OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Sources and Analogues of 'A Midsummer-Night's Dream'/Strange Farlies
## Strange Farlies

       Strange farlies fathers told
       Of fiends and hags of hell;
    And how that Circes, when she would,
       Could skill of sorcery well;
       And how old thin-faced wives,
       That roasted crabs by night,
    Did tell of monsters in their lives
       That now prove shadows light;
       And told what Merlin spoke
       Of world and times to come;
    But all that fire doth make no smoke,
       For in mine ear doth hum
       Another kind of bee,
       That sounds a tune most strange,
    A trembling noise of words to me
       That makes my countenance change.
       Of old Hobgobling's guise,
       That walked like ghost in sheets,
    With maids that would not early rise
       For fear of bugs and sprites.
       Some say the fairies fair
       Did dance on Bednall Green,
    And fine familiars of the air
       Did talk with men unseen.
       And oft in moonshine nights,
       When each thing draws to rest,
    Was seen dumb shows and ugly sights
       That fearéd every guest
       Which lodgéd in the house;
       And where good cheer was great,
    Hodgepoke would come and drink carouse
       And munch up all the meat.
       But where foul sluts did dwell,
       Who used to sit up late,
    And would not scour the pewter well,
       There came a merry mate
       To kitchen or to hall,
       Or place where sprites resort;
    Then down went dish and platters all
       To make the greater sport.
       A further sport fell out
       When they to spoil did fall;
    Rude Robin Goodfellow, the lout,
       Would skim the milk-bowls all,
       And search the cream-pots too,
       For which poor milk-maid weeps.
    God wot what such mad guests will do
       When people soundly sleeps!
       These are but fables feigned,
       Because true stories old
    In doubtful days are more disdained
       Than any tale is told.
THOMAS CHURCHYARD
from A Handfull of Gladsome Verses (1592).

### Endnotes

This extract from Churchyard was first cited by E.K. Chambers in his edition of M.N.D. in the Warwick Shakespeare.
1 ↑ farlies, marvels.
2 ↑ fearéd, frightened.
# The Other House (London: William Heinemann, 1896)/Volume 1/Book 2

BOOK SECOND
* Chapter 13
* Chapter 14
* Chapter 15
* Chapter 16
* Chapter 17
* Chapter 18
Book 2 continues in Volume 2.
# The Other House (London: William Heinemann, 1896)/Volume 2

The Other House
By the Same Author, 6s. each.
Terminations
Pall Mall Gazette.—"These four stories are so clever, that one can only raise one's hands in admiration."
Embarrassments
The Times.—"Mr. James's stories are a continued protest against superficial workmanship and slovenly style. He is an enthusiast who has devoted himself to keeping alive the sacred fire of genuine literature ; and he has his reward in a circle of constant admirers, whose sympathy encourages him to persevere."
London: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
The Other House
By
Henry James
In Two Volumes
Vol. ii
London
William Heinemann
1896
All rights reserved
* Book 2 (continued)
* Book 3
# The Thessalian Fountain

* Untitled from Fragments, Fourth Series in The Literary Gazette, 24th January 1824.
* The Thessalian Fountain from The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems, 1835.
# The Sad Years/They Did Not See Thy Face

From The Sad Years (1918).
THEY DID NOT SEE THY FACE
Some on the pleasant hillside have thought they saw thee pass, As flings a cloud before the sun a shadow on the grass. They praised thy fairness and held dear thy meekness and thy grace; They only saw thy shade, Kathleen, they did not see thy face.
Some on the purple mountains stood to see thee speeding by, As glides a sudden golden shaft across the stormy sky; And these were braggarts of their love within thy dwelling-place; They saw thy beauty, Rosin Dubh, they did not see thy face.
But some in flames of battle strove their slender weight to throw Against the bayonet and the gun that hid thy only foe;
They left for thee their earthly loves, these heroes of thy race, And died, as all must die, Kathleen, who once have seen thy face.
So must thy grief be ever new who holds a love like this, That thrusts away a dear one's heart, a little child's soft kiss, That leaves behind an honoured home, a Mother's fond embrace, Till others seek again, Kathleen, to see thy hidden face.
# The Sad Years/To Bid Her Live

