OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The poetical works of Matthew Arnold/Lines written in Kensington Gardens

LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS.
In this lone, open glade I lie, Screened by deep boughs on either hand; And at its end, to stay the eye, Those black-crowned, red-boled pine-trees stand.
Birds here make song, each bird has his, Across the girdling city's hum. How green under the boughs it is! How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!
​Sometimes a child will cross the glade To take his nurse his broken toy; Sometimes a thrush flit overhead Deep in her unknown day's employ.
Here at my feet what wonders pass! What endless, active life is here! What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! An air-stirred forest, fresh and clear.
Scarce fresher is the mountain sod Where the tired angler lies, stretched out, And, eased of basket and of rod, Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout.
In the huge world which roars hard by, Be others happy if they can! But in my helpless cradle I Was breathed on by the rural Pan.
I, on men's impious uproar hurled, Think often, as I hear them rave, That peace has left the upper world, And now keeps only in the grave.
Yet here is peace forever new! When I who watch them am away, Still all things in this glade go through The changes of their quiet day.
Then to their happy rest they pass; The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, The night comes down upon the grass, The child sleeps warmly in his bed.
Calm soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and cannot mar.
​The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel with others, give! Calm, calm me more! nor let me die Before I have begun to live.
# The poetical works of Matthew Arnold/Memorial Verses

MEMORIAL VERSES.
APRIL, 1850.
Goethe in Weimar sleeps; and Greece, Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. But one such death remained to come: The last poetic voice is dumb,— We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb.
​When Byron's eyes were shut in death, We bowed our head, and held our breath. He taught us little, but our soul Had felt him like the thunder's roll. With shivering heart the strife we saw Of passion with eternal law; And yet with reverential awe We watched the fount of fiery life Which served for that Titanic strife.
When Goethe's death was told, we said,— Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. Physician of the iron age, Goethe has done his pilgrimage. He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear; And struck his finger on the place, And said, Thou ailest here, and here! He looked on Europe's dying hour Of fitful dream and feverish power; His eye plunged down the weltering strife, The turmoil of expiring life: He said, The end is everywhere, Art still has truth, take refuge there! And he was happy, if to know Causes of things, and far below His feet to see the lurid flow Of terror, and insane distress, And headlong fate, be happiness.
And Wordsworth! Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice! For never has such soothing voice Been to your shadowy world conveyed, Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade ​Heard the clear song of Orpheus come Through Hades and the mournful gloom. Wordsworth has gone from us; and ye, Ah, may ye feel his voice as we! He too upon a wintry clime Had fallen,—on this iron time Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. He found us when the age had bound Our souls in its benumbing round; He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. He laid us as we lay at birth On the cool flowery lap of earth: Smiles broke from us, and we had ease; The hills were round us, and the breeze Went o'er the sunlit fields again; Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. Our youth returned; for there was shed On spirits that had long been dead, Spirits dried up and closely furled, The freshness of the early world.
Ah! since dark days still bring to light Man's prudence and man's fiery might, Time may restore us in his course Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force; But where will Europe's latter hour Again find Wordsworth's healing power? Others will teach us how to dare, And against fear our breast to steel: Others will strengthen us to bear— But who, ah! who will make us feel? The cloud of mortal destiny, Others will front it fearlessly; But who, like him, will put it by? ​Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, O Rotha, with thy living wave! Sing him thy best! for few or none Hear thy voice right, now he is gone.
# The poetical works of Matthew Arnold/In Utrumque Paratus

IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS.
If, in the silent mind of One all-pure, At first imagined lay The sacred world; and by procession sure ​From those still deeps, in form and color drest, Seasons alternating, and night and day, The long-mused thought to north, south, east, and west, Took then its all-seen way;
Oh, waking on a world which thus-wise springs! Whether it needs thee count Betwixt thy waking and the birth of things Ages or hours—oh, waking on life's stream! By lonely pureness to the all-pure fount (Only by this thou canst) the colored dream Of life remount!
Thin, thin the pleasant human noises grow, And faint the city gleams; Rare the lone pastoral huts—marvel not thou! The solemn peaks but to the stars are known,— But to the stars, and the cold lunar beams; Alone the sun arises, and alone Spring the great streams.
But, if the wild unfathered mass no birth In divine seats hath known; In the blank, echoing solitude, if Earth, Rocking her obscure body to and fro, Ceases not from all time to heave and groan, Unfruitful oft, and at her happiest throe Forms, what she forms, alone;
Oh, seeming sole to awake, thy sun-bathed head Piercing the solemn cloud Round thy still dreaming brother-world outspread! O man, whom Earth, thy long-vexed mother, bare Not without joy,—so radiant, so endowed (Such happy issue crowned her painful care),— Be not too proud!
​Oh, when most self-exalted most alone, Chief dreamer, own thy dream! Thy brother-world stirs at thy feet unknown; Who hath a monarch's hath no brother's part— Yet doth thine inmost soul with yearning teem. Oh, what a spasm shakes the dreamer's heart! "I, too, but seem."
# The poetical works of Matthew Arnold/Kaiser Dead

KAISER DEAD.
April 6, 1887.
What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news Post-haste to Cobham calls the Muse, From where in Farringford she brews The ode sublime, Or with Pen-bryn's bold bard pursues A rival rhyme.
Kai's bracelet tail, Kai's busy feet, Were known to all the village-street. "What, poor Kai dead?" say all I meet; "A loss indeed!" O for the croon pathetic, sweet, Of Robin's reed!
Six years ago I brought him down, A baby dog, from London town; Round his small throat of black and brown A ribbon blue, And vouch'd by glorious renown A dachs-hound true.
His mother, most majestic dame, Of blood-unmix'd, from Potsdam came; And Kaiser's race we deem'd the same— No lineage higher. And so he bore the imperial name. But ah, his sire!
​Soon, soon the days conviction bring. The collie hair, the collie swing, The tail's indomitable ring, The eye's unrest— The case was clear; a mongrel thing Kai stood confest.
But all those virtues, which commend The humbler sort who serve and tend, Were thine in store, thou faithful friend. What sense, what cheer! To us, declining tow'rds our end, A mate how dear!
For Max, thy brother-dog, began To flag, and feel his narrowing span. And cold, besides, his blue blood ran, Since, 'gainst the classes, He heard, of late, the Grand Old Man Incite the masses.
Yes, Max and we grew slow and sad; But Kai, a tireless shepherd-lad, Teeming with plans, alert, and glad In work or play, Like sunshine went and came, and bade Live out the day!
Still, still I see the figure smart— Trophy in mouth, agog to start, Then, home return'd, once more depart; Or prest together Against thy mistress, loving heart, In winter weather.
​I see the tail, like bracelet twirl'd, In moments of disgrace uncurl'd, Then at a pardoning word re-furl'd, A conquering sign; Crying, "Come on, and range the world, And never pine."
Thine eye was bright, thy coat it shone; Thou hadst thine errands, off and on; In joy thy last morn flew; anon, A fit! All's over; And thou art gone where Geist hath gone. And Toss, and Rover.
Poor Max, with downcast, reverent head, Regards his brother's form outspread; Full well Max knows the friend is dead Whose cordial talk, And jokes in doggish language said, Beguiled his walk.
And Glory, stretch'd at Burwood gate, Thy passing by doth vainly wait; And jealous Jock, thy only hate, The chiel from Skye, Lets from his shaggy Highland pate Thy memory die.
Well, fetch his graven collar fine, And rub the steel, and make it shine, And leave it round thy neck to twine, Kai, in thy grave. There of thy master keep that sign, And this plain stave.
# The Visionists

