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# Letitia Landon in Pictorial Album; or, Cabinet of Paintings for the year 1837/Interior of the Warwick Chapel

INTERIOR OF THE LADY CHAPEL WARWICK.
Painted in Colours by G. Baxter (Patentee) from a Painting by J. Holland in the Possession of Richard Hollier Esq.
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, STRAND.
INTERIOR OF THE WARWICK CHAPEL.
Low before the cross she weepeth, Weeping even while she prays; Golden o'er her mourning garments Fall the oriel's coloured rays;— Like the false and shining seeming Of this life's external show, Veiling with an outward glitter All that lies do dark below.
 Many graves are round her lying, Only one is in her heart; How could one so lovely perish? Why should one so young depart?— With the crimson banners round her, 'Neath the scutcheon's gilded shade, 'Mid her old ancestral honours Is a youthful maiden laid.
And that Ladye is her mother; She had but that only girl; Troubled were her life's deep waters, But they yielded this one pearl. Wayward are her other children, Haughty, with their father's brow;
Their life-element is battle; No one weeps beside her now.
 Lonely in her bower at twilight, Lonely in the festal hall, No more amid sound or silence Does she list one step's light fall. Silent is the lute whose music Used to float those towers around; Never since that fatal evening Has she borne to hear its sound.
 And there comes a deeper sorrow As she kneeleth by the dead; Well she knoweth what heart-sickness Bowed that young and radiant head. 'Twas the beating heart forbidden Love that had been love for years; Little thought the angry warriors Of a woman's silent tears.
Vainly did her mother chide her With a chiding born of fear, As she saw her pale girl drooping For the sake of one too dear. With a meek and sweet obedience From her lover could she part; But it cost the bitter struggle Of a young and broken heart.
 Every day her mother saw her With a darker, sadder eye; For the sake of that sweet mother Did she struggle not to die: But the soft low voice grew weaker, And the step more faint and slow; Heavily the languid eyelash Veiled the large bright eyes below.
 Stately were the kindred mourners By the maiden's early tomb; Tears were mingled with the shadows Of the warrior's bending plume. Soon the solemn funeral pageant Left the maiden to her sleep: One alone came back each twilight,— 'Twas the mother came, to weep!
# Letitia Landon in Pictorial Album; or, Cabinet of Paintings for the year 1837/Burns and his Highland Mary

BURNS AND HIS HIGHLAND MARY.
(VIGNETTE)
Summer, sweet summer, calls form earth All that had in her bosom slept, Of green delight or rosy birth, While winter raved, or soft spring wept.
 But now the yellow August yields The glories of a summer morn; The corn is smiling in the fields, The flowers are smiling in the corn.
 A fairy armoury, there stand The spears Titania's knights might bear; And, banners for an elfin band, The crimson corn-flowers light the air.
 All things are cheerful; o'er the hills Rich woods extend their wealth along; And music from the hidden rills Comes like a universal song.
The reapers are upon the plain, The gleaming sickle cuts its way, The startled birds forsake the grain, And seek the green wood’s sheltered day.
 Two, with the ripe corn falling near, Are knelt a little way apart, Alone, each only asks to hear The beating of the other's heart.
 Ah, happy! nothing life can bring Brings back that first sweet hour again, When Love awakened Hope to fling Hues,—lovely, fugitive,—and vain!
 Touched with the light of other spheres, A light how pure and tremulous, The girl's soft eyes are filled with tears Too lovely for our earth and us.
 But he is joyous, for his mind Flings round its native element;— Lofty, impassioned, unconfined, Genius and Love are confident:
 Both conscious of their native heaven, Not of the earth which they must tread, Till Genius wastes its starry leven, And Love droops down his radiant head.
She is the fortunate—to die So young, so sinless, and so fair; The bitter pang, the heavy sigh, Is what the early grave will spare.
 The ground is haunted where they kneel, For He is of earth's gifted few; Whose love a thousand others feel, Whose grief bids others sorrow too.
 It is a glorious thing to be A poet—loved, and yet alone; To dream of immortality; To wake, and find it is your own.
 To know that to the sorrowing heart Your words are language and relief; Of hope, of joy, of triumph part— The breath of love—the wail of grief.
 Oh! mockery,—the poet's name Is dearly bought, by wretched years; He finds the golden haze of fame An April sunshine, made of tears.
 What was his fate—who kneeling there, Asks only of the sun above To shine upon his Mary's hair, And witness to his truth and love?
The grave closed o'er that lovely face, Yet lovely to so many eyes, Where winds the clear Ayr’s sunny trace Beneath the summer's saddened skies.
 And he who gave the scene its spell, What was in after life his doom? The poet's usual chronicle, The weary life—the welcome tomb.
# Letitia Landon in Pictorial Album; or, Cabinet of Paintings for the year 1837/Cleopatra