From The Sad Years (1918).
TO BID HER LIVE
Bring to her spring flowers, Cowslip and celandine, And bid her hear the blackbird's song. Let pass the sunny hours In her dull room to shine, Lay cherry blossom her thin arm along.
Bring all the sweets of June, Pale viola and rue, Garlands of fragrant roses, pink and white. The young birds' broken tune, The larkspur gold and blue, Let in the gentle harping of the night.
When russet autumn comes, Lad's-love and lavender Fling on her bed. Go, shake red apples down, Sun-kissed and purple plums, The sweet and luscious pear, Bring her on leaves of crimson, green, and brown.
When comes the winter snow, Then close the shutters tight To hide the falling leaves and stricken tree, The silent birds that go, Through cold and cheerless light, And winter's shroud on all life's liberty.
Bear her the holly bough, And on the glowing hearth Let twisted flame and rebel fires roar. Bid laughing children now Dance round her in their mirth, And call her fainting spirit home once more— Oh, call her, call her, call her home once more!
# The Sail (Smirnov)

The poem was written in 1832. The autograph is preserved in a letter to Maria Lopukhina from 2 September 1832.
The Sail
The lonely sail is showing white
Among the haze of the blue sea!.. What does it search in foreign part? What left it in the native land?..
The waves are playing, wind is whistling, And bending mast is creaking loud, Alas, – it does not hunt for pleasure And nor from pleasure does it run!
Below – a bright stream of azure, Above – a golden beam of sun,
But it, rebellious, asks for tempests As if the tempests give a rest!
1832
The note on the translation:
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Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Strange Attraction

The STRANGE ATTRACTION
JANE MANDER
THE STRANGE ATTRACTION
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE PASSIONATE PURITAN
“The story of a passionate love and of the warring between two distinct ideals of life. It is very well and realistically presented as a problem.”—Boston Transcript
THE STORY OF A NEW ZEALAND RIVER
“Jane Mander comes from New Zealand and she writes about that most interesting country with the surety of thorough knowledge and with the insight of the born story-teller.”
—New York Times
STRANGE ATTRACTION
By
JANE MANDER
AUTHOR OF “THE PASSIONATE PURITAN,” AND “THE STORY OF A NEW ZEALAND RIVER”
NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1922 By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.
Printed in U. S. A.
To Certain American Friends Whose Encouragement and Practical Help Made Possible The Writing of This Story
​“It is the business of the very few to be independent; it is a privilege of the strong.”
“Flee, my friend, into thy solitude. I see thee deafened with the noise of the great men, and stung all over with the stings of the little ones.”
“Admirably do forest and rock know how to be silent with thee.”—Nietzsche
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 1949, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 74 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 Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Gloom
## Gloom

Do you feel sorrowful? I sometimes do, When busy thought tells me the sufferings Of some in our south land. Their brows are not So fair as thine, by much, but yet they are Our sisters, for the mighty God hath given To them the boon of an immortal soul. Yet they are made through life's long years to toil, Scourge-driven like the brute; and with the fine And delicate pulses of a human heart, Stirring to anguish in their bosoms, sold! Ay, like the meanest household chattel, sold! Vended from hand to hand, while with each wrench Their torn hearts bleed at every throbbing pore. Alas! how can I but feel sorrowful, To think upon their woes?
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Christian Love
## Christian Love

Oh, Father! when the soften'd heart Is lifted up in prayer to thee, When earthly thoughts awhile depart, And leave the mounting spirit free— Then teach us that our love, like thine, O'er all the realms of earth should flow, A shoreless stream, a flood divine, To bathe and heal the heart of woe.
Then Afric's son shall hear no more The tyrant's in the Christian's name; Nor tears of wasting anguish pour Unpitied, o'er his life of shame; But taught to love thee, by the love That bids his long-worn fetters break, He, too, shall lift his soul above, And serve thee for thy mercy's sake.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Deaf and Dumb
## Deaf and Dumb

