OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/The Ballad of Oriana

THE
BALLAD OF ORIANA.
My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana.
Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana: Winds were blowing, waters flowing, We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana, Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana.
In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight. Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana.
She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana: She watch'd my crest among them all, Oriana: She saw me fight, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana.
The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana: The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana; The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana!
Oh! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oriana. Oh! deathful stabs were dealt apace, The battle deepen'd in its place, Oriana; But I was down upon my face, Oriana.
They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana! How could I rise and come away, Oriana? How could I look upon the day? They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana— They should have trod me into clay, Oriana.
Oh! breaking heart that will not break, Oriana; Oh! pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana. Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana: What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, Oriana?
I cry aloud: none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. Within thy heart my arrow lies, Oriana.
Oh cursed hand! Oh cursed blow! Oriana! Oh happy thou that liest low, Oriana! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana!
When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, I walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/The Blackbird

THE BLACKBIRD.
O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbours shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground. Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.
The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park: The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall.
Yet, though I spared thee kith and kin, Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jennetin.
A golden bill! the silver tongue, Cold February loved, is dry: Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young:
And in the sultry garden-squares, Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares.
Take warning! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/The Death of the Old Year

THE
DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
i.
And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die.
ii.
He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go.
iii.
A jollier year we shall not see. But though his eyes are waxing dim, And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die.
iv.
But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own.
v.
I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die.
vi.
Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/Song

SONG.
i.
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: To himself he talks; For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers: Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.
ii.
Asa sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/Song—The Owl

SONG.—THE OWL.
When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay. Twice or thrice his roundelay: Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/Sonnet to J. M. K.

SONNET TO J. M. K.
My hope and heart is with thee—thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the master's feast; Our dusted velvets have much need of thee: Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws, Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily; But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron -worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 24/April 1884/Photographing a Streak of Lightning

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* PHOTOGRAPHING A STREAK OF LIGHTNING.
By GASTON TISSANDIER.
A BOHEMIAN observer, M. Robert Haensel, of Reichenberg, has succeeded in accurately photographing a flash of lightning. His pictures, of which he has taken several, show the light of the flash, under the form of long, continuous sparks, traversing the atmosphere. With the spark the landscape also is well produced, and a means is
Fig. 1.
Wheatstone demonstrated by direct experiments of great ingenuity that single flashes of lightning do not last more than a millionth of a second. We may judge from this of the wonderful sensibility of the new gelatine-bromide plates which permit the taking of correct views under these conditions.
M. Haensel has given a short account of the circumstances under which his photographs were taken and of the processes he employed. On the 6th of July, 1883, during a storm, when the sky was traversed
Fig. 2.
by frequent flashes of lightning, he turned his instrument at about ten o'clock in the evening toward that point whence the strongest flashes seemed to issue. The apparatus was furnished with the most sensitive gelatine-bromide plates, and the flash left its own impression upon them as it was formed. Out of ten plates that were exposed, he obtained only four photographs, of two of which we here give exact copies, taken from heliographic reproductions by M. Gillot, of Paris. The first figure represents two flashes. In the left one will be observed a double spark, which also appears triple in the middle. ​Simultaneously with this flash the sky was traversed by another, which also appears ramified in even a more complicated manner than its companion. The second figure represents in all its beauty a flash with many extensive and divergent ramifications.—Translated for the Popular Science Monthly from La Nature.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/I am the People, the Mob

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I am the People, the Mob
By CARL SANDBURG.
I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me? I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world's food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons
come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns. I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget. Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then—I forget. When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year, who played me for a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the world say the name: "The People," with any fleck of a sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision. The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Mourn Not the Dead

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Mourn Not the Dead
By RALPH CHAPLIN.
Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie— Dust unto dust— The calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die As all men must; Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell— Too strong to strive— Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell, Buried alive; But rather mourn the apathetic throng— The cowed and the meek— Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong And dare not speak!
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Muckers