CLEOPATRA.
Painted in Oil Colours by G. Baxter (Patentee) from a Miniature by Miss E. Sharpe.
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, STRAND.
CLEOPATRA.
I. On the couch the Queen is lying,  On the royal bed, To her heart the snake applying,  Where a Conqueror's head Rested, and was proud to rest: Dark and starry, her thick tresses  Are with jewels bound; Are they warm with the caresses  Of the Chief who wound Gems amid the curls he prest,— The curls of Cleopatra, The bright Egyptian Queen?
II. Two great empires have been shaken,  Her's worst lot to bear; From her hand the sway is taken  While that hand is fair. Cold is the young Cæsar's eye: Well she knows that hour is over  Nothing can renew, When the Conqueror was her lover  And she conquered too. Only now remains to die. Death waits for Cleopatra, The proud Egyptian Queen.
III. Still she weareth queenly seeming,  Conscious of the past; And the pale sweet lips are dreaming  Of the spell they cast When she made the heart her own; When the first imperial Cæsar,  And the Triumvir, Scattered kingdoms round to please her;  Never gave the world a peer To the lovers she has known, The slaves of Cleopatra The charmed Egyptian Queen.
IV. Yet the glorious past has bound her  In a chain like sleep; Visions of long years surround her,  And their pageants sweep Over her unconquered eyes. First she sees herself, half trembling,  In an armed tent; To the earth, with sweet dissembling,  Her soft brow is bent: But the Cæsar kneels and sighs, Subdued by Cleopatra The young Egyptian Queen.
V. Next there glides a sunny river;  She is on the tide, O'er her golden banners shiver,  And the flutes beside Fling their low soft notes to shore. But the haughty trumpet greets her,  With the clang of arms, While the Roman conqueror meets her,  Meets to own her charms, And the world is her's once more,— Won again by Cleopatra, The soft Egyptian Queen.
VI. Then she sees a lighted palace,  Filled with mirth and song; On the waves of each bright chalice  Floats dark night along; Crowned they sit with rosy flowers. Back she flings her hair's rich cluster  From her cheek's red light, And her wild eyes' midnight lustre  Grows more fiercely bright. Fate is by those festal hours, The fate of Cleopatra, The glad Egyptian Queen.
VII. Dark and darker grows the vision;  On her lips appear Smiles, that with a stern derision  Meet the coming fear. Mystic phantoms fill the room, Strange dim shapes together blending  In her glazing eye,— And ancestral queens, ascending,  Summon her to die. Shadows from the shadowy tomb, They come for Cleopatra, The doomed Egyptian Queen.
VIII. Dim the purple lid is drooping  O'er the radiant eyes; And the stately head is stooping,  And the cheek's rich dyes Are like marble white and dull. Never shall Augustus cover  That imperial form with chains; Yet the Beauty has a lover,  Death, almighty Death, remains! And in death how beautiful Is the worshipped Cleopatra, The dead Egyptian Queen.
# Letitia Landon in Pictorial Album; or, Cabinet of Paintings for the year 1837/Zenobia

ZENOBIA.
Painted in Oil Colours by G. Baxter (Patentee) from a Painting by W. Pickersgill R. A.
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, STRAND.
ZENOBIA.
Oh wild wind, bring me back a sound; I listen and in vain; I might, but for my beating heart, Have heard his step again.
 He flung him on his chestnut steed; How gallantly he rides! How well his graceful Arab seems To know the hand that guides!
 Why did he not look back? 'Tis well— He must not meet my gaze; I shame me of the anxious heart That so itself betrays.
 Lie there, oh rose! it was his hand That flung thee careless by; I would not change a single thing That may have met his eye.
Be hushed my lute! I know a tone More silvery and more dear; I would not have a sound disturb The voice within my ear.
 Him only on the wide green earth, Him in the sky above; To me the world has but these words, I love him—how I love!
 From the first hour I met his eyes Another life began; Till then, a calm untroubled stream, My life's young current ran.
 But now 'tis stirred with passionate thought, With many hopes and fears; The first too tremulous for joy, The last too sweet for tears.
 I wait his coming till my eyes, That watch, too soon are dim; I strive to think of other things— I only think of him.
 I seem to have, before he comes, So much I want to say; I see him, and my gathered words Melt like a dream away.
I feel the light within my eyes, The colour on my cheek; My life beats till I cannot breathe, I am too glad to speak.    He goes—it is the setting sun That leaves the world in night; Pale, faint, I lean against the wall— My life has lost its light.
 I sleep—his name is on my lips, It murmurs through my dreams, And present with the waking day His early image seems.
 Love is a fearful thing—a love So fervent and so fond, That has no other hope in life, And dares not look beyond.
 Ah, every cause for which I love, A cause of fear must be: So proud, so worshipped, can he waste A single thought on me?
 I would lay down my life, so he My soul's deep fondness knew; Alas! I can but dream of all I have not power to do.
To see him, hear him, is enough For happiness to crave; I would not be a crowned queen So I might be his slave.
 What has the wide world in its bounds That I would not resign For the sweet empire of his heart, To win and keep it mine?
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1841/The Missionary’s Wife