Her face was sweetly serious; yet a smile Was cradled in the dimple of her cheek, As if it waited but the frequent call, To spring to the red lip. I spoke to her, And listen'd for the music-breathing tones Of childhood's laughing voice—she answer'd not, Nor raised the fringes of her deep blue eyes;— And then they told me that the gushing fount Of all her young affections was seal'd up.— That young bright lip was voiceless; and the heart Sprang not in blessedness to the deep tones Of thrilling tenderness—the soul was shut— And all the spirit's wild imaginings Thrown back in darkness—like the flowers that spring Beneath the bosom of the winter's snow.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Emancipation
## Emancipation

[The piece below, was written upon the perusal of an article in a newspaper, announcing the Decree issued by the Executive of the Republic of Mexico, totally abolishing the system of Slavery within its limits, on the anniversary of National Independence,
in the year 1829.]
Gladness in Mexico! A pealing shout, From franchised men, goes proudly o'er her hills; And the rich hymn is swelling up to Heaven, Bearing the full heart's gratitude. No more The wild bird springing upward from its nest, Or the free waters in their gushing glee, Seem taunting man that they are masterless, While his proud thoughts and swelling pulse are crush'd Beneath vile bonds. No more at eventide, The serf stalks gloomily to seek a home, He scarce can call his own; or goes at dawn Unwillingly to toil:—the heavy spell, That ‘numb'd his veins with leaden sluggishness, Hath lost its power; and now, his glad limbs bound Across the glorious earth, as though they were Nought but an essence. Hear ye not the voice Of his wild carol pour'd upon the air, As like the woodland bird “with folded wing He drops into his nest”—or goes at morn, With light and eager spirit to the toil From which no hand withholds the just reward! Oh, it is sweet to wear a heart, whose throbs Are stifled by no fetters—and an eye That quails not to the mightiest! But the soul Of him whose hand hath wrench'd the bonds of thrall From the sad bosoms that beneath them pined, Hath yet a higher joy!—and there is one,* Whose name the grateful Mexican shall teach His son to lisp, ere yet his infant lip Hath learn'd to murmur, father. But our land!— The curse is on it still!—the slave-fiend stalks Amidst our pleasant valleys and green hills; A tyrant to the tyrants he has made; Muttering fierce threats, and crowding on their hearts Visions and shapes of terror, like the wild And elfish faces that look forth at eve, On wilder'd travellers, ‘midst the cheating shades, And gibe and chatter at the fears they raise. So men go crouching to the demon power, Scarce daring e'en to syllable his name, Lest they should waken up his smother'd rage; And offering human victims at his shrine, Instead of nobly standing forth, like men, To drive him yelling from the glorious earth, That he pollutes and blackens with his tread. Whom call ye slaves? Are not the cravens such, Who dare not act with justice?—Men who prate In sweet smooth sentences, of christian love, And with much sympathy, lament the fate Of those from whose swoll'n limbs they will not strike One single link, in all their weight of chains? Strange! that the high capacities of mind, Should be so blinded by the gleam of gold— Till even the soul itself is valued less, Than “so much trash as may be grasped thus.”
(*Guerrero)
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Forget Me Not
## Forget Me Not

TO A. G. C.
Forget me not! though fate from thine, My path of life may sever, Still think of days of “auld lang syne,” And moments fled forever.
When many a year has pass'd away, And other ties have bound us, Oh! then let memory sometimes stray, To those that now surround us
Should pomp and pride be round thee then— When day's bright beam is o'er thee, And other forms shall meet thy ken— Mine may not stand before thee.
But when the orb of day hath set, Beneath the burning ocean, And holy thoughts around thee met, Have still'd the heart's commotion—
Oh! then may memory's hallow'd rays Around my image hover, And in the thoughts of other days, These hours be then glanced over.
Forget me not! though fate from thine, My path of life may sever, But sometimes think of “auld lang syne,” And moments fled forever.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Evening Thoughts
## Evening Thoughts

