OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Royal Naval Biography/Raggett, Richard

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RICHARD RAGGETT, Esq [Post-Captain of 1798.]
This officer was made a Lieutenant, Dec. 15, 1778; and obtained the rank of Commander about 1793. From this period he commanded the Pluto and Dart sloops of war, on the Newfoundland, and North Sea stations, until posted, April 21, 1799. The latter vessel formed part of Sir Home Popham’s squadron at Ostend, in May 1798. At the close of the war in 1801, we find him serving as Flag-Captain to Vice-Admiral Sir Henry Harvey, in the Royal Sovereign, a first rate.
Early in 1805, Captain Raggett was appointed to the Leopard 50, bearing the flag of the late Admiral Billy Douglas, on the Downs station. In 1807, he commanded the Africaine frigate, and conveyed Lieutenant-General Lord Cathcart from England to Swedish Pomerania, at that period invaded by a French army, and defended by the Swedish Monarch in person. On the arrival of Admiral Gambier in the ​Sound, with a fleet destined to attack Copenhagen, he proceeded with the same nobleman to join the expedition; and after the surrender of the Danish navy, had the charge of fitting out one of the captured frigates, which was conducted safely to the river Medway, by part of the Africaine’s crew. Towards the close of the same year, he accompanied a small armament under Sir Samuel Hood, sent to obtain possession of Madeira; the garrison of which island surrendered without resistance on the 26th Dec. He has since commanded the Defiance, Conqueror, Spencer, and Albion, third rates. The latter ship was put out of commission, May 31, 1822.
Agent.– J. Hinxman, Esq.
* ↑ See Vol. I. note at p. 713, et seq.
* ↑ Gustavus, King of Sweden, after a most heroic defence, was obliged to evacuate Stralsund and retire to the island of Rugenj from whence he proceeded to Carlscrona in a Swedish ship of war, accompanied by the British sloop Rosamond, commanded by the present Captain J. W. Deans Dundas, who had been for some time stationed in Pert Bay, for the purpose of receiving his Majesty, in the event of his being obliged to abandon the capital of Pomerania.
# Royal Naval Biography/Ramsay, Robert

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ROBERT RAMSAY, Esq. A Companion of the Most Honorable Military Order of the Bath. [Post-Captain of 1815.]
Obtained the rank of Lieutenant, Jan, 8, 1799; was made Commander, Feb. 1, 1812; and appointed to the Regulus 44, armed en flûte, Oct. 29, 1813. The principal services in which he was afterwards engaged have been fully detailed at pp. 9–18. His post commission bears date June 13, 1815.
Agents.– Messrs. Barnett and King.
# Royal Naval Biography/Ramsden, Frank

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FRANK RAMSDEN, Esq. [Commander.]
Passed his examination in Feb. 1816; obtained his first commission on the 7th Nov. 1818; subsequently served as lieutenant of the Prince Regent 120, bearing the flag of Sir Benjamin Hallowell in the river Medway; and was promoted to his present rank on the 15th Dec. 1826.
# Royal Naval Biography/Ramsden, William

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WILLIAM RAMSDEN, Esq. [Post-Captain of 1822.]
Second son of Sir John Ramsden, Bart, by the Hon. Louisa Ingram, daughter of the last Viscount Irwin (which title became extinct in 1782), and sister to the Dowager Marchioness of Hertford.
This officer was made lieutenant, Dec. 30, 1808; promoted to the command of the Ferret brig, June 14, 1813 ; appointed to the Scout 18, fitting for the Mediterranean station, April 29, 1818; and posted Dec. 26, 1822.
# Samuel Johnson (Meynell & Chesterton)/Chapter 14b

Prologue, spoken by Mr. Garrick, at the opening of the Theatre-Royal, Drury Lane, 1747
When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose; Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting Time toil'd after him in vain. His powerful strokes presiding Truth impress'd, And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast. Then Jonson came, instructed from the school, To please in method, and invent by rule; His studious patience and laborious art By regular approach assail'd the heart: Cold approbation gave the lingering bays, For those, who durst not censure, scarce could praise. A mortal born, he met the general doom, But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb. The Wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's flame; Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ;
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit; Vice always found a sympathetic friend; They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend. Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise, And proudly hoped to pimp in future days. Their cause was general, their supports were strong, Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long: Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense betray'd, And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid. Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refined, For years the power of Tragedy declined; From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, Till Declamation roar'd, while Passion slept; Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread; Philosophy remain'd though Nature fled; But forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit, She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit; Exulting Folly hail'd the joyful day, And Pantomime and Song confirmed her sway. But who the coming changes can presage, And mark the future periods of the Stage? Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore,
New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store; Perhaps, where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died, On flying cars new sorcerers may ride; Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance?) Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance. Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune placed, Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste; With every meteor of caprice must play, And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. Ah! let not Censure term our fate our choice; The stage but echoes back the public voice; The drama's laws the drama's patrons give, For we, that live to please, must please, to live. Then prompt no more the follies you decry, As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die; 'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence Of rescued Nature and reviving Sense; To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp of Show, For useful Mirth, and salutary Wo; Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age, And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.
# Samuel Johnson (Meynell & Chesterton)/Chapter 14c

