OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Unheard-of Curiosities/10

That the Astrology of the Ancient Hebrewes, Ægyptians, and Arabians was not such, as it is delivered by Scaliger, Augustinus Riccius, Kunrath, Duret, and Vigenere.
the contents.
* The Holiest things are often mixt with Fables.
* The strange Fancies, and Falshoods of Duret, touching the Spirits of the Planets ; and touching the Astrologicall Cabale of the Jewes.
* The Fooleries of Carlo Fabri, in his assigning of the Angels, proper to the Seven Electors of the Empire.
* The Strange Doctrine of Riccius, and Kunrath, concerning the Planetary Zephirots.
* The Stars, the cause of the diversities in Religion, in the opinion of R. Chomer.
* The Nativity of our Saviour Jesus Christ, erected by Bechai, and Cardan.
* The Astrologicall Pictures, or Figures, at the Conjunctions of the Celestiall Signes, falsly attributed to the Ægyptians, and Arabians, what they were ; and by whom invented : against Scaliger.
# Unhappy lover, or, Ruined virgin/The answer

THE ANSWER.
CHarming, lovely, beauteous creature,
Cease to languish, grieve and pine,
He must have a savage nature,
that can slight such charms divine;
Although I did seem to be slighting,
It was thy constancy to try,
The only one I do adore,
And will for evermore,
With Sylvia alone I'll live and die.
Hear me ye hills and every valley,
Hear me renew my former vows:
May the Powers above forsake me,
When any other nymph I chuse,
O witness all ye heav'nly Pow'rs,
How I the lovely nymph adore?
I'll ne'er forget thee,
Nor ne'er neglect thee,
Constant I'll prove for evermore.
Ye Gods what mortal can forsake thee,
To admire another fair;
Thy fair beauteous charms are so lovely,
Few with Sylvia can compare: ​Swift I will fly to my treasure,
Heav'ns my Sylvia to restore,
None can her excel,
With her I will dwell,
Sylvia I ever must adore.
Charming Sylvia, cease to languish,
Oft the groves must witness be,
Falls of water have complained,
And their sound echo to me:
No longer shall she mourn and languish,
But in sweet wedlock's bonds be join'd,
the Lark and Philomel, All may rejoice and tell,
How I am blest with such charms divine.
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
# Unhappy lover, or, Ruined virgin/The cobler of Castle Bury

The COBLER of CASTLE BURY.
'TWAS in a village near Castle Bury,
a Cobler and his wife did dwell,
And for a time no two so merry,
their happiness no tongue can tell,
But mortal joys, alas ! are fleeting,
and little things oft cause much strife,
For going to a merry meeting,
the man got drunk and beat his wife.
Yet though he us'd her so unruly
then what did this good creature do!
Now mark my song, I'll tell you truly,
for other things she had in view. ​A jolly landlord and his tapster,
full oft had view'd her comely charms,
And with her beauty so enrapt, Sir,
that each one wish'd her in his arms.
Then she to wound her unkind deary,
to each her favours seem'd to give,
And all the folks in Castle Bury
Soon saw how jealous they did live.
Now topsy turvey, noise and riot,
and all the furniture was sold,
Nothing could make her Dickey easy,
until his wife did this unfold,
Dick, I so archly have contrived.
both with the man and master too,
Each of a purse of gold deprived
which now my dear I bring to you.
Now Dickey's heart it soon relented,
and love did in his bosom burn,
His former usage he repented,
so to his dame made this return.
No more, my dear, will I be jealous,
but ever be both kind and true,
I'll laugh at love pretending fellows,
and will rejoice with none but you.
Now Dick he whistles in his stall, Sir,
thumps his hammer, minds his end,
And use makes of his pegging awl, Sir,
pray what can mortal more pretend.
FINIS.
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
# Unhappy lover, or, Ruined virgin

THE
Unhappy Lover;
OR
RUINED VIRGIN.
To which are added,
Guardian Angels, with the Answer.
YOUNG ROSALIND.
The COBLER of CASTLE BURY.
Entered according to Order.
* The Unhappy Lover
* Guardian Angels
* The Answer
* Young Rosalind
* The Cobler of Castle Bury
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
# Unhappy lover, or, Ruined virgin/Young Rosalind

