OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Landon in The New Monthly 1837/Awakening Endymion

4
The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 49, Pages 73-76
(73)
SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES.
THIRD SERIES.
I.
The Awakening of Endymion.
Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him,
 Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid;
Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him,
 Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is undecay'd.
When will he awaken?
When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying
 Night after night, and the cry has been in vain;
Winds, woods, and waves, found echoes for replying,
 But the tones of the beloved one were never heard again.
When will he awaken?
Ask'd the midnight's silver queen.
Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping;
 Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for him as dead;
By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping,
 And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed.
When will he awaken?—
Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring,
 Long has Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed above;
When will the Fates, the life of life restoring,
 Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring love?
When will he awaken?
Asks the midnight's weary queen.
Beautiful the sleep that she has watch'd untiring,
 Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky,
Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring,
 Softened by the woman's meek and loving sigh.
When will he awaken? He has been dreaming of old heroic stories,
 The poet's passionate world has entered in his soul;
He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories,
 When sages and when kings first uphold the mind's control.
When will he awaken?
Ask'd midnight's stately queen.
Lo! the appointed midnight! the present hour is fated;
 It is Endymion's planet that rises on the air;
How long, how tenderly his goddess love has waited,
 Waited with a love too mighty for despair.
Soon he will awaken!
Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing,
 Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing flowers depart;
Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos, but is bringing
 Music that is murmur'd from nature's inmost heart.
Soon he will awaken,
To his and midnight's queen!
Lovely is the green earth—she knows the hour is holy;
 Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy;
Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly
 O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy.
Soon he will awaken!
Red as the red rose towards the morning turning,
 Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his own,
While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and burning
 With a life more glorious than ere they closed was known.
Yes, he has awakened
For the midnight's happy queen!
What is this old history but a lesson given,
 How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth,
How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven,  Sanctify the visions of hope, faith, and youth.
'Tis for such they waken! When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken,
 Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted few;
Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken
 To a being more intense, more spiritual and true.
So doth the soul awaken,
Like that youth to night's fair queen!
# Landon in The New Monthly 1836/Subjects for Pictures

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The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 47, Pages 175 to 179
(175)
SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES.
BY L. E. L.
What seek I here to gather into words?
The scenes that rise before me as I turn
The pages of old times. A word—a name—
Conjures the past before me, till it grows
More actual than the present: that—I see
But with the common eyes of daily life,
Imperfect and impatient; but the past
Out of imagination works its truth, And grows distinct with poetry.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838/Djouni. The Residence of Lady Hester Stanhope

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* DJOUNI,
* THE RESIDENCE OF LADY HESTER STANHOPE.
* Artist: W. H. Bartlett - Engraved by: J. Cousen
DJOUNI. THE RESIDENCE OF LADY HESTER STANHOPE.
Oh ladye, wherefore to the desert flying,  Didst thou forsake old England’s sea-beat strand, To dwell where never voice to thine replying,  Repeats the accents of thy native land?
Around thee the white pelican is sweeping,  Watching the slumbers of her callow brood; And at the fountains of her fond heart keeping  The last supply of their precarious food.
Far spreads the wilderness of sand, as lonely  As is the silence of the eternal grave; And for thy home companions, thou hast only  The dog, the Arab steed, the flower, the slave.
And rightly hast thou judged. On the strong pinion  Of an unfettered will thy flight was made;
At once escaping from the false dominion  Of our cold life, whose hopes are still betrayed.
What is the social world thou hast forsaken?—
 A scene of wrong and sorrow, guilt and guile;
Whence Love a long and last farewell has taken,
 Where friends can smile, and "murder while they smile."
Small truth is there among us—little kindness—
 And falsehood still at work to make that less.
We hurry onward in our selfish blindness,
 Not knowing that the truth were happiness.
Ah! wisely hast thou chosen thus to leave us,  For thou hast left society behind.
What are to thee the petty cares that grieve us,  The cold—the false—the thankless—the unkind?
Thy home is in the desert; fit disdaining  Thou showest to the present and to us.
Calm with the future and the past remaining,  Hopeful the one—the other glorious.
"How could I," said Lady Hester, "live with the common people of usual life, after having lived with my uncle—England's prime minister—Pitt?" ​
In its intricate, wild, convolved appearance, this scene resembles many among the Appenines; the road is seen in front, winding up, in a zig-zag course, to the building; a kind of "break-neck road," as if her ladyship wished to make the pilgrim toil and murmur to her dwelling, and, like Christian going up the hill Difficulty, "endure hardness" ere he reaches her bower of delights. A more capricious choice of a home has never been made, in this world of caprice and eccentricity; the land abounds with sites of beauty and richness, vales and shaded hills, screened by loftier hills, with many waters. Lebanon has a hundred sites of exquisite attraction and scenery; but this lady, ever loving the wild and the fearful more than the soft things of this world, has fixed her eagle’s nest on the top of a craggy height that is swept by every wind. The dark foliage that appears above its walls are the gardens, which are remarkably beautiful and verdant, the creation of her own hands. Nowhere in the gardens of the East is so much beauty and variety to be seen—covered alleys, pavilions, grass-plats, plantations, &c. all in admirable order.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838/Dr. Morrison and his Chinese Attendants