How beautiful The calm earth resteth in her quiet sleep! There are no sounds of human life abroad, And the soft voice of that one bird, whose plaint Melteth upon the ear so soothingly, Seems but the low breeze moulded into sound. The shadows of the trees distinctly lie Upon the earth unstirring, and no breath Comes whispering among the tender leaves, To wake them into playfulness.
The sky Bendeth in loveliness above the earth, With a few clouds drawn o'er it, beautiful In the soft light, and exquisitely pure, As if they knew no other home than heaven. Oh, thus it is, God of the universe! That thou wouldst sanctify with thy rich grace, Our erring human hearts, that we might be, When from the earth our day of life hath pass'd, Dwellers in that bright world where all are pure— A world where sorrow cometh not, nor sin, Nor the down-stooping ‘neath the oppressor's hand. Alas! that earthly things should be so fair, And day by day harmoniously move on In their allotted course, at thy command, Dutiful and unwavering from their track, And man, man only, who alone may know How beautiful thy ordinances are, Mock at thy holy will, and mar his soul With the dark stains of sin. Alas! that man, With thy pure law unveil'd before his eyes, Should bind the fetter on his brother's form, And smite him with the scourge, and bid him pour His strength out on the earth, for no reward; And worse than this, wrench from his bleeding heart The dearest objects of his earthly love; And all that the oppressor's hoards may flow With Mammon's worthless treasures; meagre dust, Beside the priceless treasure of a soul! Shall it be ever thus? Most Merciful! Will man's hard heart be never touch'd with all The o'erflowings of thy love, and yield itself To gentle sympathies, till he shall learn The noble joy of pouring happiness Upon the heart of sorrow, and how sweet The pleasure is of shedding bliss abroad.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Gayashuta to the Sons of Onas
## Gayashuta to the Sons of Onas

The following lines are a versification of a speech or letter delivered by the Cornplanter to the “Sons of Onas” (William Penn) from Gayashuta, a chief of the Seneca Nation.
My brothers! Sons of Onas! hear my voice! And Gayashuta's spirit shall rejoice; For age has settled on his drooping head; His hopes have wither'd, and his joys have fled. When youth and strength were seated on his brow, He felt not hunger, pain, and want, as now; For then the wild deer bounded o'er the plain, And never was his arrow sped in vain. Our land embraced the mountain and the flood, The chase—our pleasure—furnish'd us with food. The red man's tribes the mighty Spirit bless'd, And every stranger was his welcome guest. With pleasure, when they sought our lonely haunts, We gave them shelter, and relieved their wants. My brothers! when your fathers sought our shores, The wide extended fertile plains were ours. They loved the land their mighty ships had found, And Onas call'd his red-skinn'd brethren round— They ask'd us, and we gave them of our land, Whereon to plant, and where their wigwams stand: And Gayashuta's voice was foremost heard, To urge and aid the suit his friend preferr'd. My brothers! Gayashuta had not thought, When first the Groves of Pines* your fathers sought, Of age or weakness—strength was in his frame, And cowards shrunk beneath his eye of flame. Your fathers saw him then,—he now is old, And you will ne'er his alter'd form behold, His wither'd, bending form, that scarce appears The ghost of what it was in former years. He wonders, when his shadow meets his eye, It is so shrunk, so changed from days gone by! No longer can he track the flying game, Or point the arrow with unerring aim; He has no children to supply his wants, The whites have scared the wild deer from his haunts. In hunting all the day the youth must toil, And scarce the chase will yield sufficient spoil To satisfy themselves—there is none left For those who are of friends and strength bereft. For Gayashuta is not here alone— A remnant yet remains of days long gone. They were your fathers’ friends, they now are weak, And poor and feeble—shall they vainly speak! My brothers! Sons of Onas! in his youth, Your fathers gave this belt, the badge of truth, To Gayashuta, this he sends to you, The ancient bond of friendship to renew. Look on this belt! and should it warm your heart, Then comfort to your fathers’ friends impart. My brothers! we are men, and only say That we are hungry, naked, old, and gray. We have no other friends on whom to call, Than you, the Sons of Onas, friends to all.
(*The place where Philadelphia now stands was called by the Indians the Grove of the long pine trees.)
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Christmas
## Christmas