YOUNG ROSALIND.
LONG time I serv'd young Rosalind,
but when her pow'r she knew,
The little tyrant grew unkind,
and then my love withdrew.
Now reason all my bosom sway'd,
pride fortify'd my soul,
I swore when from the ambuscade,
the little wheedler stole.
I view'd her face, I paus'd a while,
I heard and was approv'd,
She bound me to her with a smile,
I kissed her and lov'd.
​While Strephon thus you teize me,
for to declare my heart:
It sure can be no treason,
if I the truth impart.
It was not your face so charming,
nor yet your shape and air,
It was your gen'rous nature,
that did my heart ensnare.
When Rosalind's face commands,
how vain the essays of man?
She frowns, we break love's silken bands,
she smiles, we love again.
But yet ye fair be not inclin'd,
like her your power to prove;
Few nymphs can charm like Rosalind,
few swains like me can love.
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
# Unheard-of Curiosities

Concerning the Talismanical Sculpture of the Persians, the Horoscope of the Patriarkes, and the Reading of the stars.
* Translator's dedication
* Author's dedication
* Additions, and Advertisement
* Table of contents
* Errata
* Tables of the Celestiall Constellations, expressed by Hebrew Characters
* Wherein the Jewes, and other Eastern men are defended.
* Of the Talismanical Sculpture of the Persians; or the manner of making Figures, and Images, under certain Constellations.
* Of the Horoscope of the Patriarchs : or the Astrology of the Ancient Hebrews.
* Of the Reading of the Stars, and what ever else is seen in the Aire.
# Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Coronet of Peacock's Plumes

THE CORONET OF PEACOCK’S PLUMES;
MORVYTH’S PRESENT TO THE BARD.
One glorious morn, beneath the grove, To Morvyth many a lay I wove:— “Maid of my heart, O twine,” I said, “One rural garland for my head; One verdant manacle, to be This hour of rapture’s memory!” “Dear bard, ’twere cruelty to tear Yon lonely birch’s glossy hair— Yon anchorite chain’d the cliff along— I’ll pay with nobler gift thy song.”
My lady’s hand my locks has set With varied pinnacles of gold— A proud immortal coronet, Glean’d from the peacock’s sunny fold! To join those plumes with magic band, Were work befitting monarch’s hand— Those gems of air—those floating flow’rs— Those lamps to light my bardic hours— Those tiny palaces o’erspread With eyes—as of the mighty dead! Ne’er shall the poet’s forehead lose The mirror of their living hues. All things of loveliness have met, In this my Morvyth’s coronet!
A head-dress made of flowers, foliage, or the plumage of birds, seems to have been a common love-token. In another ode we find the poet thanking his mistress for a hat made of birchen branches. The poem, though not worthy of translation, contains some fine ideas, which I have extracted.
Coronet for summer skies, I will keep thy green array, Though in fear my footstep flies. Fragment of the robes of May! Charm that freest love from care, Tent above the forehead fair; Dawn of rare affection’s art; Beauteous symbol of the heart; Girdle for the dresses wove From the white locks of the grove.
# Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Echo Rock

THE ECHO ROCK.
The bard accuses the echo of having prevented him from meeting Morvyth.
Yon old bald rock and rugged stones, That peer and totter o’er the dell, And murmur forth unearthly tones Like some base witch that casts a spell, Babble more wildly after rain Than seven-locked Merddin the insane! As that loquacious summit near I watched for Morvyth to appear, By those delusive tones betrayed, Our footsteps far asunder strayed; Like old Hu Gadarn’s oxen twain, I called to her—and she to me— But still, with wicked mimickry, That traitor answered us again; And to the softest tones I sighed, He still perfidiously replied: And thus we failed, “my golden glaive,” To meet beside the mountain cave.
O lady, of thy voice beware! In yonder rocky citadels A profligate pretender dwells, Who fabricates thy accents there. Yon bellowing crag with trumpet’s voice, Bare as the ramparts of the sky, Hob-goblins in its depths rejoice, Or dogs amid its caldrons cry. Its tones are like the scream of pain Of gander, by the nightmare slain, Or the hoarse wailing of a hound Within a stony vessel bound, Or hag that strives with hollow sound To terrify the country round,— Disastrous voice, perfidious guide, That kept me from my lady’s side!
* ↑ ‘Merddin Wyllt,’ or ‘Merddin of the seven locks,’ an ancient Welsh poet who was at times affected with madness in consequence of having killed his nephew.
* ↑ This is an allusion to an old Welsh mythological story, that a personage of the name of Hu Gadarn caused a deluge to subside by dragging a beaver out of the waters with two ‘hump-backed’ oxen.
# Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Grove of Broom