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* LI SHIGONG AND CHEN LAOYI TRANSLATING THE BIBLE
* AS MORRISON LOOKS ON.
* The Revd.DD
* Artist: G. Chinnery - Engraved by: W. Holl
DR. MORRISON AND HIS CHINESE ATTENDANTS.
They bend above the page with anxious eyes,
 Devoutly listening to the sacred words
 Which have awakened all the spirit-chords
Whose music dwells in the eternal skies. And still their teacher hope and aid supplies. For those dark priests are God’s own messengers,
 To bring their land glad tidings from above, And to the creed that in its darkness errs,
 To teach the words of truth and Christian love. Blessings be on their pathway, and increase!
 These are the moral conquerors, and belong
 To them the palm-branch and triumphal song— Conquerors, and yet the harbingers of peace.
Robert Morrison was born at Morpeth, in January 1782. He received ordination in London, according to the usages of the Presbyterian church, in which he had been educated; embarked for China on the 31st of January, 1807; proceeded, by way of America, to Macao, and soon afterwards reached Canton. In the history of the acquisition of difficult languages, few facts can be found more memorable than that of his having been considered, in less than a year and a half from his arrival at Canton, the most correct Chinese scholar in the Factories, although destitute, in a very great degree, of the ordinary facilities of obtaining a language. After four years' residence, he completed his Chinese grammar: in his seventh year he commenced the printing of his great work, the Anglo-Chinese dictionary, which consists of six quarto volumes, and occupied him eight years.
He had been in a declining state of health previously to Lord Napier's arrival at Macao, but his illness was so much increased by the fatigue he encountered in accompanying his lordship to Canton, that he expired on the 1st of August, 1834, only the eighth day after his arrival in that city.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838/Earl of Egremont

