OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Stanzas. "One struggle more, and I am free"

ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE.
1.
One struggle more, and I am free From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One last long sigh to Love and thee, Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below, What future grief can touch me more?
2.
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; Man was not formed to live alone; I'll be that light unmeaning thing That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear, It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here; Thou'rt nothing,—all are nothing now.
3.
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe! The smile that Sorrow fain would wear But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, Like roses o'er a sepulchre. Though gay companions o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though Pleasure fires the maddening soul, The Heart,—the Heart is lonely still!
4.
On many a lone and lovely night It soothed to gaze upon the sky; For then I deemed the heavenly light Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon"— Alas, it gleamed upon her grave!
5.
When stretched on Fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, ​"'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, "That Thyrza cannot know my pains:" Like freedom to the time-worn slave— A boon 'tis idle then to give— Relenting Nature vainly gave My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!
6.
My Thyrza's pledge in better days, When Love and Life alike were new! How different now thou meet'st my gaze! How tinged by time with Sorrow's hue! The heart that gave itself with thee Is silent—ah, were mine as still! Though cold as e'en the dead can be, It feels, it sickens with the chill.
7.
Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! Though painful, welcome to my breast! Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, Or break the heart to which thou'rt pressed. Time tempers Love, but not removes, More hallowed when its Hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves To that which cannot quit the dead?
[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]
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Variants
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Notes
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# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Stanzas for Music. "There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away"

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater Felix! in imo qui scatentem Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."
Gray's Poemata.
[Motto to "The Tear," Poetical Works, 1898, i. 49.]
1.
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in Feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on Youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere Youth itself be past.
2.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.
3.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like Death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
4.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.
5.
Oh, could I feel as I have felt,—or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
March, 1815. [First published, Poems, 1816.]
* ↑ [Byron gave these verses to Moore for Mr. Power of the Strand, who published them, with music by Sir John Stevenson. "I feel merry enough," he wrote, March 2, "to send you a sad song." And again, March 8, 1815, "An event—the death of poor Dorset—and the recollection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt now, but could not—set me pondering, and finally into the train of thought which you have in your hands." A year later, in another letter to Moore, he says, "I pique myself on these lines as being the truest, though the most melancholy, I ever wrote." (March 8, 1816.)—Letters, 1899. iii. 181, 183, 274.]
* ↑ 'Tis not the blush alone that fades from Beauty's cheek.—[MS.]
* ↑ As ivy o'er the mouldering wall that heavily hath crept.—[MS.]
* ↑ [Compare— "And oft we see gay ivy's wreath The tree with brilliant bloom o'erspread, When, part its leaves and gaze beneath, We find the hidden tree is dead." "To Anna," The Warrior's Return, etc. by Mrs. Opie, 1808, p. 144.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian Gulf

STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF
1.
Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, Full beams the moon on Actium's coast: And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, The ancient world was won and lost.
2.
And now upon the scene I look, The azure grave of many a Roman; Where stern Ambition once forsook His wavering crown to follow Woman.
3.
Florence! whom I will love as well (As ever yet was said or sung. Since Orpheus sang his spouse from Hell) Whilst thou art fair and I am young;
4.
Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, When worlds were staked for Ladies' eyes: ​Had bards as many realms as rhymes, Thy charms might raise new Antonies.
5.
Though Fate forbids such things to be, Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curled! I cannot lose a world for thee, But would not lose thee for a World.
November 14, 1809. [MS. M. First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]
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Variants
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Notes
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# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Stanzas. "Remember him, whom Passion's Power"

REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER.
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Variants
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Notes
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# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Stanzas. "Thou art not false, but thou art fickle"

THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE.
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Variants
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# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Stanzas for Music. "Bright be the place of thy soul!"

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
1.
Bright be the place of thy soul! No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control, In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine, As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine When we know that thy God is with thee.
2.
Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be! There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. ​Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest?
[First published, Examiner, June 4, 1815.]
* ↑ —— shall eternally be.—[MS. erased.]
* ↑ Green be the turf ——.—[MS.]
* ↑ [Compare "O lay me, ye that see the light, near some rock of my hills: let the thick hazels be around, let the rustling oaks be near. Green be the place of my rest."—"The War of Inis-Thona," Works of Ossian, 1765, i. 156.]
* ↑ May its verdure be sweetest to see.—[MS.]
* ↑ Young flowers and a far-spreading tree May wave on the spot of thy rest; But nor cypress nor yew let it be.—[MS.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Stanzas for Music. "They say that Hope is happiness"

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
I.
They say that Hope is happiness; But genuine Love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose the first—they set the last;
II.
And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only Hope to be, And all that Hope adored and lost Hath melted into Memory.
III.
Alas! it is delusion all: The future cheats us from afar, Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are.
[First published, Fugitive Pieces, 1829.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Stanzas for Music. "I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name"

