OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# A Naval Biographical Dictionary/Snell, Robert (a)

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​SNELL. (Lieut., 1806. f-p., 16; h-p., 34.)
Robert Snell (a) entered the Navy, in Dec. 1797, as Midshipman, on board the El Corso 18, Capt. Bartholomew James, attached to the fleet in ​the Mediterranean; where he removed with the same officer, as Master’s Mate, in Sept. 1798, to the Canopus 80 (late Franklin), one of the prizes taken by Lord Nelson at the battle of the Nile. Joining next, in Sept. 1799, the Ethalion 38, Capts. Jas. Young and John Clarke Searle, he assisted in that ship, under Capt. Young, at the capture, 17 Oct. following, of the Spanish 36-gun frigate El Thetis, laden with specie to an enormous amount, and was wrecked, under Capt. Searle, on the Penmarck Rocks, 25 Dec. in the same year. He was then received on board the Terpsichore 32, Capts. Wm. Hall Gage and John Mackellar, employed at first on the Home station, where we find him, in July, 1800, present at the detention of the Freija Danish frigate, in consequence of a refusal on the part of her commander to allow the British to search a convoy under his orders. On proceeding afterwards to the East Indies, Mr. Snell, in the course of 1802, joined the Eurydice 24, Capt. Chas. Malcolm. In June, 1804, at which period he had been serving for 12 months in the Channel in the Foudroyant 80, flag-ship of Sir Thos. Graves, he was nominated Sub-Lieutenant of the Constant gun-brig, Lieut.-Commander John Stokes. He had charge subsequently of a rocket-vessel in Sir Wm. Sidney Smith’s attack on the Boulogne flotilla; he was placed as Midshipman, in March, 1806, on board the Hibernia 120, flag-ship of Lord St. Vincent in the Channel; and in the following May and June he became Acting-Lieutenant of the Glory 98, Capt. Wm. Albany Otway, and Superb 74, Commodore Rich. Goodwin Keats. To the latter ship he was confirmed by a commission dated 7 Nov. 1806. While engaged, in Sept. 1807, in the operations against Copenhagen, he was appointed to the Brunswick 74, Capt. Thos. Graves. He was transferred afterwards to the Minotaur 74, bearing the flags of Sir Chas. Cotton and Sir Wm. Sidney Smith off Lisbon and the Texel; and in March, 1809, he obtained command for four months of the Piercer gun-brig, in the Baltic. He returned eventually to the Minotaur, and was one of the few belonging to that ship who were saved when she was lost off the Haak Sands 22 Dec. 1810. He remained a prisoner of war in France until the peace of 1814, and has not been since employed.
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/North Sea

NORTH SEA
DAWN on the drab North Sea!— Colourless, cold, and depressing, With the sun that we long to see Refraining from his blessing. To the westward—sombre as doom: To the eastward—grey and foreboding: Comes a low, vibrating boom— The sound of a mine exploding.
Day on the drear North Sea!— Wearisome, drab, and relentless. The low clouds swiftly flee; Bitter the sky, and relentless. Nothing at all in sight Save the mast of a sunken trawler, Fighting her long, last fight With the waves that mouth and maul her.
Gale on the bleak North Sea!— Howling a dirge in the rigging. Slowly and toilfully Through the great, grey breakers digging, Thus we make our way, Hungry, wet, and weary, Soaked with the sleet and spray, Desolate, damp, and dreary.
​Fog in the dank North Sea!— Silent and clammily dripping. Slowly and mournfully, Ghostlike, goes the shipping. Sudden across the swell Come the fog-horns hoarsely blaring Or the clang of a warning bell, To leave us vainly staring.
Night on the black North Sea!— Black as hell's darkest hollow. Peering anxiously, We search for the ships that follow. One are the sea and sky, Dim are the figures near us, With only the sea-bird's cry And the swish of the waves to cheer us.
Death on the wild North Sea!— Death from the shell that shatters (Death we will face with glee, 'Tis the weary wait that matters):— Death from the guns that roar, And the splinters weirdly shrieking. 'Tis fight to the death; 'tis war; And the North Sea is redly reeking!
Jeffery Day
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/My Son

