OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Heart of England/Chapter 27

CHAPTER XXVII
JANUARY SUNSHINE
It is a quiet valley in which moist fields of meadow, mowing grass, mangold, and stubble are bounded from one another by deep ditches and good hedges of maple, thorn and hazel, with here and there an oak, or by oak woods that rise above an undergrowth of grey ash. Every half mile there is a tiled farmhouse with low-pitched roof and low, square windows, their frames painted white, and between them rose trees climbing; in the gardens of most, two plots of lawn are surrounded by rich dark borders and divided by a path; and each has a careless shrubbery of Portuguese laurel, lilac, syringa and elder, hardly cut off from the orchard that grows as it will above grey rank grass, and close by at least two ponds. One little stream winds through the valley and gains at times much glory of speed and sound and foam from the rain off the hillside. A few grey, smooth roads cross the valley.
It is January, and the predominant grass is green and shining in the sun. The rusty oaks and the farmhouse roofs glow. The bare clean hedges glitter with all their stems of olive hazel, silver oak and ash and white thorn, and blackthorn ruddy where the cattle have rubbed. A ​lark rises and sings. A flock of linnets scatters and drops little notes like a rain of singing dew, and over all is a high blue sky, across which the west wind sets a fleet of bright white clouds to sail; into this blue sky the woods of the horizon drive their black teeth.
In the immense crystal spaces of fine windy air thus bounded by blue sky, black woods and green grass, the jackdaws play. They soar, they float, they dance, and they dive and carve sudden magnificent precipices in the air, crying all the time with sharp joyous cries that are in harmony with the great heights and dashing wind. The carter's boy raises his head from the furrow and shouts to them now and then, while the brass furnishings of his horses gleam, their shoulders grow proud and their black tails stream out above the blue furrow and the silver plough.
Suddenly a pheasant is hurled out of a neighbouring copse; something crosses the road; and out over a large and shining meadow goes a fox, tall and red, going easily as if he sailed in the wind. He crosses that meadow, then another, and he is half a mile away before a loud halloo sounds in the third field, and a mile away before the first hound crosses the road upon his scent.
Run hard hounds, and drown the jackdaws' calling with your concerted voices. It is good to see your long swift train across the meadow and away, away; on such a day a man would give everything to run like that. Run hard, fox, and may you escape, for it would not be well to die on such a day, unless you could perchance ​first set your fair teeth into the throats of the foolish ones who now break through the hedge on great horses and pursue you—I know not why—ignorant of the command that has gone forth from the heart of this high blue heaven, Be beautiful and enjoy and live!
# The Heart of England/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III
NOT HERE, O APOLLO!
It was a clay country of small fields that rose and fell slightly, not in curves, but in stiff lines which ended abruptly in the low, dividing hedges. Here and there we passed small woods of oak, hardly more than overgrown hedges, where keepers shot the jays. There were few streams—and those polluted. North and south the land rose up in some pomp to steep hills planted with oak and beech and fir, and between these, broad meadows and hop gardens, which now and then caught the faint light on their dry brown or moist green and gleamed desirably. The wind was in the north; it had rained in the night, and yet the morning was dull and the sun white and small. There was some vice in the wind or in the foliage or in the grass that now began to be long—some vice that made the land sad and cold and unawakening, with the surliness of a man who cannot sleep and will not rise.
The woods became more dense as we walked; not far ahead the oaks closed in and expounded the contours of the land by their summits. But our path led away from them, and we were about to lose sight of them when, gently as the alighting of a bird, the sunlight dropped among the tops of the oaks, which were yellow and purple with young leaves, and blessed them. We turned. There was the sun held fast among the fresh leaves and ​green trunks, as if Apollo had changed into a woodland god, and forsaken the long lonely ways of heaven, and resolved no more to spend a half of his days in the under world. How the nymphs clapped their hands at this advent, abandoning Pan, and bringing to the new lord all choicest herbs and highest fair grasses and golden flowers that should make him content to be away from the clouds of sunset and dawn, and blue flowers on which his feet should tread without envy of the infinite paths of the sky, and white flowers that should suffice for his shepherding in place of the flocks of the high desolate noon! How they drove up grey dove and green woodpecker to shake their wings and shine about the new god's head as they flew among the branches! How Pan himself, that does not heed dark hours, crept away from his light-hearted nymphs and hid in the sombre reeds! "Ever-young Apollo! Eternal Apollo! Young Apollo!" were the cries. "Why have we ever served a goat-foot god?" And so they made haste to serve him with the clearest honey of the wild bees, the cream from the farm that was most clean, the fruits that yet preserved flavours of a past summer and autumn in the granary close by, and fresh cresses from the spring; nor would some of the little satyrs forget the golden ale and amber bread and cheese of the colour of primroses; and all seemed assured that never again would Apollo forsake the red and yellow leaves of the full oaks or the mid-forest grasses or the lilied pools standing among willow and alder and ash. And we saw that the light was passing in triumph slowly, and accompanied by the cooing of doves, along the wood from oak top to oak top.
# The Heart of England/Chapter 30