Ye patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame, Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name,
Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering rhymes, Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times, Immortal patrons of succeeding days, Attend this prelude of perpetual praise; Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage With close malevolence, or public rage, Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore, Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall tell That never Briton can in vain excel; The slighted arts futurity shall trust, And rising ages hasten to be just. At length our mighty bard's victorious lays Fill the loud voice of universal praise; And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb, Yields to renown the centuries to come: With ardent haste each candidate of fame,
Ambitious, catches at his towering name; He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below, While crowds aloft the laureat bust behold, Or trace his form on circulating gold. Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay, And want hung threatening o'er her slow decay. What though she shine with no Miltonian fire, No favouring Muse her morning dreams inspire; Yet softer claims the melting heart engage, Her youth laborious, and her blameless age; Hers the mild merits of domestic life, The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife. Thus graced with humble virtue's native charms, Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms; Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell, While tutelary nations guard her cell. Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave! 'Tis yours to crown desert, beyond the grave.
# Samuel Johnson (Meynell & Chesterton)/Chapter 14h

Robert Levett
Condemn'd to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blast or slow decline Our social comforts drop away.
Well try'd through many a varying year, See Levett to the grave descend; Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefin'd.
When fainting Nature call'd for aid, And hov'ring Death prepar'd the blow, His vigorous remedy display'd The power of art without the show.
In Misery's darkest caverns known, His ready help was ever nigh, Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely Want retir'd to die.
No summons mock'd by chill delay, No petty gains disdain'd by pride; The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supply'd.
His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found
His single talent well employ'd.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then, with no throbs of fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.
# Samuel Johnson (Meynell & Chesterton)/Chapter 14g

Friendship: An Ode
The noble mind's delight and pride,
To men and angels only given,
To all the lower world denied.
While love, unknown among the blest,
Parent of thousand wild desires,
The savage and the human breast
Torments alike with raging fires;
With bright, but oft destructive, gleam,
Alike o'er all, his lightnings fly;
Thy lambent glories only beam
Around the favourites of the sky.
Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys
On fools and villains ne'er descend;
In vain for thee the tyrant sighs,
And hugs a flatterer for a friend.
Directress of the brave and just,
O guide us through life's darksome way!
And let the tortures of mistrust
On selfish bosoms only prey.
Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow,
When souls to blissful climes remove:
What raised our virtue here below,
Shall aid our happiness above.
# Samuel Johnson (Meynell & Chesterton)/Chapter 14e

Prologue to the Comedy of A Word to the Wise, (by Hugh Kelly}. Spoken by Mr. Hull
This night presents a play which public rage, Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage. From zeal or malice, now no more we dread, For English vengeance wars not with the dead. A generous foe regards with pitying eye The man whom fate has laid where all must lie. To wit reviving from its author's dust, Be kind, ye judges, or at least be just, For no renew'd hostilities invade The oblivious grave's inviolable shade. Let one great payment every claim appease, And him, who cannot hurt, allow to please; To please by scenes unconscious of offence, By harmless merriment or useful sense. Where aught of bright, or fair, the piece displays, Approve it only; 'tis too late to praise. If want of skill, or want of care appear, Forbear to hiss; the poet cannot hear. By all, like him, must praise and blame be found At best a fleeting gleam, or empty sound. Yet then shall calm reflection bless the night When liberal pity dignify'd delight; When pleasure fired her torch at Virtue's flame, And Mirth was Bounty with an humbler name.
# Samuel Johnson (Meynell & Chesterton)/Chapter 14d

Prologue to the Comedy of The Good-Natured Man, 1769
Prest by the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the general toil of human kind, With cool submission joins the labouring train, And social sorrow loses half its pain: Our anxious bard without complaint may share This bustling season's epidemic care; Like Caesar's pilot dignified by Fate, Tost in one common storm with all the great; Distrest alike the statesman and the wit, When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit. The busy candidates for power and fame Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same; Disabled both to combat or to fly, Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage, As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, For that blest year when all that vote may rail; Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss.
"This day the powder'd curls and golden coat, Says swelling Crispin, "begg'd a cobbler's vote." "This night our Wit," the pert apprentice cries, "Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing tribe; The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were sold, He feels no want of ill-persuading gold; But, confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts without fear to merit and to you.
# Samuel Johnson (Meynell & Chesterton)/Chapter 14f