MY SON
HERE is his little cambric frock That I laid by in lavender so sweet, And here his tiny shoe and sock I made with loving care for his dear feet.
​I fold the frock across my breast, And in imagination, ah, my sweet, Once more I hush my babe to rest, And once again I warm those little feet.
Where do those strong young feet now stand? In flooded trench, half numb to cold or pain, Or marching through the desert sand To some dread place that they may never gain.
God guide him and his men to-day! Though death may lurk in any tree or hill, His brave young spirit is their stay, Trusting in that they'll follow where he will.
They love him for his tender heart When poverty or sorrow asks his aid, But he must see each do his part— Of cowardice alone he is afraid.
I ask no honours on the field, That other men have won as brave as he— I only pray that God may shield My son, and bring him safely back to me!
Ada Tyrrell
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Napoleon's Tomb

NAPOLEON'S TOMB
THROUGH the great doors, where Paris flowed incessant, Fell certain dimness, as of some poised hour, Caught from the ashes of the Infinite And prisoned there in solemn purple state, To make illusion for dead majesty! A dusk of greatness, such as well might brood Beneath the wings of Destiny's proud day; A calm, immortal twilight mantling up To the great dome, where painted triumph rides High o'er the dust that once bestrode it all— Nor ever fame had fairer firmament! It was as though Ambition still should live In marble over him; as though his dream— From whose high tower and coloured casements round He, with a royal thievery in his eye, Did look upon the apple of a world— Should take this shape, and being clothed with walls, Stand, in such permanence as matter gives To house his glory through the centuries.
Then I went in, with Paris pressing slow, And saw the long blue shadows folding down Upon the casket of the Emperor. A soldier in a faded uniform Stood close beside me. He was one of those Who die and leave no lament on the wind. . . . And straightway gazing on him I beheld Not death's magnificence; not fame's hushed tomb— But grim Oblivion, and the fields of France! And on some nameless hillside, where the night Sets out wild flaming candles for the dead, Innumerable corpses palely sprawled Beneath the silent, cold, anonymous stars.
Dana Burnet
Paris, 1918.
[Copyright, 1918, by the New York Evening Sun. Copyright, 1918, by Dana Burnet.]
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/New Heaven

NEW HEAVEN
PARADISE now has many a Knight, Many a lordkin, many lords, Glimmer of armour, dinted and bright, The young Knights have put on new swords.
Some have barely the down on the lip, Smiling yet from the new-won spurs, Their wounds are rubies, glowing and deep, Their scars amethyst—glorious scars.
​Michael's army hath many new men, Gravest Knights that may sit in stall, Kings and Captains, a shining train, But the little young Knights are dearest of all.
Paradise now is the soldiers' land, Their own country its shining sod, Comrades all in a merry band; And the young Knights' laughter pleaseth God.
Katharine Tynan
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Next Morning

NEXT MORNING
I
TO-DAY the sun shines bright, The skies are fair; There is a delicate freshness in the air, Which, like a nimble sprite, Plays lightly on my cheek and lifts my hair. And, as I look about me—lo! I see a world I do not know! As though some soft celestial beam, Some clean and wholesome grace Had purgèd half the foulness of the place ​To a strange beauty.—Was it then a dream, That ghostly march, but yesternight, Beneath the moon's uncertain light, When, chill at heart, we pick'd our way Thro' dreadful silent things, that lay About our path on either hand? Was it a dream? Is this the self-same land, The land we pass'd thro' then? How strange it seems!—Yet 'tis the same! I see from here the path by which we came. The tumbled soil, the shatter'd trees are there! And there, in desolation sleeping, Almost too pitiful for weeping, The little village—once the home of men! Aye! the whole scene is there! As desperate in its abandonment, As melancholy-wild and savage-bare As then.—But somehow, in this warm, bright air It all seems different! The same—and yet I know it not!
II
Thus much I see.—But there's a spot That's hidden from mine eyes! Behind the ruin'd church it lies, Where gaping vaults, beneath the nave, Have made a dreadful kind of cave; And there, before the cavern's mouth, A dark and stagnant pool is spread So silent and so still! I saw it last i' th' pale moonlight; And I could think that shapes uncouth Crept from that cave at dead of night With ghoulish stealth, to feast their fill Upon the pale and huddled dead! Yet now, Haply, beneath this warm sunlight, ​Even that fearsome pool is bright, Under the cavern's brow! So outward fair, that none might guess The secret of its hideousness, Nor know what nameless things are done There, with the setting of the sun!
E. Armine Wodehouse
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/No Man's Land

