolnir, which both the Frost and Mountain Giants know to their cost when they see it hurled against them in the air; and no wonder, for it has split many a skull of their fathers and kindred. The second rare thing he possesses is called the belt of strength or ​prowess (Megingjardir). When he girds it about him his divine might is doubly augmented; the third, also very precious, being his iron gauntlets, which he is obliged to put on whenever he would lay hold of the handle of his mallet. There is no one so wise as to be able to relate all Thor's marvellous exploits, yet I could tell thee so many myself that hours would be whiled away ere all that I know had been recounted."
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/In Quest

IN QUEST
Have I not voyaged, friend beloved, with thee On the great waters of the unsounded sea, Momently listening with suspended oar For the low rote of waves upon a shore Changeless as heaven, where never fog-cloud drifts Over its windless wood, nor mirage lifts The steadfast hills; where never birds of doubt Sing to mislead, and every dream dies out, And the dark riddles which perplex us here In the sharp solvent of its light are clear? Thou knowest how vain our quest; how, soon or late, The baffling tides and circles of debate Swept back our bark unto its starting-place, Where, looking forth upon the blank, gray space, And round about us seeing, with sad eyes,
The same old difficult lulls and cloud-cold skies, We said: “This outward search availeth not To find Him. He is farther than we thought, Or, haply, nearer. To this very spot Whereon we wait, this commonplace of home, As to the well of Jacob, He may come And tell us all things.” As I listened there, Through the expectant silences of prayer, Somewhat I seemed to hear, which hath to me Been hope, strength, comfort, and I give it thee.
“The riddle of the world is understood Only by him who feels that God is good, As only he can feel who makes his love The ladder of his faith, and climbs above On th’ rounds of his best instincts; draws no line Between mere human goodness and divine, But, judging God by what in him is best, With a child’s trust leans on a Father’s breast, And hears unmoved the old creeds babble still Of kingly power and dread caprice of will, Chary of blessing, prodigal of curse, The pitiless doomsman of the universe. Can Hatred ask for love? Can Selfishness Invite to self-denial? Is He less Than man in kindly dealing? Can He break His own great law of fatherhood, forsake And curse His children? Not for earth and heaven Can separate tables of the law be given. No ride can bind which He himself denies; The truths of time are not eternal lies.”
So heard I; and the chaos round me spread To light and order grew; and, “Lord,” I said, “Our sins are our tormentors, worst of all Felt in distrustful shame that dares not call Upon Thee as our Father. We have set A strange god up, but Thou remainest yet. All that I feel of pity Thou hast known Before I was; my best is all Thy own. From Thy great heart of goodness mine but drew Wishes and prayers; but Thou, O Lord, wilt do, In Thy own time, by ways I cannot see, All that I feel when I am nearest Thee!”
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/In the Evil Days

IN THE EVIL DAYS
This and the four following poems have special reference to that darkest hour in the aggression of slavery which preceded the dawn of a better day, when the conscience of the people was roused to action. [Originally entitled Stanzas for the Times, 1850.]
The evil days have come, the poor Are made a prey; Bar up the hospitable door, Put out the fire-lights, point no more The wanderer’s way.
For Pity now is crime; the chain Which binds our States Is melted at her hearth in twain, Is rusted by her tears’ soft rain: Close up her gates.
Our Union, like a glacier stirred By voice below, Or bell of kine, or wing of bird, A beggar’s crust, a kindly word May overthrow!
Poor, whispering tremblers! yet we boast Our blood and name; Bursting its century-bolted frost, Each gray cairn on the Northman’s coast Cries out for shame!
Oh for the open firmament, The prairie free, The desert hillside, cavern-rent, The Pawnee’s lodge, the Arab’s tent, The Bushman’s tree!
Than web of Persian loom most rare, Or soft divan, Better the rough rock, bleak and bare, Or hollow tree, which man may share With suffering man.
I hear a voice: “Thus saith the Law, Let Love be dumb; Clasping her liberal hands in awe, Let sweet-lipped Charity withdraw From hearth and home.”
I hear another voice: “The poor Are thine to feed; Turn not the outcast from thy door, Nor give to bonds and wrong once more Whom God hath freed.”
Dear Lord! between that law and Thee No choice remains; Yet not untrue to man’s decree, Though spurning its rewards, is he Who bears its pains.
Not mine Sedition’s trumpet-blast And threatening word; I read the lesson of the Past, That firm endurance wins at last More than the sword.
O clear-eyed Faith, and Patience thou So calm and strong! Lend strength to weakness, teach us how The sleepless eyes of God look through This night of wrong!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Hymn of the Dunkers