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* Artist: T. Philips - Engraved by: H. Cook
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE O'BRIEN WYNDHAM,
EARL OF EGREMONT.
BORN DECEMBER 18th, 1759. LORD-LIEUTENANT AND VICE-ADMIRAL OF THE COUNTY OF SUSSEX,
FELLOW OF THE ROYAL AND ANTIQUARIES' SOCIETIES, &c. &c.
To do justice to the character of Lord Egremont, we must separate him from the interest of general affairs, and contemplate his individual efforts as the patron and encourager of every thing which could tend to the good of the community. His seat, truly denominated "The Princely Petworth," may be esteemed the head-quarters, whence improvement has been spread around, without interruption or pause, during a period happily continued beyond the common lot of man. The temple of all that can grace and refine our nature, rich in the noblest productions of genius—whatever the scholar, the sculptor, and the painter could produce. The noble owner has not been less mindful of the benevolent and the useful: under his auspices, the labours of agriculture have flourished, the condition of the lower orders has been ameliorated, and ingenious discoveries and inventions have been applied to promote the progress of this the first of sciences—the foundation of all others.
In his patronage of living artists and our native school, the munificence of the noble Earl has been equally conspicuous; many of the finest pictures produced in our day in England, are the results of his unlimited commissions. The Earl of Egremont has taken hundreds by the hand, whom circumstances had previously repressed, and brought them forward into notice and independence. To this day his house is the abode of several artists, engaged in the production of various works under his liberal patronage.
In all other relations of society, his Lordship is equally liberal and munificent. His charities are as prompt and ample as their occasions are numerous; and there is too much of want and affliction in our world, to render this a lightly-won praise. Much of human misery must have been alleviated, much of human comfort bestowed, much of suffering solaced, and much of happiness conferred, by the man of superior rank and fortune, who has, during more than half a century, deserved a title far above that of the highest nobility, by being, throughout so wide a sphere, the charitable benefactor of his species.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838/Jesuits in Procession—Valetta, Malta

7
* STRADA ST. GIOVANNI, VALETTA, MALTA.
* Artist: S. Prout - Engraved by: E. Challis
JESUITS IN PROCESSION—VALETTA, MALTA.
Whence rose the sect that ’neath yon azure dome,  Hath had such wide domain o’er courts and kings,  And the wild forest where the condor springs,
Darkening the lonely vale which has his home—
Whence did that sect with all its power come?
From the dim shadows of the sick man’s room!  The founder, St. Ignatius, knew of life
Whatever of that life might seem the best:
 The glorious fever of the battle-strife,
The pleasure that in court or bower is guest;
 But in all things were care and sorrow rife,
And the soul’s instinct craved diviner rest.
 Then to his hopes a holier aim was given—  He made of earth the stepping-stone to heaven!
This beautiful architectural vista, one of those avenues so execrated by Byron, represents the Strada St. Giovanni, at the moment (and at what moment are they not in motion?) when a religious procession, of the Jesuitic order, is passing by. Valetta abounds with "streets of stairs," an unavoidable consequence of its situation on a somewhat steep ridge. It must have been the inconvenience of ascent that drew forth the impassioned exclamation of the noble bard against all such avenues, he who would else have loved them for their very singularity, for their necessary absence from the every-day pageantry of life, from the deep shadows and vivid lights attendant on their narrow width, the height of the houses, and the numerous breaks caused by the projecting balconies and rich architectural decorations.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838/Gibraltar, from the Queen of Spain's Chair

87
* GIBRALTAR,
* FROM THE SIGNAL TOWER AT THE FOOT OF THE QUEEN OF SPAIN’S CHAIR.
* Artist: C. Bentley - Engraved by: E. Finden
GIBRALTAR.
FROM THE QUEEN OF SPAIN’S CHAIR.
High on the rock that fronts the sea
Stands alone our fortress key;
Ladye of the southern main,
Ladye, too, of stately Spain.
Look which way her eye she bends,
Where’er she will her sway extends.
Free on air her banner thrown,
Half the world it calls its own.
Let her look upon the strand—
Never was more lovely land:
Had her rule dominion there,
It were free as it is fair.
Let her look across the waves,
They are but her noblest slaves;
Sweeping north or south, they still
Bear around her wealth and will.
Siege and strife these walls have borne,
By the red artillery torn;
Human life has poured its tide
In the galleries at her side.
But the flag that o’er her blows
Rival nor successor knows.
Lonely on the land and sea,
Where it has been, it will be.
Safe upon her sea-beat rock,
She might brave an army’s shock:
For the British banner keeps
Safe the fortress where it sweeps.
During the celebrated siege of Gibraltar, the subjects of her most faithful Majesty, with becoming loyalty and gallantry, but with little knowledge of coming events, erected a small tower on the hill nearest to Gibraltar, from which her Majesty and the ladies of her court, were to witness the surrender of the fortress to her arms. This fortalice is called "the Queen's Chair," and from its summit may be enjoyed the most striking, grand, and complete view of the formation of the rock, as well as of its relative position with respect to surrounding objects. At the spectator's feet is the Isthmus, dotted with Spanish sentinel-houses, that mark the limits of the neutral ground, and extend from the ruined fortress of Santa Barbarossa to that of St. Philip. The sandy soil beyond yields to British industry both fruits and vegetables; and the giant rock, that raises its bold form above the sea, is an appropriate emblem of the power, strength, and courage of that nation by which it is retained. The Straits intervene, on the right, between the rock and the African coast, which there attains an elevation of 3,000 feet, and the blue waves of the Mediterranean wash the Isthmus on the left.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838/Gibraltar—from the Sea