NO MAN'S LAND
NO MAN'S LAND is an eerie sight At early dawn in the pale grey light. Never a house and never a hedge In No Man's Land from edge to edge. And never a living soul walks there To taste the fresh of the morning air;— Only some lumps of rotting clay, That were friends or foemen yesterday.
What are the bounds of No Man's Land? You can see them clearly on either hand, A mound of rag-bags grey in the sun, Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run From the eastern hills to the western sea, Through field or forest o'er river and lea; No man may pass them, but aim you well And Death rides across on the bullet or shell.
But No Man's Land is a Goblin sight When patrols crawl over at dead o' night; Boche or British, Belgian or French, You dice with death when you cross the trench. When the "rapid," like fireflies in the dark, Flits down the parapet spark by spark, And you drop for cover to keep your head With your face on the breast of the four months' dead.
The man who ranges in No Man's Land Is dogged by the shadows on either hand When the star-shell's flare, as it bursts o'erhead, Scares the grey rats that feed on the dead, And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch May answer the click of your safety-catch, For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand, Is hunting for blood in No Man's Land.
James H. Knight-Adkin
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Napoleon

NAPOLEON
FOR France and liberty he set apart His soul at first in aspiration high. But pure thoughts wither and ideals die. And self, fed richly from ambition's mart, Swelled, triumphed with insinuating art, The hideous, monstrous, all-engrossing I, Which strangled love and France and liberty And laid its eager clutch on Europe's heart.
Then Spain assailed it like an autumn gust, And England netted it with her sea-might, And Russia opened all her icy graves. The huge colossus crumbled into dust And sank forever out of human sight On a lone island 'mid the Atlantic waves.
Gamaliel Bradford
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Of Greatham

OF GREATHAM
(To those who live there)
FOR peace, than knowledge more desirable, Into your Sussex quietness I came, When summer's green and gold and azure fell Over the world in flame.
And peace upon your pasture-lands I found, Where grazing flocks drift on continually, As little clouds that travel with no sound Across a windless sky.
Out of your oaks the birds call to their mates That brood among the pines, where hidden deep From curious eyes a world's adventure waits In columned choirs of sleep.
Under the calm ascension of the night We heard the mellow lapsing and return Of night-owls purring in their groundling flight Through lanes of darkling fern.
Unbroken peace, when all the stars were drawn Back to their lairs of light, and ranked along From shire to shire the downs out of the dawn Were risen in golden song. ........ I sing of peace who have known the large unrest Of men bewildered in their travelling, And I have known the bridal earth unblest By the brigades of spring.
I have known that loss. And now the broken thought Of nations marketing in death I know, The very winds to threnodies are wrought That on your downlands blow.
​I sing of peace. Was it but yesterday I came among your roses and your corn? Then momently amid this wrath I pray For yesterday reborn.
John Drinkwater
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Niagara

NIAGARA
I
WITHIN the town of Buffalo Are prosy men with leaden eyes. Like ants they worry to and fro, (Important men, in Buffalo.) But only twenty miles away A deathless glory is at play: Niagara, Niagara.
The women buy their lace and cry:— "O such a delicate design," And over ostrich feathers sigh, By counters there, in Buffalo. The children haunt the trinket shops, They buy false-faces, bells, and tops, Forgetting great Niagara.
Within the town of Buffalo Are stores with garnets, sapphires, pearls, Rubies, emeralds aglow,— Opal chains in Buffalo, ​Cherished symbols of success. They value not your rainbow dress— Niagara, Niagara.
The shaggy meaning of her name, This Buffalo, this recreant town, Sharps and lawyers prune and tame: Few pioneers in Buffalo; Except young lovers flushed and fleet And winds, hallooing down the street: "Niagara, Niagara."
The journalists are sick of ink: Boy prodigals are lost in wine, By night where white and red lights blink, The eyes of Death, in Buffalo. And only twenty miles away Are starlit rocks and healing spray:— Niagara, Niagara.
Above the town a tiny bird, A shining speck at sleepy dawn, Forgets the ant-hill so absurd, This self-important Buffalo. Descending twenty miles away He bathes his wings at break of day— Niagara, Niagara.
II
What marching men of Buffalo Flood the streets in rash crusade? Fools-to-free-the-world, they go, Primeval hearts from Buffalo. Red cataracts of France to-day Awake, three thousand miles away, An echo of Niagara, The cataract Niagara.
Vachel Lindsay
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Non-Combatants