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Muckers
By CARL SANDBURG.
Twenty men stand watching the muckers Stabbing the sides of the ditch Where clay gleams yellow, Driving the blades of their shovels Deeper and deeper for the new gas malns, Wiping sweat off their faces With red bandanas. The muckers work on. . . pausing. . . to pull Their boots out of suckholes where they slosh.
Of the twenty looking on Ten murmur, "O, it's a hell of a job." Ten others, "Jesus, I wish I had the job."
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Night on the Convoy

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Night on the Convoy Alexandria-Marseilles
By SIGFRIED SASSOON
Out in the blustering darkness, on the deck A gleam of stars looks down. Long blurs of black, The lean Destroyers, level with our track, Plunging and stealing, watch the perilous way, Through backward racing seas and caverns of chill spray.
One sentry by the davits, in the gloom Stands mute; the boat heaves onward through the night. Shrouded is every chink of cabined light: And sluiced by floundering waves that hiss and boom, And crash like guns, the troop-ship shudders . . . doom.
Now something at my feet stirs with a sigh; And slowly growing used to groping dark, I know that the hurricane-deck, down all its length, Is heaped and spread with lads in sprawling strength,— Blanketed soldiers sleeping. In the stark Danger of life at war, they lie so still, All prostrate and defenceless, head by head . . . And I remember Arras, and that hill Where dumb with pain I stumble among the dead.
We are going home. The troop-ship, in a thrill O fiery-chamber'd anguish, throbs and rolls. We are going home . . . victims . . . three thousand souls
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/John Reed's Body

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John Reed's Body
By MICHAEL GOLD.
John Reed, died in Moscow, October, 17, 1920.
John Reed, our captain, his body fills a grave. The lion-heart is patient, the warrier is bones. The grass is his brother, and his pulse once so brave, Now beats but as faintly as atoms beat in stones.
Death is for dreaming, but now the world's in flame, And we are living men, and hope is everywhere, The strong unhappy poor, in Communism's name, Are writing cannon-poems, that batter down despair.
So dream not, but chant the scarlet songs of Life, Fight, sing and hope, for we are living men, Raise John Reed's banner in the thickest of the strife Ere we lie down to dream with him again.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Nobody Knows

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Nobody Knows
By EDWARD CONNOR.
Oh, nobody knows where the hobo goes, Nobody knows, nobody knows; Nobody knows where the hobo goes, That’s the way the old song goes. Boom a little saxophone, rap the little drums, Make a little music for the doggone bums, And we'll sing a little ditty till the old freight comes, Then we’re going where nobody knows.
There's nobody knows where the hobo goes When the sun shines warm and jungles call, Oh, nobody knows where the old bo goes When the long straw's yellow in the fall. Old cars a-coughin' up the old Soo line, Hoosier's surely makin' that old separator whine, Pitchin' in the field is where the old boes shine; Oh, nobody knows where the old bo goes When the long straw's yellow in the fall.
And nobody knows where the young bo goes When the cold north wind Starts to whistle through his clothes; Oh, nobody knows where the young bo goes When the snowballs rattle on his spine. Turp' camp down in Gawgia, Cracker on a stump; ​Big bull whip he carries, makes the blizzard-dodgers hump; Watch 'em flag it out of Gawgia when they've done their little bump; But nobody knows where the young bo goes, When the snowballs rattle on his spine.
Oh, nobody knows where the hobo goes, When his pals don't meet him any more, Nobody knows where the hobo goes, When he's tapped on his last back door. Katy flier strung him half a mile. Not much left except the clothes he wore.
Not so loudly, saxophone; not so lively drum, A little soft music for a hard luck bum, And we'll sing a little ditty till the track hands come, To put him where he should have been before. For nobody knows where the hobo goes, The young bo goes, the old bo goes, Oh, nobody knows where the dead bo goes When he's tapped on his last back door.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Graceland

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Graceland
By CARL SANDBURG
Tomb of a millionaire, A multi-millionaire, ladies and gentlemen, Place of the dead where they spend every year The usury of twenty-five thousand dollars For upkeep and flowers To keep fresh the memory of the dead. The merchant prince gone to dust Commanded in his written will Over the signed name of his last testament Twenty-five thousand dollars be set aside For roses, lilacs, hydrangeas, tulips, For perfume and color, sweetness of remembrance Around his last long home.
(A hundred cash girls want nickles to go to the movies tonight. In the back stalls of a hundred saloons, women are at tables Drinking with men or waiting for men jingling loose silver dollars in their pockets. In a hundred furnished rooms is a girl who sells silk or dress goods or leather stuff for six dollars a week wages And when she pulls on her stockings in the morning she is reckless about God and the newspapers and the police, the talk of her home town or the name people call her.)
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Gunmen in West Virginia