PART III
THE UPLAND
CHAPTER XXX
CHERRY BLOSSOM
In front, a tall beechen hill closes up the gulf that runs out of the valley into the heart of the chalk down. The hill fills nearly half the sky, and just above it stands the white full moon, as one who looks over his lands. It warms the low, pale, curdled sky, but does not disturb the darkness of the beeches. All its light seems to fall and settle, as if it would dwell there for ever in the cherry trees on either hand. All are blossoming, and in their branches the nightingales sing out of the blossom, dispersing what ruins remain of the world of yesterday, and building rapidly those tall watch towers that last until dawn, which men may climb and from their summits see what may make them out of love with the earth.
The past day is long past, the day of fighting, digging, buying, selling, writing; and if there are still men on the earth they are all equal in the trances of passion or sleep; the day to come is not to be thought of. The moon reigns; you rule. The centuries are gathered up in your hand. You and the moonlight and the nightingale and the cherry blossom have your own way with them all night long. It is true then that Virgil, Catullus, Crashaw, Burton, Shelley… live still, and Horace, Racine, Bishop Beveridge… never lived. You exult ​because you are alive and your spirit possesses this broad, domed earth. Poor thing as you are, you have somehow gained a power of expression like the nightingale's, a pure translucency like the petals of the flowers; and as never before to man or woman you open your eyes widely and frankly, even the limbs move with the carelessness of the animals, the features lose the rigidity that comes of compromise and suppression.
Walking slowly thus, with a bowed head, you find an image of yourself and the universe in a shallow pool among the trees. The pool is your own mind. The flowers at its edge—hyacinth, primrose, marsh-marigold, and all the trees and their foliage—are the intimate and permanent companions of your life, and they are clearly mirrored in the water. An oak draws a long, snaky shadow from side to side, with the head and neck of a sitting dove among the leaves. And there, too, are the stars and the moon, brought down into that homely company of trees and flowers by the shining water, and preserved there in strangely woven patterns; just as in your mind you mingle visions of the world, the past, the imaginary, with your own domestic surroundings and acts, and a changing mood, like a pufF of wind across the pool, erases them. How sovereign and proud your own form plunged among these mirrored stars and leaves! On such a night an uncourageous lover, who sat at the edge with his mistress, was lured to a strange boldness by long gazing at the two blissful figures down there among the clouds. "See how fair they are," he said, "and how happy and close. Let us make them kiss." And the shadows kissed in the bosom of the pool.
# The Heart of England/Chapter 39