HYMN OF THE DUNKERS
KLOSTER KEDAR, EPHRATA, PENNSYLVANIA (1738)
Sister Maria Christina sings.
Wake, sisters, wake! the day-star shines; Above Ephrata’s eastern pines The dawn is breaking, cool and calm. Wake, sisters, wake to prayer and psalm!
Praised be the Lord for shade and light, For toil by day, for rest by night! Praised be His name who deigns to bless Our Kedar of the wilderness!
Our refuge when the spoiler’s hand Was heavy on our native land; And freedom, to her children due, The wolf and vulture only knew.
We praised Him when to prison led, We owned Him when the stake blazed red; We knew, whatever might befall, His love and power were over all.
He heard our prayers; with outstretched arm He led us forth from cruel harm; Still, wheresoe’er our steps were bent, His cloud and fire before us went!
The watch of faith and prayer He set, We kept it then, we keep it yet. At midnight, crow of cock, or noon, He cometh sure, He cometh soon.
He comes to chasten, not destroy, To purge the earth from sin’s alloy. At last, at last shall all confess His mercy as His righteousness.
The dead shall live, the sick be whole, The scarlet sin be white as wool; No discord mar below, above, The music of eternal love!
Sound, welcome trump, the last alarm! Lord God of hosts, make bare thine arm, Fulfil this day our long desire, Make sweet and clean the world with fire!
Sweep, flaming besom, sweep from sight The lies of time; be swift to smite, Sharp sword of God, all idols down, Genevan creed and Roman crown.
Quake, earth, through all thy zones, till all The fanes of pride and priestcraft fall And lift thou up in place of them Thy gates of pearl, Jerusalem.
Lo! rising from baptismal flame, Transfigured, glorious, yet the same, Within the heavenly city’s bound Our Kloster Kedar shall be found.
He cometh soon! at dawn or noon Or set of sun, He cometh soon. Our prayers shall meet Him on His way; Wake, sisters, wake! arise and pray!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Hymn sung at Christmas by the Scholars of St. Helena's Island, S. C.

HYMN
SUNG AT CHRISTMAS BY THE SCHOLARS OF ST. HELENA’S ISLAND, S. C.
[Written at the request of the teacher, Miss Charlotte Forten, now Mrs. Grimké.]
Oh, none in all the world before Were ever glad as we! We ’re free on Carolina’s shore, We ’re all at home and free.
Thou Friend and Helper of the poor, Who suffered for our sake, To open every prison door, And every yoke to break!
Bend low Thy pitying face and mild, And help us sing and pray; The hand that blessed the little child, Upon our foreheads lay.
We hear no more the driver’s horn, No more the whip we fear, This holy day that saw Thee born Was never half so dear.
The very oaks are greener clad, The waters brighter smile; Oh, never shone a day so glad On sweet St. Helen’s Isle.
We praise Thee in our songs to-day, To Thee in prayer we call, Make swift the feet and straight the way Of freedom unto all.
Come once again, O blessed Lord! Come walking on the sea! And let the mainlands hear the word That sets the island free!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Hymns of the Brahmo Somaj