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Extracted from the Smart Set magazine, 1905, pp. 1-50. A novella. A story of a pretty young anarchist, an assignment to assassinate, and a romance of sorts.
The Visionists
By Gelett Burgess
* Chapter I
* Chapter II
* Chapter III
* Chapter IV
* Chapter V
* Chapter VI
* Chapter VII
* Chapter VIII
* Chapter IX
* Chapter X
* Chapter XI
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 1951, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 72 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 Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/To a Lady that Forbade to Love before Company

TO A LADY THAT FORBADE TO LOVE BEFORE COMPANY
What! no more favours? Not a ribband more,
Not fan nor muff to hold as heretofore?
Must all the little blisses then be left,
And what was once love's gift become our theft?
May we not look ourselves into a trance,5 Teach our souls parley at our eyes, not glance,
Not touch the hand, not by soft wringing there
Whisper a love that only yes can hear?
Not free a sigh, a sigh that's there for you?
Dear, must I love you, and not love you too?10 Be wise, nice, fair; for sooner shall they trace
The feather'd choristers from place to place,
By prints they make in th' air, and sooner say
By what right line the last star made his way
That fled from heaven to earth, than guess to know15 How our loves first did spring, or how they grow.
Love is all spirit: fairies sooner may
Be taken tardy, when they night-tricks play,
Than we. We are too dull and lumpish rather:
Would they could find us both in bed together!20
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/To my Friend Will. Davenant, upon his other Poems

TO MY FRIEND WILL. DAVENANT, ON HIS OTHER POEMS
Thou hast redeem'd us, Will; and future times
Shall not account unto the age's crimes
Dearth of pure wit. Since the great lord of it,
Donne parted hence, no man has ever writ
So near him in 's own way: I would commend5 Particulars; but then, how should I end
Without a volume? Ev'ry line of thine
Would ask (to praise it right) twenty of mine.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/To my Lady E. C. at her Going out of England

TO MY LADY E. C. AT HER GOING OUT OF ENGLAND
I must confess, when I did part from you,
I could not force an artificial dew
Upon my cheeks, nor with a gilded phrase
Express how many hundred several ways
My heart was tortur'd, nor, with arms across,5 In discontented garbs set forth my loss:
Such loud expressions many times do come
From lightest hearts: great griefs are always dumb.
The shallow rivers roar, the deep are still;
Numbers of painted words may shew much skill:10 But little anguish and a cloudy face
Is oft put on, to serve both time and place:
The blazing wood may to the eye seem great;
But 'tis the fire rak'd up that has the heat,
And keeps it long. True sorrow's like to wine:15 That which is good does never need a sign.
My eyes were channels far too small to be
Conveyers of such floods of misery:
And so pray think; or if you'd entertain
A thought more charitable, suppose some strain20 Of sad repentance had, not long before,
Quite emptied for my sins that watery store:
So shall you him oblige that still will be
Your servant to his best ability.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/To the Most Honoured and Highly Deserving the Lady Southcot

TO THE
MOST HONOURED
AND HIGHLY DESERVING
THE
LADY SOUTHCOT
Though I approach with all humility in presenting these Poems to your ladyship, yet dare I not despair of their acceptation, since it were a kind of felony to offer them to any other. They come to you at so many capacities, that they seem rather to return and rebound back to you, as the famous Arcadia was sent to that excellent Lady, who was sister to that great author. Your ladyship best knows, that I now bring the last Remains of your incomparable brother, Sir John Suckling. And, as here are all the world must ever hope for, so here are nothing else but his, not a line but what at first flow'd from him, and will soon approve itself to be too much his to be alter'd or supplied by any other hand; and sure he were a bold man had thoughts to attempt it. After which 'twould be high presumption in me to say more, but that
I am
(Madam)
Your Ladyship's most obliged, and
Most obedient humble servant,
Hum: Moseley.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/To the Reader