CHAPTER XXXIX
A HARVEST MOON
The first steep cornfield under the edge of the red moor lay all rough and warm with stubble in the evening light. The corn sheaves themselves were of a shining gold and leaned together in shocks that made long, low tents and invited the wayfarer to shelter and sleep. We had come over the moor for hours and this field was the beginning of a deep valley that stretched to the sea. Yonder was the sea, ten miles away, with a row of lights running out upon a nose of land far into it. The valley held one village half way towards the sea and several white farmhouses which sent the smoke of supper to explore the neighbouring ash trees.
A stream running straight from the moor gave us water and we ate our supper leaning against a corn shock. Our pipes soon went out, what with fatigue and indulgence in the warmth and the pleasant valley, brimming with summer haze and golden still.
We had been alone when, just as the light was going, two farm boys and a girl came into the field without noticing us. The girl sat at the top of the field and the boys took off their coats and laid them beside her. She arranged their folds and then sat straight up to watch. For down the field ran the boys, striding heavily side by ​side, each leaping the same shock until they had reached the bottom wall almost at the same time, where they argued and made claims to victory in broken voices. They walked quickly up again to the girl and threw themselves down panting, close to her, arguing together as much as they could without breath.
The girl laughed and said something; then they rose up and raced again, the heavier one this time encouraging himself with groans at each leap over the sheaves, flinging himself over with so much ferocity that he tumbled at the end well in front.
"You can jump, no mistake," said the girl to the winner. "But what's the matter with you?" she asked the other, putting a foxglove between her lips. Both were too much out of breath to speak, but in a few minutes started again. They ran faster than ever; they leapt well over the tops of the shocks, so high as to stumble at each descent. The winner of the last race could only just keep level with the other, and seemed about to collapse at each thundering jump, when his rival, beginning a great leap too early, fell in the middle of the shock and lost the race. They returned, the winner first, and lay sprawling, panting full in the girl's face.
"Well, Luke, you have won, and there's your kiss," she said to the heavier lad.
"And, John, you have been beaten; we did not say what the loser should have, so here's two for you," she went on, this time taking the flower out of her mouth. "And now, lads, race again!"
This time the race was never in doubt. John took each leap as if he aimed at the harvest moon that rose ​before him. Luke tripped at several sheaves, and, at the bottom, climbed over the stone wall and disappeared. As to John, he came back and began racing and leaping alone, until the girl, feeling cold or in need of some company, went off and left the proud fellow to the moon and the line of shocks.
# The Heart of England/Chapter 34

CHAPTER XXXIV
AUTUMN BELLS
From this beechen hill I can see into and across a long pastoral valley at my feet; its gentle sides running east and west are clothed in wood, and at the western end, where the valley leads straight out into the western sky, a stone city lies. Beyond this valley to the south are the misty, wooded ridges that hint at other valleys. The sunset light has made the landscape immense, but with the help of autumn it has made it simple too; and the sound of bells in the city seems to have created it, rounded and mellow in outline and hue. The little rounds of hedge-tops and knolls in the meadows and gorse in the higher slopes harmonise and run into the larger rounds of the single oaks in the middle distance, and the still larger rounds of the hills and their cloudy woods, and the clouds above them. A hawk in the air might seem to be carving the outlines of some perfect palm tree as he flies. The white steam also of a slow train far away bubbles up in the moist and gentle air and hangs there long in delicately changing and merging mounds that mock the clouds and woods. The amber wheat stacks are of the same family of form, lying in a half circle at one side of a hunched farmhouse that lifts up a dome of mossy thatch,—near it a garden of ​shadowed wallflower, snapdragon, roses, in clouds beyond clouds, with a burning edge of hollyhock, sunflower, red-hot poker and chrysanthemum.
The sound of the city bells continues to overflow in bubbles from the valley, up and up, to the round, golden clouds. As if filled with the sound, the city smoke ascends and takes on the colours of the sunset.
The sun is now low between the final walls of hill, where the valley ends, and it seems to belong to the city below, as if it were the city's god descending there for once in answer to some especially rich altar or noble deed. The towers and their bells are as maidens pensively embroidering, and now and then dropping their embroidery to sing a melody of something far away; and long after the sun has gone and the city has disappeared their song is repeated in the fragrant and noiseless abysses of the far-stretched night.
# The Glories of the Bhagavad Gita (Telang translation)/Chapter 17

English translation by Kāshināth Trimbak Telang (1850-1893) in 1882 (Volume 8, Sacred Books of the East).