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"Gunmen" in West Virginia.
By A Paint Creek Miner.
The hills are very bare and cold and lonely; I wonder what the future months will bring. The strike is on—our strength would win, if only— O, Buddy, how I'm longing for the spring!
They've got us down—their martial lines enfold us; They've thrown us out to feel the winter's sting, And yet, by God, those curs can never hold us, Nor could the dogs of hell do such a thing!
It isn't just to see the hills beside me Grow fresh and green with every growing thing; I only want the leaves to come and hide me, To cover up my vengeful wandering.
I will not watch the floating clouds that hover Above the birds that warble on the wing; I want to use this GUN from under cover― O, Buddy, how I'm longing for the spring!
You see them there, below, the damned scab-herders! Those puppets on the greedy Owner's String; We'll make them pay for all their dirty murders― We'll show them how a starveling's hate can sting!
​They riddled us with volley after volley; We heard their speeding bullets zip and ring, But soon we'll make them suffer for their folly― O, Buddy, how I'm longing for the spring!
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/I. W. W.

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I. W. W.
By DONALD M. CROCKER.
Sons of the sansculottes, Savage, erect, disdainful, Proud of their pariah estate, They return to the civilization that has cast them out, Hate for hate and blow for blow. Society denied them all life's sweet, soft, comfortable things, And so society raised up unto itself its destroyers.
Reckless of the jails, of the policemen's clubs, of the lynching parties made up of frightened good citizens, Cheerfully accepting the anathema of all reputable people and lovers of law and order, They laugh aloud and sing out of their little red book Blasphemous ribaldries against all the gods and all the masters. (Beware, gods and masters, of rebels who laugh and sing!) Onward to the conquest of earth these outlaws press, Pausing by the corpses of their martyrs only long enough To utter, grim-lipped, "We remember."
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/In Trafalgar Square

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In Trafalgar Square
By FRANCIS W. L. ADAMS.
The stars shone faint through the smoky blue; The church-bells were ringing; Three girls, arms laced, were passing through, Tramping and singing.
Their heads were bare; their short skirts swung As they went along; Their scarf-covered breasts heaved up, as they sung Their defiant song.
It was not too clean, their feminine lay, But it thrilled me quite With its challenge to task-master villainous day And infamous night.
With its threat to the robber rich, the proud, The respectable free. And I laughed and shouted to them aloud, And they shouted to me!
"Girls, that's the shout, the shout we will utter When, with rifles and spades, We stand, with the old Red Flag aflutter, On the barricades!"
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon in Friendship’s Offering, 1827/Song

​Taken from The Ladies’ Companion (editor Edgar Allan Poe), August 1835, page 167
Song.
I wrote my name upon the sand;  I thought I wrote it on thine heart. I had no touch of fear, that words,  Such words, so graven, could depart.
The sands, thy heart, alike have lost  The name I trusted to their care; And passing waves, and worldly thoughts,  Effaced what once was written there.
Woe, for the false sands! and worse woe,  That thou art falsest of the twain! I, yet, may write upon the sands,  But never on thine heart, again.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon in Friendship’s Offering, 1828/The Boon