THE GROVE OF BROOM.
The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in golden dress, No longer dares to give her plight To meet the bard at dawn or night! To the blythe moon he may not bear The maid, whose cheeks the daylight wear— She fears to answer to his call At midnight, underneath yon wall— Nor can he find a birchen bower To screen her in the morning hour; And thus the summer days are fleeting Away, without the lovers meeting! But stay! my eyes a bower behold, Where maid and poet yet may meet, Its branches are arrayed in gold, Its boughs the sight in winter greet With hues as bright, with leaves as green, As summer scatters o’er the scene. (To lure the maiden) from that brake, For her a vesture I will make, Bright as the ship of glass of yore, That Merddin o’er the ocean bore;
O’er Dyved’s hills there was a veil In ancient days—(so runs the tale); And such a canopy to me This court, among the woods, shall be; Where she, my heart adores, shall reign, The princess of the fair domain. To her, and to her poet’s eyes, This arbour seems a paradise; Its every branch is deftly strung With twigs and foliage lithe and young, And when May comes upon the trees To paint her verdant liveries, Gold on each thread-like sprig will glow, To honour her who reigns below. Green is that arbour to behold, And on its withes thick showers of gold! Joy to the poet and the maid, Whose paradise is yonder shade! Oh! flowers of noblest splendour, these Are summer’s frost-work on the trees! A field the lovers now possess, With saffron o’er its verdure roll’d, A house of passing loveliness, A fabric of Arabia’s gold— Bright golden tissue, glorious tent, Of him who rules the firmament, With roof of various colours blent!
An angel, mid the woods of May, Embroidered it with radiance gay— That gossamer with gold bedight— Those fires of God—those gems of light! ’Tis sweet those magic bowers to find, With the fair vineyards intertwined; Amid the woods their jewels rise, Like gleam of starlight o’er the skies— Like golden bullion, glorious prize! How sweet the flowers that deck that floor, In one unbroken glory blended— Those glittering branches hovering o’er— Veil by an angel’s hand extended. Oh! if my love will come, her bard Will, with his care, her footsteps guard, There, where no stranger dares to pry, Beneath yon Broom’s green canopy!
* ↑ ‘Bright as the ship of glass of yore, That Merddin o’er the ocean bore.’ ‘Merddin,’ or ‘Merlin,’ is said to have crossed the ocean in a magic ship made of glass.
* ↑ ‘O’er Dyved’s hills there was a veil In ancient days.’ This seems to refer to some obscure tradition.
# Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Cuckoo's Tale

THE CUCKOO’S TALE.
The cuckoo brings the tidings of Morvyth’s marriage with Hunchback. The bard describes himself as waiting, at the dawn of day, under a precipice for the arrival of Morvyth. Seeing the cuckoo, he thus addresses that bird.
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav’n is thy home; With the tidings of summer thy bright pinions roam— The summer that thickens with foliage the glade, And lures to the woodland the poet and maid. Sweet as ‘sack,’ gentle bird, is thy beautiful voice, In thy accents the lover must ever rejoice; Oh! tell me at once, in thy musical lay, Where tarries the girl whose behest I obey.
“Poor bard,” said the cuckoo, “what anguish and pain Hast thou stored for thyself! all thy cares are in vain! All hopes of the maid thou awaitest resign, She has wedded another, and ne’er can be thine.”
The poet angrily replies that this is impossible—that Morvyth was solemnly united to him in the presence of the bard, Madog Benfras, who united their hands under the branches of the forest; and abuses the cuckoo. The cuckoo retorts by repeating her story, and declaring that Morvyth is now the wife of Hunchback. The poem thus concludes.
“For the tale thou hast told”—to the cuckoo I cried, “For thus singing to me of my beautiful bride These strains of thy malice—may winter appear And dim the sun’s light—stay the summer’s career; With frost all the leaves of the forest boughs fill, And wither the woods with his desolate chill, And with cold in the midst of thy own forest spray, Take thy life and thy song, foolish cuckoo, away!”
# Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Gloves