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* GIBRALTAR, FROM THE SEA.
* Artist: C. Bentley - Engraved by: J. C. Armytage
GIBRALTAR—FROM THE SEA.
Down ’mid the waves, accursed bark,
 Down, down before the wind;
Thou canst not sink to doom more dark
 Than that thou leavest behind.
Down, down for his accursed sake  Whose hand is on thy helm.
Above the heaving billows break—
 Will they not overwhelm?
The blood is red upon the deck,  Of murder, not of strife;
Now, Ocean, let the hour of wreck
 Atone for that of life!
Many a brave heart has grown cold,
 Though battle has been done:
And shrieks have risen from the hold,
 When human help was none.
We’ve sailed amid the Spanish lines,  The black flag at the mast,
And bunting towns and rifled shrines
 Proclaimed where we had past.
The captive’s low and latest cry  Has risen on the night,
While night-carousals mocked the sky
 With their unholy light.
The captain he is young and fair—
 How can he look so young?
His locks of youth, his golden hair,
 Are o’er his shoulders flung.
Of all his deeds that he has done,  Not one has left a trace:
The midnight cup, the noontide sun.  Have darkened not his face.
His voice is low—his smile is sweet—  He has a girl’s blue eyes;
And yet I would far rather meet
 The storm in yonder skies.
The fiercest of our pirate band
 Holds at his name the breath;
For there is blood on his right hand,
 And in his heart is death.
He knows he rides above his grave,  Yet careless is his eye;
He looks with scorn upon the wave,
 With scorn upon the sky.
Great God! the sights that I have seen  When far upon the main!
I’d rather that my death had been
 Than see those sights again.
Pale faces glimmer, and are gone,  Wild voices rise from shore;
I see one giant wave sweep on—
 It breaks!—we rise no more.
GIBRALTAR FROM THE SEA—p.20.
This view of the Rock of Gibraltar places it before the spectator in a new light, and conducts rapidly to reflection upon the boldness of those who attempted the reduction of such a fortress, as well as upon the bravery of those, who persevered in the defence of a citadel so bare, so bleak, so barren, so remote from any source of encouragement or supply. The rocky faces, here expressed, look towards the waters of the Mediterranean, and down upon that singular accumulation of fine sand, which, originating at the very edge of the sea, ascends almost to the loftiest pinnacle of the rock. From the lowest extremity of this inclined plain, the water becomes suddenly deep. One of the boldest efforts ever made to surprise the rock, took place at this approach. A French officer, in imitation of the Gaul of olden time, attended by 500 followers, landed at the foot of the sandy slope, and, aided by the darkness of night, reached the highest point of the rock in safety. From this rendezvous they were to have rushed down and surprised the garrison, while a second party was to commence an attack from below. Their courage proved superior to their powers of attack and defence, and the morning only shone, to light the garrison of Gibraltar to the destruction of this brave little band of heroes.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838/Hurdwar—The Gate of Vishnoo