Fragmenta Aurea.
A Collection of all
THE
Incomparable Peeces,
WRITTEN
By Sir JOHN SVCKLING.
And published by a Friend to perpetuate his memory.
Printed by his owne Copies.
LONDON, Printed for Humphrey Moseley, and are to be sold at his shop, at the Signe of the Prin- ces Armes in S$^t$ Pauls Churchyard.
MDCXLVI.
POEMS, &c.
Written by
Sir JOHN SUCKLING.
Printed by his owne Copy.
The Lyrick Poems were set in Musick by Mr. Henry Lawes, Gent. of the Kings Chappel, and one of His Maiesties Private Musick.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/To his much Honoured the Lord Lepington, upon his Translation of Malvezzi, his 'Romulus' and 'Tarquin'

TO HIS MUCH HONOURED THE LORD LEPINGTON, UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF MALVEZZI, HIS 'ROMULUS' AND 'TARQUIN'
It is so rare and new a thing to see
Ought that belongs to young nobility
In print, but their own clothes, that we must praise
You as we would do those first shew the ways
To arts or to new worlds. You have begun;5 Taught travell'd youth what 'tis it should have done:
For 't has indeed too strong a custom been
To carry out more wit than we bring in.
You have done otherwise, brought home, my lord,
The choicest things fam'd countries do afford:10 Malvezzi by your means is English grown,
And speaks our tongue as well now as his own.
Malvezzi, he whom 'tis as hard to praise
To merit, as to imitate his ways.
He does not show us Rome great suddenly,15 As if the empire were a tympany,
But gives it natural growth, tells how and why
The little body grew so large and high.
Describes each thing so lively, that we are
Concern'd ourselves before we are aware:20 And at the wars they and their neighbours wag'd,
Each man is present still, and still engag'd.
Like a good prospective he strangely brings
Things distant to us; and in these two kings
We see what made greatness. And what 't has been25 Made that greatness contemptible again.
And all this not tediously deriv'd,
But like to worlds in little maps contriv'd.
'Tis he that doth the Roman dame restore,
Makes Lucrece chaster for her being whore;30 Gives her a kind revenge for Tarquin's sin;
For ravish'd first, she ravisheth again.
She says such fine things after 't, that we must
In spite of virtue thank foul rape and lust,
Since 't was the cause no woman would have had,35 Though she's of Lucrece side, Tarquin less bad.
But stay; like one that thinks to bring his friend
A mile or two, and sees the journey's end,
I straggle on too far; long graces do
But keep good stomachs off, that would fall to.40
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/To his Rival

TO HIS RIVAL
Now we have taught our love to know
That it must creep where 't cannot go,
And be for once content to live,
Since here it cannot have to thrive;
It will not be amiss t' enquire5 What fuel should maintain this fire:
For fires do either flame too high,
Or, where they cannot flame they die.
First then (my half but better heart)
Know this must wholly be her part;10 (For thou and I, like clocks, are wound
Up to the height, and must move round):
She then, by still denying what
We fondly crave, shall such a rate
Set on each trifle, that a kiss15 Shall come to be the utmost bliss.
Where sparks and fire do meet with tinder,
Those sparks mere fire will still engender:
To make this good, no debt shall be
From service or fidelity;20 For she shall ever pay that score,
By only bidding us do more:
So (though she still a niggard be)
In gracing, where none's due, she's free.
The favours she shall cast on us,25 (Lest we should grow presumptuous)
Shall not with too much love be shown,
Nor yet the common way still done;
But ev'ry smile and little glance
Shall look half lent, and half by chance:30 The ribbon, fan, or muff that she
Would should be kept by thee or me,
Should not be giv'n before too many,
But neither thrown to 's, when there's any;
So that herself should doubtful be35 Whether 'twere fortune flung 't, or she.
She shall not like the thing we do
Sometimes, and yet shall like it too;
Nor any notice take at all
Of what, we gone, she would extol.40 Love she shall feed, but fear to nourish;
For, where fear is, love cannot flourish;
Yet live it must, nay must and shall,
While Desdemona is at all:
But, when she's gone, then love shall die,45 And in her grave buried lie.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Upon A. M.