HYMNS OF THE BRAHMO SOMAJ
I have attempted this paraphrase of the Hymns of the Brahmo Somaj of India, as I find them in Mozoomdar’s account of the devotional exercises of that remarkable religious development which has attracted far less attention and sympathy from the Christian world than it deserves, as a fresh revelation of the direct action of the Divine Spirit upon the human heart.
I
The mercy, O Eternal One! By man unmeasured yet, In joy or grief, in shade or sun, I never will forget. I give the whole, and not a part, Of all Thou gavest me; My goods, my life, my soul and heart, I yield them all to Thee!
II
We fast and plead, we weep and pray, From morning until even; We feel to find the holy way, We knock at the gate of heaven! And when in silent awe we wait, And word and sign forbear, The hinges of the golden gate Move, soundless, to our prayer! Who hears the eternal harmonies Can heed no outward word; Blind to all else is he who sees The vision of the Lord!
III
O soul, be patient, restrain thy tears, Have hope, and not despair; As a tender mother heareth her child God hears the penitent prayer. And not forever shall grief be thine; On the Heavenly Mother’s breast, Washed clean and white in waters of joy Shall His seeking child find rest. Console thyself with His word of grace, And cease thy wail of woe, For His mercy never an equal hath, And His love no bounds can know. Lean close unto Him in faith and hope; How many like thee have found In Him a shelter and home of peace, By His mercy compassed round! There, safe from sin and the sorrow it brings, They sing their grateful psalms, And rest, at noon, by the wells of God, In the shade of His holy palms!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/In School-Days

IN SCHOOL-DAYS
Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sleeping; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry-vines are creeping.
Within, the master’s desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife’s carved initial;
The charcoal frescos on its wall; Its door’s worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing!
Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves’ icy fretting.
It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving.
For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled: His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled.
Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered;— As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered.
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand’s light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing.
“I ’m sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you,
Because,”—the brown eyes lower fell,— “Because, you see, I love you!”
Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing!
He lives to learn, in life’s hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her,—because they love him.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Ichabod

ICHABOD
This poem was the outcome of the surprise and grief and forecast of evil consequences which I felt on reading the seventh of March speech of Daniel Webster in subject of the “compromise,” and the Fugitive Slave Law. No partisan or personal enmity dictated it. On the contrary my admiration of the splendid personality and intellectual power of the great Senator was never stronger than when I laid down his speech, and, in one of the saddest moments of my life, penned my protest. I saw, as I wrote, with painful clearness its sure results,—the Slave Power arrogant and defiant, strengthened and encouraged to carry out its scheme for the extension of its baleful system, or the dissolution of the Union, the guaranties of personal liberty in the free States broken down, and the whole country made the hunting-ground of slave-catchers. In the horror of such a vision, so soon fearfully fulfilled, if one spoke at all, he could only speak in tones of stern and sorrowful rebuke.
But death softens all resentments, and the consciousness of a common inheritance of frailty and weakness modifies the severity of judgment. Years after, in The Lost Occasion, I gave utterance to an almost universal regret that the great statesman did not live to see the flag which he loved trampled under the feet of Slavery, and, in view of this desecration, make his last days glorious in defence of “Liberty and Union, one and inseparable.”
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore!
Revile him not, the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall!
Oh, dumb be passion’s stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven!
Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow.
But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make.
Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains;
A fallen angel’s pride of thought, Still strong in chains.
All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead!
Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Hymn ("O Thou, whose presence went before")

HYMN
Written for the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, at Chatham Street Chapel, New York, held on the 4th of the seventh month, 1834. [Originally entitled Lines.]
O Thou, whose presence went before Our fathers in their weary way, As with Thy chosen moved of yore The fire by night, the cloud by day!
When from each temple of the free, A nation’s song ascends to Heaven, Most Holy Father! unto Thee May not our humble prayer be given?
Thy children all, though hue and form Are varied in Thine own good will, With Thy own holy breathings warm, And fashioned in Thine image still.
We thank Thee, Father! hill and plain Around us wave their fruits once more, And clustered vine and blossomed grain Are bending round each cottage door.
And peace is here; and hope and love Are round us as a mantle thrown, And unto Thee, supreme above, The knee of prayer is bowed alone.
But oh, for those this day can bring, As unto us, no joyful thrill; For those who, under Freedom’s wing, Are bound in Slavery’s fetters still:
For those to whom Thy written word Of light and love is never given; For those whose ears have never heard The promise and the hope of heaven!
For broken heart, and clouded mind, Whereon no human mercies fall; Oh, be Thy gracious love inclined, Who, as a Father, pitiest all!
And grant, O Father! that the time Of Earth’s deliverance may be near, When every land and tongue and clime The message of Thy love shall hear;
When, smitten as with fire from heaven, The captive’s chain shall sink in dust, And to his fettered soul be given The glorious freedom of the just!