NON-COMBATANTS
NEVER of us be said That we reluctant stood As sullen children, and refused to dance To the keen pipe that sounds across the fields of France. Though shrill the note and wild, Though hard the steps and slow, The dancing floor defiled, The measure full of woe, And dread The solemn figure that the dancers tread, We faltered not. Of us, this word shall not be said. Never of us be said We had no war to wage, Because our womanhood, Because the weight of age, Held us in servitude. None sees us fight, Yet we in the long night Battle to give release To all whom we must send to seek and die for peace. When they have gone, we in a twilit place Meet Terror face to face, ​And strive With him, that we may save our fortitude alive. Theirs be the hard, but ours the lonely bed. Nought were we spared—of us, this word shall not be said. Never of us be said We failed to give God-speed to our adventurous dead. Not in self-pitying mood We saw them go, When they set forth on those spread wings of pain: So glad, so young, As birds whose fairest lays are yet unsung Dart to the height And thence pour down their passion of delight, Their passing into melody was turned. So were our hearts uplifted from the low, Our griefs to rapture burned; And, mounting with the music of that throng, Cutting a path athwart infinity, Our puzzled eyes Achieved the healing skies To find again Each wingèd spirit as a speck of song Embosomed in Thy deep eternity. Though from our homely fields that feathered joy has fled We murmur not. Of us, this word shall not be said.
Evelyn Underhill
# A Short Biographical Dictionary of English Literature/Buckingham And Normanby, John Sheffield, 1st Duke of

​Buckingham And Normanby, John Sheffield, 1st Duke of}} (1648-1721).—S. of the 2nd Earl of Mulgrave, served in his youth as a soldier under Prince Rupert and Turenne, and is also said to have made love to the Princess, afterwards Queen, Anne. He was a Privy Councillor under James II., William and Mary, and Anne, with the last of whom he remained a favourite. His magnificent mansion was purchased and pulled down to make way for Buckingham Palace. He wrote An Account of the Revolution, An Essay on Satire, and An Essay on Poetry. He also remodelled Shakespeare's Julius Cæsar.
# A Short Biographical Dictionary of English Literature/Buckle, Henry Thomas

​Buckle, Henry Thomas (1821-1862).—Historical writer, s. of a wealthy shipowner in London, was b. at Lee in Kent. Though never at a univ. and little at school, he received a high degree of education privately, and inheriting an ample fortune and a large library, he devoted himself to travel and study, with the view of preparing for a great work which he had projected, The History of Civilisation in England. As an introduction to this he entered upon the consideration of the state of civilisation in various other countries, but this he had scarcely completed when his death took place at Damascus in 1862. The first vol. was pub. in 1857, and the second in 1861. In these the results of a vast amount of reading are shown; but they are not free from one-sided views and generalisations resting on insufficient data. He has, however, the credit of having contributed a new idea of history and the method of writing it. The completed work was to have extended to 14 vols. B. was one of the greatest chess-players in Europe.
# A Short Biographical Dictionary of English Literature/Buckingham, James Silk

​Buckingham, James Silk (1786-1855).—Journalist and traveller, wrote many books of travel, both on the Old and New World. He established, and for a year or two ed., The Athenæum, and produced many pamphlets on political and social subjects.
# A Short Biographical Dictionary of English Literature/Burnet, Gilbert