UPON A. M.
Yield all, my love; bur be withal as coy
As if thou knew'st not how to sport and toy:
The fort resign'd with ease, men cowards prove
And lazy grow. Let me besiege my love;
Let me despair at least three times a day,5 And take repulses upon each essay:
If I but ask a kiss, straight blush as red
As if I tempted for thy maidenhead;
Contract thy smiles, if that they go too far,
And let thy frowns be such as threaten war:10 That face which nature sure never intended
Should e'er be marr'd, because 't could ne'er be mended.
Take no corruption from thy grandame Eve;
Rather want faith to save thee, than believe
Too soon; for credit me 'tis true,15 Men most of all enjoy when least they do.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/To my Friend Will. Davenant, upon his Poem of 'Madagascar'

TO MY FRIEND WILL. DAVENANT, UPON HIS POEM OF 'MADAGASCAR'
What mighty princes poets are! those things
The great ones stick at, and our very kings
Lay down, they venture on; and with great ease
Discover, conquer what and where they please.
Some phlegmatic sea-captain would have staid5 For money now, or victuals; not have weigh'd
Anchor without 'em; thou, Will, dost not stay
So much as for a wind, but go'st away,
Land'st, view'st the country; fight'st, put'st all to rout,
Before another could be putting out!10 And now the news in town is, Dav'nant's come
From Madagascar, fraught with laurel home:
And welcome, Will, for the first time; but prithee
In thy next voyage bring the gold too with thee.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Upon L. M. Weeping

UPON L. M. WEEPING
Whoever was the cause your tears were shed,
May these my curses light upon his head:
May he be first in love, and let it be
With a most known and black deformity,
Nay, far surpass all witches that have been,5 Since our first parents taught us how to sin!
Then let this hag be coy, and he run mad
For that which no man else would e'er have had;
And in this fit may he commit the thing
May him impenitent to th' gallows bring!10 Then might he for one tear his pardon have,
But want that single grief his life to save!
And being dead, may he at heaven venter,
But for the guilt of this one fact ne'er enter.
# Things Mother Used to Make

THINGS MOTHER USED TO MAKE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK·BOSTON·CHICAGO·DALLAS ATLANTA·SAN FRANCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., Limited LONDON·BOMBAY·CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. TORONTO
THINGS MOTHER USED TO MAKE
By
LYDIA MARIA GURNEY A COLLECTION OF OLD TIME RECIPES, SOME NEARLY ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD AND NEVER PUBLISHED BEFORE
New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1922 All rights reserved
Copyright, 1912, By THE SUBURBAN PRESS
Copyright, 1913, By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published December, 1913. Reprinted June, 1914. July, 1915.
# Things Mother Used to Make/Author’s Foreword

AUTHOR’S FOREWORD
Good food depends as largely upon the judgment of the cook, as upon the materials used. These recipes and Household Hints are written very plainly, for those who have had no experience, no practice and possibly have little judgment.
They are very simple, not expensive, and if followed closely, will ensure success. It is the hope of the writer of this book that the young and inexperienced housekeeper may find it a real help.
L. M. Gurney.
# Things Japanese/end matter

Layout 2
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
A Handbook of Colloquial Japanese, 1 Vol., crown 8vo., 3rd Edit.
A Practical Introduction to the Study of Japanese Writing (Moji no Shirube), 1 vol., 4to, 2nd edit. in the press.
Essay in Aid of a Grammar and Dictionary of the Luchuan Language. (Published as Supplement to Vol. XXIII of the "Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan.")
The Language, Mythology, and Geographical Nomenclature of Japan, Viewed in the Light of Aino Studies, 1 Vol. (Published as a "Memoir of the Literature College of the Imperial University of Japan.")
A Translation of the "Kojiki," or "Records of Ancient Matters," with Introduction and Commentary, 1 Vol. (Published as Supplement to Vol. X of the "Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan."
In Collaboration with W. B. Mason, Esq.
Murray's Handbook for Japan, 1 Vol., crown 8vo., 7th Edit.