From Irene
Borne down with years, still doat upon to-morrow?
That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,
The coward, and the fool, condemn'd to lose
A useless life in waiting for to-morrow,
To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow,
Till interposing death destroys the prospect!
Strange! that this general fraud from day to day
Should fill the world with wretches undetected.
The soldier, labouring through a winter's march,
Still sees to-morrow drest in robes of triumph;
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms
To-morrow brings the visionary bride.
But thou, too old to bear another cheat,
Learn, that the present hour alone is man's.
# Samuel Johnson (Meynell & Chesterton)/Chapter 16

ICONOGRAPHY
Before 1752. Engraving by Finden from miniature. Reproduced in Mr. Roger Ingpen's edition of Boswell's Life of Johnson, 1907.
1756. Painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Reproduced in G. B. Hill's edition of Boswell's Life; Mr. A. Birrell's edition of same, 1901; Mr. Ingpen's edition, and elsewhere.
1770. Mezzotint by Zöbel after Reynolds. Reproduced in Mr. Birrell's and Mr. Ingpen's editions of the Life by Boswell.
1773. Painting by Reynolds (in the National Gallery). Reproduced in Hill's edition of the Life, and in numerous other places.
—— Etching by Mrs. Turner after drawing by Ozias Humphrey, R.A. Reproduced in Mr. Ingpen's edition of the Life.
1781. Portrait by Barry, engraved by Finden. Reproduced in Napier's edition of the Life, 1884, and elsewhere. Now in National Portrait Gallery.
1782. Drawing by Trotter. Reproduced in Beauties of Johnson (Kearsley's edition) as frontispiece.
1783. Miniature by Miss Frances Reynolds. Reproduced in Mr. Ingpen's edition of Life, 1907.
1784. Portrait by James Roberts, said to be the last portrait of Johnson. Reproduced in Mr. Ingpen's edition of Life, 1907.
—— Portrait by Opie. Reproduced in Biographical Magazine, 1794, and elsewhere.
—— Drawing by Bosland, engraved by Finden. ​formerly known as "belonging to Archdeacon Cambridge." Reproduced in Napier's edition of the Life, 1884, and elsewhere.
1784. Caricature by Rowlandson. Reproduced in Mr. Ingpen's edition of Life, 1907.
—— Painting by James Doyle, "The Literary Party." Reproduced in Eclectic Magazine, 1849; Mr. Ingpen's edition of Life, and elsewhere.
—— Bust by Nollekens, R.A. Reproduced in Mr. Birrell's edition of Life; Mr. Ingpen's edition of same, and elsewhere.
—— Drawing by P. S. Lamborn. Reproduced in Mr. Ingpen's edition of Life.
—— Drawing by Luggan. Reproduced in Mr. Ingpen's edition of Life.
—— Portrait by James Northcote, engraved by Finden. Reproduced in Mr. Ingpen's edition of Life.
—— Drawing by Trotter of Johnson in his Hebridean dress. Reproduced in Mr. Ingpen's edition of Life.
—— Death Mask. Reproduced in Harper's Magazine, 1893, and elsewhere.
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/The White Comrade

THE WHITE COMRADE
(After W. H. Latham's The Comrade in White)
UNDER our curtain of fire, Over the clotted clods, We charged, to be withered, to reel And despairingly wheel When the bugles bade us retire From the terrible odds.
As we ebbed with the battle-tide, Fingers of red-hot steel Suddenly closed on my side. I fell, and began to pray. ​I crawled on my hands and lay Where a shallow crater yawned wide; Then,—I swooned. . . .
When I woke, it was yet day. Fierce was the pain of my wound, But I saw it was death to stir, For fifty paces away Their trenches were. In torture I prayed for the dark And the stealthy step of my friend Who, staunch to the very end, Would creep to the danger zone And offer his life as a mark To save my own.
Night fell. I heard his tread, Not stealthy, but firm and serene, As if my comrade's head Were lifted far from that scene Of passion and pain and dread; As if my comrade's heart In carnage took no part; As if my comrade's feet Were set on some radiant street Such as no darkness might haunt; As if my comrade's eyes No deluge of flame could surprise, No death and destruction daunt, No red-beaked bird dismay, Nor sight of decay.
Then in the bursting shells' dim light I saw he was clad in white. For a moment I thought that I saw the smock Of a shepherd in search of his flock. Alert were the enemy, too, And their bullets flew Straight at a mark no bullet could fail; For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; But he did not flee nor quail. ​Instead, with unhurrying stride He came, And gathering my tall frame, Like a child, in his arms. . . .
Again I swooned, And awoke From a blissful dream In a cave by a stream. My silent comrade had bound my side. No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke,— A mastering wish to serve this man Who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke As only the truest of comrades can. I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him, And urgently prayed him Never to leave me, whatever betide; When I saw he was hurt— Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer! Then as the dark drops gathered there And fell in the dirt, The wounds of my friend Seemed to me such as no man might bear. Those bullet-holes in the patient hands Seemed to transcend All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands Had known or would know till the mad world's end.
Then suddenly I was aware That his feet had been wounded, too; And, dimming the white of his side, A dull stain grew. "You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried. His words I already foreknew: "These are old wounds," said he, "But of late they have troubled me."
Robert Haven Schauffler
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/The Wife of Flanders