Mother, when christmas comes once more, I do not wish that you Should buy sweet things for me again, As you were used to do:
The taste of cakes and sugar-plums Is pleasant to me yet, And temptingly the gay shops look, With their fresh stores outset.
But I have learn'd, dear mother, That the poor and wretched slave Must toil to win their sweetness, From the cradle to the grave.
And when he faints with weariness Beneath the torrid sun, The keen lash urges on his toil, Until the day is done.
But when the holy angels’ hymn, On Judea's plains afar, Peal'd sweetly on the shepherds’ ear, 'Neath Bethlehem's wondrous star,
They sung of glory to our God,— “Peace and good will to men,”— For Christ, the Saviour of the world, Was born amidst them then.
And is it for His glory, men Are made to toil, With weary limbs and breaking hearts, Upon another's soil?
That they are taught not of his law, To know his holy will, And that He hates the deed of sin, And loves the righteous still?
And is it peace and love to men, To bind them with the chain, And sell them like the beasts that feed Upon the grassy plain?
To tear their flesh with scourgings rude, And from the aching heart, The ties to which it fondliest clings, For evermore to part?
And 't is because of all this sin, my mother, That I shun To taste the tempting sweets for which Such wickedness is done.
If men to men will be unjust, if slavery must be, Mother, the chain must not be worn; the scourge be plied for me.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Death
## Death

I have been gazing on the resting place Of the cold sleepers of the earth—who trod This busy planet for a little space, Then laid them down, and took the verdant sod To curtain the low cot wherein they slept, Forgotten save by some few hearts that o'er them wept.
'T is strange—so lately they were living forms, Breathing and moving; now the vernal sun Looks down upon their silent graves, nor warms One pulse to action—life with them is done; And the turf blooms as quietly, as though No forms of human mould were slumbering below.
And this shall be my lot!—a little while, And I shall, too, lie down and be at rest, In silence and in darkness; earth will smile In spring's rich garniture, and o'er my breast The wild-flower shed its sweets—but there will be No gladness in bright hues or fragrant breath for me.
Oh, Death! they call thee terrible—but life Hath pain, and blighted hopes and bitter tears, The pang of keen remorse, the daily strife 'Twixt jarring passions, the false smile that sears The heart to kindly feelings, and the dread, That e'en what bliss is ours, within our grasp will fade.
Nor is it very dreadful to lie down In momentary darkness, and awake In a bright world of happiness, unknown, And unimagined! But 't is sad to take The last farewell of earthly things, and know That we have left fond hearts to lingering years of woe.
And herein lies the bitterness—but when The parting pang is over, need we fear To tread thy narrow pathway—and cling then To life's poor relics?—It is true, that here We have bright moments, scenes and hours of joy; Yet seldom is our bliss unmix'd with some alloy.
It should be so—there is enough of bliss, To make the hours of life glide swiftly on, Yet sadness dims the brightest cup—and this Recalls the heart from trusting what must soon Forever vanish from our grasp, when we Are call'd from things of time to dread eternity.
# The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Doom
## Doom

Be hush'd, triumphant sounds! ye bring not now A gush of pride along the glowing brow; Ye wake no more a dream of future fame, And added glory to my country's name; Ye only mind me of her crimson'd hands, Her sullied faith, her broken treaty-bands. Oh, better far contrition, sad and mute, Or tearful prayers her guilty lip would suit,— Joy not for her—the hearts her sin hath crush'd, With groans return your shouts—proud sounds, be hush'd.
Lo! yonder where the starry flag streams free, And swift the light bark cleaves the foaming sea,— There bursting hearts, in hopeless anguish torn From all they love, to distant lands are borne, In wild despairing groans they breathe their woe, And call on those they ne'er shall view below, As thoughts that framed their deepest bliss, but now Send added torture to the burning brow; While fated still her wonted chain to wear, And all the weight of lonely bondage bear, In shrieks, the frantic mother, from the shore, Beholds them sever to return no more.
And are there none to whose relentless breast The Afric's plea is not in vain address'd? Who shame them not to own his kindred claim, And gift the negro with a brother's name? Ay, there are some—some hearts that yet can feel, And dare defend his rights and guard his weal, Some few, who shrink not from the oppressor's power, Nor leave him helpless in his gloomy hour. A fire is lit on Freedom's holiest shrine, That yet o'er Afric's midnight sky shall shine; For this shall woman's prayers to heaven ascend, Her breath shall fan it, and her care attend; Thus swift from heart to heart the flame shall run, And triumph crown the work, but now begun.