THE GLOVES.
The poet thanks Ivor for a present of a pair of gloves, containing a gift of money. This poem was probably written on the same occasion as the preceding one, viz., the bard’s departure from North Wales.
All who Ivor’s palace leave, Gold from Ivor’s hand receive.
On the day the poet went From his halls—the baron sent Gloves, replete with precious store, (To the bard) of radiant ore; On the better hand bestowed Gold—the left with silver glowed: From his grasp these gloves to gain, Maidens oft have vied in vain; For the bard, to fair or friend, Ivor’s gift will never lend.
He extols these gloves made of “buck-skin,” as superior to gloves made of “sheep-skin,” and declares he will never trust them in the possession of others, but will keep them on his own fingers. He then proceeds to express his gratitude in a strain of considerable beauty.
May for this the glories all— That, at Taliesin’s call, Urien Rheged’s palace bless’d— On thy mansions ever rest; On thy hearth-stone and thy board, In thy halls—by bards ador’d— With illustrious children graced, Gallant youths and virgins chaste; Where, ’mid feasts and banquets gay, Nobles while their lives away; Where with constant radiance shine Ladies of distinguished line, In magnificent array— And where hawks, and steeds, and wine, Words of courtesy divine, And bright robes of gold combine, Ivor’s splendour to display.
He concludes by extolling his “gloves” above those worn by the “surly Saxon,”—the epithet with which he generally honours the English nation—and by reiterating the praises of his benefactor.
* ↑ It was the custom of those times to make presents of money in gloves. “When Sir John More was chancellor, in the time of Henry VIII., a Mrs. Croker, for whom he had made a decree against Lord Arundel, came to him to request his acceptance of a pair of gloves, in which were contained forty pounds in angels; he told her, with a smile, that it would be ill manners to refuse a lady’s present, but though he should keep the gloves, he must return the gold, which he enforced her to receive.—Life of Sir John More, by Sir James Mackintosh, in Lardner’s Cyclopædia.
* ↑ Taliesin addressed many of his poems to Urien Rheged, a prince of Cumberland, to whom he was bard.—Cambro Briton.
# Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Dream

THE DREAM.
The bard is visited by a terrific vision. He awakes, and deplores Morvyth’s marriage with Hunchback.
As yester eve I journey’d late, To shun the edged and naked blast, Amid the fern my limbs I cast, And as I lay it was my fate (The earth my couch, the grove my bower,) To fall asleep—I slept an hour. And there I saw a dream of fear: Sudden my place of slumber near A pallid flood appears to quiver, And rolling on to threat me seems With billows mighty as the streams That rise in Taf’s o’erflooded river; Like bulls, in fury and in might, The breakers seem intent to mite; Out from a hundred glens they speed; Then was I desolate indeed!
Into the billows rough and wild I fell, with many a frantic call— Hoar-headed billows steeply piled— Alas! it was a dreadful fall! And with the breakers fierce and strong I buffetted and struggled long; And oft I prayed to Christ to save And give me strength against the wave. But ceaseless struggles robbed at length My heart of hope, my limbs of strength; My breast the rocks of ocean tore, And ocean’s host of billows hoar. I saw the day-light disappear, And night with hideous gloom draw near; The wind with loud and wrathful shout Waged battle with the deluge stout. I rode upon the billow’s breast, Until at last, by waves oppressed, I sunk as evening closed around, And death amid the darkness found. At dawn awaking from the pain And terror that had racked my brain, With mournful heart I learned too well The meaning of that dream to spell. Long years a constant suit I’ve paid To Morvyth, the ungrateful maid.
Oh! I could read the vision well! Her kindred heartless hostile men, These are the floods that on me fell From every hill and hollow glen;
These are the waves I had to fight In that dread vision of the night! And still, fantastic fool! I tread Too deep, too deep, as in the dream; A weight of waters o’er my head, Still strive to swim against the stream! Again I’ll plunge—but not in sleep— For ever in Taf’s billows deep!
# Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Holly Grove

THE HOLLY GROVE.
Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed bower! In front of all the forest Thy coral-loaded branches tower.
Thou shrine of love, whose depth defies The axe—the tempest of the skies; Whose boughs in winter's frost display The brilliant livery of May! Grove from the precipice suspended, Like pillars of some holy fane; With notes amid thy branches blended, Like the deep organ’s solemn strain.
House of the birds of Paradise, Round fane impervious to the skies; On whose green roof two nights of rain May fiercely beat, and beat in vain! I know thy leaves are ever scathless; The hardened steel as soon will blight; When every grove and hill are pathless With frosts of winter’s lengthened night, No goat from Havren’s banks I ween, From thee a scanty meal may glean! Though Spring’s bleak wind with clamour launches His wrath upon thy iron spray; Armed holly tree! from thy firm branches He will not wrest a tithe away! Chapel of verdure, neatly wove, Above the summit of the grove!
# Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Cuckoo's Return