THE WIFE OF FLANDERS
LOW and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, Where I had seven sons until to-day, A little hill of hay your spur has scattered. . . . This is not Paris. You have lost the way.
You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, Surprised at the surprise that was your plan, Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little, Find never more the death-door of Sedan—
Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, Paying you a penny for each son you slay? Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment For what you have lost. And how shall I repay?
What is the price of that red spark that caught me From a kind farm that never had a name? What is the price of that dead man they brought me? For other dead men do not look the same.
How should I pay for one poor graven steeple Whereon you shattered what you shall not know? How should I pay you, miserable people? How should I pay you everything you owe?
Unhappy, can I give you back your honour? Though I forgave, would any man forget? While all the great green land has trampled on her The treason and terror of the night we met.
​Not any more in vengeance or in pardon An old wife bargains for a bean that's hers. You have no word to break: no heart to harden. Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Thomas of the Light Heart

THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART
[Reprinted by permission of the Proprietors of Punch.]
FACING the guns, he jokes as well As any judge upon the Bench; Between the crash of shell and shell His laughter rings along the trench; He seems immensely tickled by a Projectile which he calls a "Black Maria."
He whistles down the day-long road, And, when the chilly shadows fall And heavier hangs the weary load, Is he down-hearted? Not at all. 'Tis then he takes a light and airy View of the tedious route to Tipperary.
His songs are not exactly hymns; He never learned them in the choir; And yet they brace his dragging limbs Although they miss the sacred fire; Although his choice and cherished gems Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames."
He takes to fighting as a game; He does no talking, through his hat, Of holy missions; all the same He has his faith—be sure of that; He'll not disgrace his sporting breed, Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.
Owen Seaman
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/The War Cry of the Eagles

THE WAR CRY OF THE EAGLES
I
TECUMSEH of the Shawnees He dreamed a noble dream,— A league to hold their freedom old And make their peace supreme. He drew the tribes together And bound them to maintain Their sacred pact to stand and act For common good and gain.
II
The eagles taught Tecumseh The secret of their clan,— A way to keep o'er plain and steep The liberty of Man. The champions of freedom They may not weary soon, Nor lay aside in foolish pride The vigilance of noon.
Those teachers of Tecumseh Were up to meet the dawn, To scan the light and hold the height Till the last light was gone. Like specks upon the azure, Their guards patrolled the sky, To mount and plain and soar again And give the warning cry.
They watched for lurking perils, The death that skulks and crawls, To take by stealth their only wealth On wind-swept mountain walls. They did not trust the shadows That sleep upon the hill; Where menace hid, where cunning slid, They struck—and struck to kill.
​Through lonely space unmeasured They laid their sentry rings, Till every brood in eyrie rude Was shadowed by their wings. Tecumseh watched the eagles In summer o'er the plain, And learned their cry, "If freedom die, Ye will have lived in vain."
III
The vision of Tecumseh, It could not long endure; He lacked the might to back the right And make his purpose sure. Tecumseh and his people Are gone; they could not hold Their league for good; their brotherhood Is but a tale that's told.
IV
The eagles of Tecumseh Still hold their lofty flight, And guard their own on outposts lone, Across the fields of light. They hold their valiant instinct And know their right of birth, They do not cede their pride of breed For things of little worth.
They see on earth below them, Where time is but a breath, Another race brought face to face With liberty or death. Above a thousand cities A new day is unfurled, And still on high those watchers cry Their challenge o'er the world.
​Where patriots are marching And battle flags are borne, To South and North their cry goes forth To rally and to warn. From border unto border, They wheel and cry again That master cry, "If freedom die, Ye will have lived in vain!"
Bliss Carman.
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Three Hills

THREE HILLS
THERE is a hill in England, Green fields and a school I know, Where the balls fly fast in summer, And the whispering elm-trees grow, A little hill, a dear hill, And the playing fields below.
There is a hill in Flanders, Heaped with a thousand slain, Where the shells fly night and noontide And the ghosts that died in vain,— A little hill, a hard hill To the souls that died in pain.
There is a hill in Jewry, Three crosses pierce the sky, On the midmost He is dying To save all those who die,— A little hill, a kind hill To souls in jeopardy.
Everard Owen
Harrow, December, 1915.