​Burnet, Gilbert (1643-1715).—Theologian and historian, s. of a Royalist and Episcopalian lawyer, who became a judge, and of the sister of Johnston of Warristoun, a leader of the Covenanters, was b. in Edin., and ed. at Aberdeen and at Amsterdam, where he studied Hebrew under a Rabbi. Returning to Scotland, he was successively Episcopal minister at Saltoun and Prof. of ​Divinity in Glasgow (1669), and was then offered, but declined, a Scotch bishopric. His energetic and bustling character led him to take an active part in the controversies of the time, and he endeavoured to bring about a reconciliation between Episcopacy and Presbytery. Going to London he was in some favour with Charles II., from whom he received various preferments. His literary reputation was greatly enhanced by the publication in 1679 of the first vol. of his History of the Reformation of the Church of England, for which he received the thanks of Parliament, and which was completed by other two vols., in 1682 and 1714. On account of a letter of reproof which he ventured to write to the King, he lost favour at Court, and the policy pursued by James II. being very repugnant to him, he betook himself in 1687 to Holland, where he became one of the advisers of the Prince of Orange. Returning to England at the Revolution, he was made Bishop of Salisbury, which office he adorned by liberal views and a zealous discharge of duty. The work by which his fame is chiefly sustained, his History of my Own Times, was, by his direction, not to be pub. until 6 years after his death. It appeared in 1723. It gives a sketch of the history of the Civil Wars and Commonwealth, and a detailed account of the immediately succeeding period down to 1713. While not free from egotism and some party feeling, it is written with a sincere desire for accuracy and fairness, and it has largely the authority of an eye-witness. The style, if somewhat lacking in dignity, is lively and picturesque. Among his other writings are a History of the Dukes of Hamilton, and an Exposition of the 39 Articles.
His principal works have been repeatedly printed. Clarendon Press ed. of My Own Times by Routh (1823 and 1833).
# A Short Biographical Dictionary of English Literature/Budgell, Eustace

​Budgell, Eustace (1686-1737).—Miscellaneous writer, ed. at Oxf., was a cousin of Addison, who took him to Ireland and got him appointed to a lucrative office, which, however, he was foolish enough to throw away by lampooning the Viceroy. He assisted A. in the Spectator, of which he wrote 37 numbers signed X. In these he imitates A.'s style with some success. B., who was vain and vindictive, fell on evil days, lost a fortune in the South Sea Bubble, was accused of forging a will, and committed suicide by throwing himself out of a boat at London Bridge.
# A Short Biographical Dictionary of English Literature/Bull, George

​Bull, George (1634-1710).—Theologian, b. at Wells, ed. at Tiverton and Oxf., took orders, was ordained by an ejected bishop in 1658, and received the living of Suddington near Bristol. He was a strong Royalist, and was privy to a scheme for bringing back the Royal family. After the Restoration he obtained further preferment, and became in 1704 Bishop of St. David's at an age when his strength had become unequal to any very active discharge of the duties of his see. He has a high place among Anglican theologians, and as a defender of the doctrine of the Trinity was held in high esteem even by Continental Romanist controversialists. Among his works are Harmonia Apostolica (1669-70) in which he endeavoured to reconcile alleged discrepancies between the teaching of St. Paul and St. James on the relation between faith and works, in which he assigned to the latter the higher authority, Defensio Fidei Nicænæ (1685) and Corruptions of the Church of Rome.
# A Short Biographical Dictionary of English Literature/Burckhardt, John Lewis

​Burckhardt, John Lewis (1784-1817).—Traveller, b. at Lausanne and ed. in Germany, came to England in 1806 and wrote his books of travel in English. He travelled widely in Africa and in Syria, and the adjoining countries, became a great oriental scholar, and, disguising himself, made the pilgrimage to Mecca, and obtained access to places not open to Christians. He wrote accounts of his travels, and a book on Arabic proverbs. He d. of dysentery at Cairo when about to start on a new journey into the interior of Africa.
# A Short Biographical Dictionary of English Literature/Buckland, Francis Trevelyan

​Buckland, Francis Trevelyan (1826-80).—Naturalist, b. and ed. at Oxf., where his f. was Dean of Christchurch. He studied medicine and was assistant-surgeon in the Life Guards. An enthusiastic lover of natural history, he wrote largely upon it, among his works being Curiosities of Natural History (4 vols. 1857-72), Log Book of a Fisherman and Zoologist (1876), Natural History of British Fishes (1881). He also founded and ed. Land and Water. He was for a time Inspector of Salmon Fisheries, and served on various commissions. Though observant, he was not always strictly scientific in his methods and modes of expression, and he was a strong opponent of Darwin.