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* HURDWAR, THE GATE OF HARI OR VISHNOU.
* Artist: J. D. Harding - Engraved by: F. J. Havell
HURDWAR—THE GATE OF VISHNOO.
Fling wide the sacred city gates,  Wide on the open air;
A higher Conqueror awaits
 Than he whose name they bear.
He comes not in the strength of war,  He comes not in its pride;
No banners are around his car,  No trumpets at his side.
Not in the midst of armed bands  The Christian Chief appears,
No swords are in his followers’ hands,
 They strive with prayers and tears.
For faint and weak those followers seem,  Yet mighty is their voice:
The Ganges’ old and holy stream
 Will in its depths rejoice.
Low is the voice with which they plead—  A voice of peace and love;
Peaceful and loving is the creed  Whose emblem is the dove.
Far in the East a star arose,  And with its rising brought
God’s own appointed hour to those  By whom it had been sought.
And still that guiding star hath shone  O’er all its light hath won;
And it will still keep shining on  Until its work be done.
A glorious ending at its birth  Was to that planet given:
For never will it set on earth,  Till earth is lost in heaven.
Fling wide the ancient city’s gates,  The hours of night are past,
And Christ, the Conqueror, awaits  Earth’s holiest and her last.
Hurdwar signifies the Gate of Hari, or Vishnoo, the Saviour of the Hindoo mythology, and has, from the earliest times, been one of the most considerable places of Hindoo pilgrimage and purification. Amongst the hordes who flock to immerse themselves in the holy stream, in the month of April, at the point where it first emancipates itself from the gigantic mountains which give it birth, are many victims of disease, or in the last stage of life, who have literally crawled hundreds of miles, apprehensive lest they should expire from exhaustion before they reach the sacred goal; and ere they arrive, exhibit signs of the most extravagant joy at finding themselves once more able to lave their limbs in the sacred stream. The number of persons usually collected on these occasions varies from two to three thousand; and once in twelve years, when particular ceremonies are observed, they have been computed at a million.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838/Disenchantment

107
DISENCHANTMENT.
Do not ask me why I loved him,  Love’s cause is to love unknown;
Faithless as the past has proved him,  Once his heart appeared mine own.
Do not say he did not merit  All my fondness, all my truth;
Those in whom love dwells inherit  Every dream that haunted youth.
He might not be all I dreamed him,  Noble, generous, gifted, true,
Not the less I fondly deemed him,  All those flattering visions drew.
All the hues of old romances  By his actual self grew dim;
Bitterly I mock the fancies  That once found their life in him.
From the hour by him enchanted,
 From the moment when we met, Henceforth with one image haunted,
 Life may never more forget. All my nature changed—his being
 Seemed the only source of mine.
Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing
 Thy sad future to divine?
Once, upon myself relying,  All I asked were words and thought;
Many hearts to mine replying,  Owned the music that I brought.
Eager, spiritual, and lonely,  Visions filled the fairy hour,
Deep with love—though love was only  Not a presence, but a power.
But from that first hour I met thee,  All caught actual life from you.
Alas! how can I forget thee,  Thou who mad’st the fancied true?
Once my wide world was ideal,  Fair it was—all! very fair.
Wherefore hast thou made it real?  Wherefore is thy image there?
Ah! no more to me is given  Fancy’s far and fairy birth;
Chords upon my lute are riven,  Never more to sound on earth.
Once, sweet music could it borrow  From a look, a word, a tone;
I could paint another’s sorrow—  Now I think but of mine own.
Life’s dark waves have lost the glitter  Which at morning-tide they wore,
And the well within is bitter;  Naught its sweetness may restore:
For I know how vainly given  Life’s most precious things may be,
Love that might have looked on heaven,  Even as it looked on thee.
Ah, farewell!—with that word dying,  Hope and love must perish too.
For thy sake themselves denying,  What is truth with thee untrue
Farewell!—’tis a dreary sentence,  Like the death-doom of the grave,
May it wake in thee repentance,  Stinging when too late to save!