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: ​But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.
2.
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, Were those hours—can their joy or their bitterness cease? We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain,— We will part, we will fly to—unite it again!
3.
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! Forgive me, adored one!—forsake, if thou wilt;— But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased And man shall not break it—whatever thou mayst.
4.
And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be: And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet, With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.
5.
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; And the heartless may wonder at all I resign— Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.
May 4, 1814. [First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 554.]
* ↑ ["Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase."—Letter to Moore, May 4, 1814, Letters, 1899, iii. 80.]
* ↑ I speak not—I breathe not—I write not that name.—[MS. erased.]
* ↑ We have loved—and oh, still, my adored one we love! Oh the moment is past, when that Passion might cease.—[MS. erased.]
* ↑ The thought may be madness—the wish may be guilt.—[MS. erased.]
* ↑ $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ But I cannot repent what we ne'er can recall. But the heart which is thine would disdain to recall.—[MS. erased.]
* ↑ —— though I feel that thou mayst.—[MS. L. erased.]
* ↑ This soul in its bitterest moments shall be, And our days run as swift—and our moments more sweet, With thee at my side, than the world at my feet.—[MS.]
* ↑ And thine is that love which I will not forego, Though the price which I pay be Eternity's woe.—[MS. erased.]
* ↑ One tear of thy sorrow, one smile ——.— [MS. erased.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Stanzas for Music. "There be none of Beauty's daughters"

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
1.
There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed Ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming:
2.
And the midnight Moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
March 28 [1816]. [First published, Poems, 1816.]
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From William King (St Mary Hall) to Jonathan Swift - 4

FROM DR. KING.
I HOPE you received a letter I wrote to you from Oxford, about the thirtieth of last month, in which I acquainted you with the publication of Rochefoucault; and as I interest myself most heartily in every thing that concerns your character as an author, so I take great pleasure in telling you, that none of your works have been better received by the publick than this poem. I observe this with ​more than ordinary satisfaction, because I may urge the approbation of the publick as some kind of apology for myself, if I shall find you are dissatisfied with the form in which this poem now appears. But if that should happen, all the rest of your friends on this side of the water must share the blame with me; for I have absolutely conformed myself to their advice and opinion as to the manner of the publication. There are some lines, indeed, which I omitted with a very ill will, and for no other reason, but because I durst not insert them, I mean the story of the medals; however, that incident is pretty well known, and care has been taken that almost every reader may be able to supply the blanks. That part of the poem which mentions the death of queen Anne, and so well describes the designs of the ministry, which succeeded upon the accession of the late king, I would likewise willingly have published, if I could have done it with safety; but I do not know whether the present worthy set of ministers would not have construed this passage into high treason, by aid of the new doctrine of innuendoes: at least a lawyer, whom I consulted on this occasion, gave me some reason to imagine this might be the case. I am in truth more cautious than I used to be, well knowing that my superiours look on me at present with a very evil eye, as I am the reputed author of the Latin poem I have sent you by the same gentleman, who does me the favour to deliver you this letter: for although that piece has escaped the state inquisition, by being written in a language that is not at present very well understood at court, and might perhaps puzzle the attorney general to explain, yet the scope of the poem and principal ​characters being well understood, the author must hereafter expect no mercy, if he give his enemies any grounds or colour to attack him. But notwithstanding all my caution, if I perceive you dislike this manner and form of the poem, I will, some way or other, contrive that it may be published as you shall direct.
I send you my best wishes, and I hope you will yet live many years in a perfect state for the sake of your friends, for the benefit of your country, and for the honour of mankind; and I beg you to believe that I am, with the greatest truths sir, your most humble and most obedient servant,
W. K.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From William King (St Mary Hall) to Jonathan Swift - 3

FROM DR. KING.
ST. MARY-HALL, OXFORD,
AT length I have put Rochefoucault to the press, and about ten or twelve days hence it will be published. But I am in great fear lest you should dislike the liberties I have taken. Although I have done nothing without the advice and approbation of those among your friends in this country, who love and esteem you most, and zealously interest themselves in every thing that concerns your character. As they are much better judges of mankind than I am, I very readily submitted to their opinion; however, if after having received the printed copies, which I will send you next week, ​you shall still resolve to have the poem published as entire as you put it into my hands, I will certainly obey your commands, if I can find a proper person to undertake the work. I shall go to London the latter end of the next week, when I will write to you by a private hand more fully than I can venture to do by the post.
I was at Twickenham in the Christmas week. Mr. Pope had just then received a letter from you, and I had the pleasure of hearing you were well and in good spirits. May those good spirits continue with you to the last hour!
Believe me to be, with the greatest truth, sir, your most obedient and most faithful servant,
W K.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From William King (St Mary Hall) to Martha Whiteway - 3