THE BOON.
BY L. E. L.
Come tell me, love, if I had power
As I have will to waste on thee,—
 Not waste—for never fairy's dower
Could seem too precious thine to be:
 If I had power to give thee all
The earth, the ocean, or the air
 E'er girdled in their mighty thrall,
What wouldst thou, Maiden, for thy share?
 What wilt thou have? Shall time restore
The wonders of those fallen walls,
 Palmyra's giant domes of yore?
Wilt dwell a queen in marble halls?
 Must shining columns rear thy dome
To rival midnight's starry sky?
 The quarry yields too mean a home,—
The golden mine shall thine supply.
 Kings shall lay down their diadems
To glitter on thy meanest slave;
 Thy lightest step shall be on gems,
Or pearls yet dewy from the wave.
Old Egypt's valleys of the rose
Shall feed thy lamps with fragrant oil;
 Thy ivory caskets shall enclose
The sweet Manilla's fragrant spoil.
 The East shall send its spice and gold,
The West, its labour and its skill,
 To raise for thee a fairy hold,
To win thy smile, and work thy will.
 There never shall the winter lower,
But summer soften into spring;
 There shall no branch mourn faded flower,
There shall no bird forget to sing.
 Thou dost love flowers—the glorious dyes
That paint the eastern world shall dwell
 By those that catch our April skies,—
The violet thou lovest so well.
 Down dropped the wreath she bound the while,
When ceased the voice on which she hung;
 She gave him one sweet serious smile,
And spoke as if a lute were strung.
 "Ah!" said the maid, "an easy task,
From the wide world to choose my part;
 What of thine empire could I ask,
But what is now mine own—thy heart?"
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1835/The Billet-Doux

* THE BILLET-DOUX
* Painted by G. S. Newton R. A.Engraved by S. Sangster
THE BILLET-DOUX.
BY MISS L. E. LANDON.
I.
Yes! sweet letter, I will keep thee
 Years—alas! it may be years;
Midnight's lonely hour shall steep thee
 With the tenderest, truest tears.
’T is his last—his farewell letter,
 Doomed 'mid distant lands to rove;
He may find a brighter, better,
 Never a more faithful love.
II.
Yet to such vain fear replying,
 When the days pass long and lone;
Still my heart, on his relying,
 For his truth will pledge its own.
Ah! the love from childhood cherished
 Links a sweet and household tie;
If such old affection perished,
 All life's early hopes must die.
III.
He will think, when summer weather
 Lights some foreign forest glade,
How we used to roam together
 In the greenwood's golden shade.
When strange flowers are round him blowing,
 Purple in their eastern pride;
He'll recall the wild ones growing
 By his native river's side.
IV.
On some stranger's hearth when gazing
 With a home-awakened heart,
He 'll but see the wood fire blazing
 Where we wont to sit apart.
All life's dearest links enthrall thee,
 Wheresoever thou may'st roam;
Every thought that can recall me,
 Must recall, too, youth and home.
V.
Yes! I see the gliding motion
 Of his vessel on the deep;
Oh thou far and fearful ocean,
 Carefully my loved one keep.
Ah, ye white sails slowly sweeping,
 Like the wings of some vast bird,
Stay one moment for my weeping:  Let my last farewell be heard.
VI.
Tell him how each morning breathing
 Shall my constant prayer ascend;
How the earliest flowers enwreathing,
 I shall at our altar bend.
May St. Geneviève watch o'er him,
 Every night I'll seek her shrine;
May she to his home restore him,
 To a home that will be mine.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon in Friendship's Offering, 1828/The Banner of Five Byzants

THE BANNER OF FIVE BYZANTS.
The subject of this ballad is taken from an account of a young knight, Allan le Zouch, at the siege of Caerlaverock, who bore a banner set with five byzants. This anecdote is in Mr. Nicolas's beautiful work, now preparing for the press.
St. George for merrie England!
Fling our banner to the breeze;
That flag is borne to sweep the shore,
As it has swept the seas.
St. George for merrie England!
Our step is on the land,
Oh, France! thy sun is wrong, to shine
On English battle-brand.
The pennons float o'er gallant ranks,
With heart and eye of flame:
Some ride to win their lady's grace;
Some for a warrior's name.
I wear no colours in my cap,
And little do I care,
When monkish chronicles are writ,
Though my name be not there.
I will not fight for lady's love,
Life is a price too high;
I will not shed my blood for what
A few soft words will buy.
And still less reck I of the fame
For which the madman bleeds;
'Tis but a record on the page One of a thousand reads.
See, yonder sweeps my pennon brave,
With byzants scattered o'er
But sparingly,—they were my last—
Now I must fight for more.
I love the festal hall, where smiles
Light up the purple wine;
And ever to win entrance there,
Or gold or steel must shine.
My banner, with its red byzants,
Points out the soldier's way—
On, on! that golden crest must be The foremost in the fray.
L. E. L.