## Bhagavad-gītā-Māhātmyam
### (The Glories of the Bhagavad-gītā) Chapter 17

From the Padma Purāṇa
Lord Shiva said, "My dear Parvati, you have heard the unlimited glories of the Sixteenth Chapter of Ṥrīmad Bhagavad-gītā. Now kindly hear the nectarine glories of the Seventeenth Chapter of Ṥrīmad Bhagavad-gītā.
King Khadgabahu's son had a servant by the name of Dushasan who was very crafty and exceptionally foolish. Dushasan made a bet with the prince that he could ride the elephant, at which time he jumped upon the elephant. After going a few steps, the people there started requesting him not to ride that dangerous elephant. But foolish Dushasan started to prod that elephant and used strong words to urge him on. Suddenly, the elephant became very angry and started to run wildly here and there. Unable to hold on, Dushasan fell to the ground. The elephant stomped on him and Dushasan died. After that he attained the body of an elephant in Simhaladvipa, where he stayed in the king's palace.
The king of Simhaladvipa was a close friend of King Khadgabahu. One day the king of Simhaladvipa decided to send that elephant as a present to his friend, King Khadgabahu, who in turn presented that elephant to a poet who had pleased him with his beautiful poetry.
Thereafter, that poet sold that elephant for one hundred gold coins to the king of Malva. After some time, that elephant contracted a terminal disease. When the elephant-keepers saw that the elephant had stopped eating and drinking, they reported the matter to the king. When the king found out, he went to the place of the elephant, along with the best of doctors. At that time, to the surprise of that king, the elephant started to speak. "My dear king, you are very pious and a strict follower of the Vedas. You always worship the lotus feet of Lord Vishnu. So you should know, that at this time, these medicines and doctors will be of no use. Neither any kind of charity or sacrifice will help at the time of death. If you care for me and want to help me, then bring someone who daily recites the Seventeenth Chapter of Ṥrīmad Bhagavad-gītā."
As requested by that elephant, the king brought one great devotee who regularly recited the Seventeenth Chapter of Ṥrīmad Bhagavad-gītā. That devotee, while chanting the Seventeenth Chapter, sprinkled water on the elephant, at which time he gave up his elephant body and attained a four-armed form similar to that of Lord Vishnu. He immediately sat down in a flower airplane, which had been sent to take him to Vaikuntha. While sitting in that airplane, the king inquired from him about his previous birth. Dushasan, after telling him everything, left for Vaikuntha, after which that best of men, the king of Malva, started regularly reciting the Seventeenth Chapter of Ṥrīmad Bhagavad-gītā. After a short time he attained the lotus feet of Lord Krishna.
# Biographical Sketches of Dekkan Poets/Manchana Matya

MANCHANA MATAYA.
Was a poet and historian of the Telugu country, he was well educated, and composed many historical works, the most celebrated of which is the history of Keyura Bahu, a king of the Sowrastra country, and his warlike deeds and actions. Manchana Matya was raised, to the dignity of privy councillor at the court of the Prince of Kondavide of the Reddiwar family, and composed the above work during his leisure hours.
# Biographical Sketches of Dekkan Poets/Mohanangi

MOHANANGI.
This poetess was a princess, aod the daughter of Kristna Royaloo, she received an excellent education in her infancy, and was well versed in rhetoric and poetry, while in the bloom of youth she married Ramoroyaloo; after which she still continued her studies, and employed much of her time in reading, celebrated Telegu works, composed by the poets at her fathers court: by constant application she attained to considerable proficiency in the art of versification, and wrote a poem entitled Marichi Parinaya, the subject of which is taken from the Mahabarat. In this poem a very elegant discription is given of the Marichi damsels. The work consists of five books. This princess had no issue, and became unfortunately a widow, in the prime of life, and (according to tradition) was immolated on the funeral pile of her husband.
# Biographical Sketches of Dekkan Poets/Molli

MOLLI.
This poetess was the daughter of a potter, and flourished during the reign of Krishna Deva ​Maharayuloo. Her parents had her well educated, and her genius expanded with her age. She had so fertile an invention, that according to tradition she composed the story of Ramayana, while her hair was drying after bathing: this work was widely disseminated after publication, and much admired by the learned, and used at, public schools and other seminaries.
# Biographical Sketches of Dekkan Poets/Nannaya Bhatt