DR. KING TO MRS. WHITEWAY.
A VERY kind letter, which I have just received from you, has put me into great confusion. I beg of you to be assured, that I think myself under the highest obligations to you, and that I set a true value on the friendship with which you have honoured me, and shall endeavour to preserve it as long as I live. If our correspondence has been interrupted, it has been wholly owing to the ill treatment I received from the postoffice; for some time I did not receive a letter that had not been opened, and very often my letters were delivered to me with ​the seals torn off. Whether those postofficers really thought me, what I never thought myself, a man of importance, or whether they imagined my letters were a cover for some greater name, I do not know; but for my part, I grew peevish, to find my friendships, and all my little chitchat, must constantly be exposed to the view of every dirty fellow, that had leisure or curiosity enough to examine my letters. However, for some little time past, I have not had the same cause of complaint. Your letter was delivered to me in good condition; I begin to think my superiours no longer suspect me of holding any unwarrantable correspondence, especially since I find I may now venture to write to the dean, even by the Oxford post. Notwithstanding what you say, I am in some pain about Rochefoucault, and doubt much whether he will be satisfied with the manner in which he finds it published; to which I consented in deference to Mr. Pope's judgment, and the opinion of others of the dean's friends in this country, who, I am sure, love and honour him, and kindly concern themselves in every thing that may affect him. The town has received this piece so well, that in all parts, and in all companies, I hear it extremely commended; and not only the dean's friends, but his greatest enemies, acknowledge that he has not lost any part of his fire, and of that inimitable turn of wit and humour so peculiar to himself. For my part, I never read any of his works either in prose or verse, that I do not call to mind that short character which cardinal Polignac gave him in speaking to me, Il a ľ esprit créateur, which I mentioned to you in a former letter, if I remember rightly. It may not be amiss ​to tell you, that one Gally, or Gaillie, since this poem was printed, offered it to sale to a bookseller at Temple bar; and I am now told that there are two or three copies more in London. Gaillie pretends that he is just come from Ireland, and that he had directions to publish the poem here; so that perhaps the whole may at least appear, whether he will or not.
I am glad to hear that my friend Mr. Swift is well. When are we to see him again in Oxford? Since you appeal to him for a voucher, although you need none with me, let him likewise do me the justice to tell you, that he never heard me mention your name but with the greatest esteem and respect; with which I shall ever be, madam, your most obedient and most-faithful servant,
W. K.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From William Pulteney to Jonathan Swift - 5

FROM WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ.
I AM obliged to you for your letter by Dr. Stopford; to which I am sorry I can so soon, by him, ​return you an answer. I have scarce had any opportunity of seeing him. One day, believing we should have had no business in parliament, I desired him to dine with me; but unluckily a debate arose, which kept us till nine at night before we sat down to dinner. We have had a very fatiguing session, more from the severe attendance on elections, than any other publick business. The ministers have been defeated in their expectation of weeding the house; and upon the whole, we stand stronger in numbers than we did at first setting out.
I have sent you the copy of a bill, now depending in our house, for the encouragement of learning (as the title bears) but I think, it is rather of advantage to booksellers than authors. Whether it will pass or not this session, I cannot say; but if it should not, I should be glad of your thoughts upon it against another session. It seems to me to be extremely imperfect at present. I hope you have many more writings to oblige the world with, than those which have been so scandalously stolen from you. And when a bill of this nature passes in England (as I hope it will next year) you may then secure the property to any friend, or any charitable use you think fit.
I thank you for the many kind expressions of friendship in your letter. If my publick conduct has recommended me to your esteem, I am extremely proud of the reward, and value it more than those do, who attain foolish ribands, or foolish titles, vilia servitutis præmia. Pray therefore continue me your friendship, and believe me, with the greatest ​sincerity and regard, dear sir, your most humble and obedient servant,
W. PULTENEY.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Bowen-Colthurst, Capt. John

​BOWEN-COLTHURST, Capt. John, F.R.G.S.: served in S. African War, 1899-1901; Tibet expdn., 1904; Capt. 2nd Batt., E. Irish Rifles, 1907, ret. p. 1916; eldest son of late Robt. Walter Travers Bowen, of Oakgrove, Carrigadrohid (who assumed by royal licence addtl. name of Colthurst, 1882, and Georgina de Bellasis, only dau. of Alfred Greer, J.P., of Dripsey House, Co. Cork: b. 1880; m. 1910, Hon. Rosalinda, 4th dau. of 25th Baron Dunboyne. Res.: Oakgrove. Killinardrish, Cork; Dripsey Castle, Coachford, Co. Cork.
# Thom's Irish Who's Who/Boydell, James Frederick

​BOYDELL, James Frederick, Maltster and Grain Merchant, 13 and 14 Robert Street, W., Dublin; second son of the late James Boydell, Esq., J.P. Recns.: motoring and shooting. Res.: 16 Shrewsbury Road, Dublin. Club: R. Irish Automobile.