THE CUCKOO’S RETURN
FROM A LOVE EMBASSY.
The bard asks the Cuckoo why he had not brought back a love message from Morvyth; he replies, that he had been stopped by the arrival of winter.
BARD.
Good morrow, bird of kindly tongue, Whose voice is ever heard among The forest’s loftiest spray! Where hast thou been away so long, In what far land astray? Thou, who hast plumes for thy array!
CUCKOO.
Four ages I have been away! My eyes with grief are blind; With sickness and with sleeplessness, I left my own sweet voice behind! Thy name, alas! I cannot guess, Thou who beneath the hazel tree Thus with thy questions searchest me!
BARD.
Know then, the poet blythe and boon, The love-sick bard, at whose command Thou flew’st an outlaw from the land To her of beauty like the noon!
CUCKOO.
Name then the lady of thy lay.
BARD.
S. and E. and N. and A.
CUCKOO.
I asked the maid of golden locks, Amid the birch-robed mountain rocks, To meet thee!
BARD.
To meet thee! For thy courtesy I thank thee.—But, ah, tell me why Thou didst not journey speedily Back with her answer?—art thou dumb, Or is the trysting time not come?
CUCKOO.
With many a kind and courteous word, The gentle lady charged thy bird; And long ago on woodland boughs Had I delivered all her vows, But that (before I could return) The earth grew naked, wild and stern, With wintry darkness—tempests white, And the keen wind’s terrific spite, That put me with the leaf to flight!
BARD.
This argues well thy wondrous care, Prude of the leaf!
CUCKOO.
Prude of the leaf! Sage poet, hear! The woodcock promised me to bear The lady’s message to thy ear— The woodcock, guest with ruddy hair— When he should come with thee to dwell, And with him bring the icicle!
BARD.
When did he promise to be here?
CUCKOO.
BARD.
Woe to the weak and wicked bird, The careless envoy!—I have heard, That in the thicket he lies low, Pierced by a shaft from vig’rous bow! Again, my cuckoo, take to flight, And to the glorious paragon, Through the green hazels hurry on, And with expanded wings alight! And give into bright Essyllt’s hand My letter, full of praises sweet; Upon the birch grove take thy stand, And thence for me the beauty greet! Bell of the bush—warbler, whose lay Lasts through the livelong summer’s day! Cuckoo! attired in robes of grey, Thou serpent of the thicket—soar Hence to the plane tree by her door! With thy sweet “treble” summon her, My simple woodland messenger! And I from bush to bush will trace Thy pinions to the trysting place, Where thou must bring the maiden meek, Of golden locks—with me to speak!
* ↑ This is a proverb to express a long time.
* ↑ This is a kind of sportive watchword, by which the Cuckoo is supposed to obtain an assurance that she is speaking with the poet who sent her, and not with an impostor. Sena is the name of a beautiful woman.
# Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym/The Mirror

THE MIRROR.
I always deemed my features bright, And beautiful and fair, Until yon mirror met my sight— When, lo! an ugly face was there! And from that mirror I have learned, That now my beauty all is fled,
To yellow—Enid’s scorn has turned The glow that o’er my cheeks was spread! And that by grief’s incessant dews My faded cheeks are changed to glass, So striped with blue and yellow hues, So thin, so pale, they seem, alas! And that a razor now supplies, Oh, woe! the place of the long nose; And that the seat of the full eyes, Holes, as by auger pierced, disclose! That all the rich and flowing locks Have fall’n for ever from my head— Thy tale my sense, false mirror, mocks! The wrinkles thou hast freely shed O’er all my visage are the stains Of thine own foul and mottled mien! Had love thus wracked me with his pains, Long in my grave should I have been! Thou blue round moon—thou drear delusion! Thou magnet fashioned sorceress! Thou world of dreams and dire confusion,— Ice-like in hue and brittleness! Gem of enchantment—thing of guilt— Of falsehood, treachery, and shame— I’ll fling thy frame by sorc’rers built— Thou wry-mouthed mirror—to the flame! If I give credit to thy tale, For Gwyneth’s maiden kind and meek: My face is wrinkled o’er and pale— Ah! she has power to blanch the cheek!