NANNAYA BHATT.
This poet flourished in a very remote period, and was contemporary with Rajah Rajnarindra, king of the Rajamahendry; from his very infancy his mind was turned towards religious duties, and he made very rapid progress in his studies of the sciences, he was very learned in the Vedes, and performed numerous sacrifices. He Wrote a grammar of the Telugu language, and entitled it Andhra Sabda Chintamani and Lakshanasara, in the composition of this work profound, learning and extensive reading is evinced, and Nannaya Bhatt was well qualified to compile a work on philology, as he had carefully studied ​the treatises written by Brihaspati and Vyasa. This poet also translated two volumes of the Mahabharat into Telugu, in conjunction with Narainbhat, a bramin of the Indra sect, but while employed in translating the third volume, Nannaya unfortunately died, and as no other poet would undertake to complete the translation, a disciple of Nannaya Bahtt named Balasaraswati who was a fellow student with Sarangadhara the son of Raja Rajnaraindra, completed the work after intense labor and application. Nannaya Bhatt it is said, met with a primature death, and although he was a celebrated poet, and his works held in very great estimation throughout the peninsula, yet authentic traditions furnish, but very scanty materials to compile his biography.
# Biographical Sketches of Dekkan Poets/Mani Kyavasar

MANI KYAVASAR.
A bramin, Tamul poet of the Dravida country and a native of Chidambaram. After leaving school he became very religious, and composed many poems on the deity of Chidambaram. He collected all his effusions together in one volume and called it Chidambaram Cora, he was much respected and esteemed by his disciples, and by all classes of inhabitants, and died in a good old age.
# Biographical Sketches of Dekkan Poets/Murega

MUREGA.
Was born at Kaveripatam, in the Chola country, she was reared up by a toddy-woman, and wrote a few poems on miscellaneous subjects.
# Biographical Sketches of Dekkan Poets/Namadeo

NAMADEO.
This poet was a tailor, he was born in a village called Gopalpore, which is situated near Pandrapore, and was contemporary with Shahogiy. In the eigth year of his age Namadeo became a disciple of Kristna, and gave indications that he would become a great sage and philosopher: he abstained from rice, and milk was the only non- ​rishment he took. It is given out that he performed several miracles, and constantly spent his time in the praises of the god of Pandrapore. He composed one hundred verses in the Maharata language, consisting of applauses of the deity. Namadeo died in the fortieth year of his age.
# Biographical Sketches of Dekkan Poets/Monaparto

MONAPARTO.
A Maharata, brahmin and Inhabitant of Satarah, he lived 200 years ago, and in his infancy was educated in the Maharata language. He afterwards entered the service of the Satara Rajah as a writer to the Royal Cavalry, and continued in this occupation till his fortieth year, when he became a disciple of the God Vital, and composed one hundred Araya verses, in the Maharata language, containing the praise of Vishnu. He died in the fiftieth year of his age, at Pandrapore.
# Biographical Sketches of Dekkan Poets/Muddu Runga Chokanadh

MUDDU RUNGA CHOKANADH.
This poet was by cast a Gentoo, he was born at Trichanapuly, and of illustrious descent, for his father was Vijaya Ranga Chakanadh, a petty sovereign of the Tanjore country, under the dominion of the Vijayanagar government.— Muddu Runga Chakanadh retained at his court various learned men, and poets, to whom he gave very great encouragement, as well as to singers and musicians; he was a votary of the Sriramgam diety, and made a translation of the legendary account of Ranganadh, which comprises various subjects as follows:—Treatise on various articles, account of excavations of different weights and measures on gold mines, on the precious metals—on mathematics and mensuration.—All these subjects are related in a plain and perspicuous manner, so as to come within the comprehension of the commonest ​understanding——and this work has much conduced to the edification of succeeding generation, as it forms one of their principal class books, The author died while in charge of the administration of public affairs.