12
* THE MISSIONARY’S WIFE.
* Artist: C. Ingram - Engraved by: W. Holl
THE MISSIONARY’S WIFE.
Not through the quiet shadows of our vale
 Have I pursued thy path—thy God’s and thine;
Not where the violet rises on the gale—
 Not where the green fields in the summer shine.
White was our little dwelling, and around
 Were kindred, ancient friends, and countrymen;
Not often did it know a ruder sound
 Than when the childlike brook laughed through the glen.
We left our country, and we left our home,
 For other stranger lands beyond the sea,
Thou, at the bidding of thy God, to roam,
 Strong in thy faith—and I to follow thee.
The wild woods heard our voices, and the name
 Of the Redeemer, till that hour unknown-—
Praises and prayers amid the desert came,
 Stirring its depths with their eternal tone.
Men who till then had never known the voice
 Which murmured at their hearts of awe and fear,
Now knew it called upon them to rejoice,
 And felt the presence of their God was near.
Has not the rosy morning heard our hymn,
 Heralding in the labours of the day?
And when the twilight’s purple shades were dim
 Our tasks were closed with words that praise and pray.
Be this the omen of all coming time,
 So spread Thy word from rise to set of sun—
Till the one God be known from clime to clime,
 And the great work of Christian love be done. L. E. L.
# Letitia Landon in Pictorial Album; or, Cabinet of Paintings for the year 1837/A Sister's Love

JENNY DEANS' INTERVIEW WITH THE QUEEN.
Painted in Oil Colours by G. Baxter (Patentee) from a Painting by Mrs Seyffarth.
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, STRAND.
A SISTER'S LOVE.
My little sister!—whom I less Love with a sister's tenderness Than with a mother's anxious care, She is so young, and ah how fair!— I can remember her so small, I marvelled that she lived at all, And started with a sudden fear That little crying voice to hear. But soon the helpless sleeper grew My playmate, and companion too. Her outstretched arms, before her feet, Were eager my approach to greet; And soon the fairy feet began To meet me when I homewards ran, Returned from other cares to find My sweetest task was left behind.
Her golden head was laid beside The pillow where my mother died. She laughed, while waking from her sleep, And only wept to see us weep. And sometimes I feel glad to know She has been spared life's bitterest woe; Whatever griefs her path may cross, She did not know a mother's loss.
 I see her now, the elfin thing, Her bright hair tossed in many a ring; The sunshine seemed in that bright hair More golden than it seemed elsewhere: And sometimes when, in leisure hours, I wreathed around it wild wood-flowers, I fancied such a sunny glow Must be upon an angel's brow. Her cheek had an uncertain red— Now feverish, and now faintly shed; Less like the colour on the rose, Than that the cloud of evening shows. I've often watched her while she slept, Until for very love I wept;
 And she was changeful in her mood,— Now haunting some green solitude, Now bursting forth in sudden glee, Like the wild bird upon the tree,
That singeth from the heart's excess Of eager, transient joyfulness.
Like overcare it may appear, To me that mirth was touched with fear.
 I loved her then—I love her still, Alike in good, alike in ill; To me no after-life can bring So anxious or so dear a thing; She is my hope—she is my youth— She brings the freshness and the truth, The kindliness of early years, The all yet unwashed out by tears. Let those forsake her side who will, I shall but cleave more dearly still; Let every other love depart, My sister has her sister's heart.
# Letitia Landon in Pictorial Album; or, Cabinet of Paintings for the year 1837

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
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Letitia Landon
in
PICTORIAL ALBUM;
OR,
CABINET OF PAINTINGS
FOR THE YEAR 1837
CONTAINING DESIGNS, EXECUTED IN OIL COLOURS,
BY G. BAXTER
FROM THE ORIGINAL PICTURES, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN VERSE [AND PROSE].
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, STRAND.
Contents. :
| | Page |
| Burns and his Highland Mary | 1 |
| The Carrier Pigeon | 16 |
| Cleopatra | 28 |
| Interior of the Warwick Chapel | 43 |
| Zenobia | 55 |
| A Sister's Love | 69 |
Plates. :
| Vignette | R. Westall, R. A. |
| The Carrier Pigeon | Miss F. Corbaux |
| Cleopatra | Miss E. Sharpe. |
| Interior of the Lady Chapel, Warwick (from the Original in the possession of Richard Hollier, Esq.) | J. Holland. |
| Zenobia | Wm. Pickersgill, R. A. |
| Jeanie Deans' Interview with the Queen | Mrs. Seyffarth. |
Compiled By Peter J, Bolton With much appreciated help
# Letitia Landon in Pictorial Album; or, Cabinet of Paintings for the year 1837/The Carrier Pigeon

THE CARRIER PIGEON.
Painted in Oil Colours by G. Baxter (Patentee) from a Painting by Miss F. Corbaux.
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, STRAND.
THE CARRIER PIGEON.
Ah, gentle bird, that, on my heart now lying, Art far more tranquil than what beats below; With thy soft eyes unto mine own replying, Sweet pleading for the love which they bestow.
 I am to thee a queen, and my dominion Is absolute upon thy sunny flight; For me thou dost restrain thy arrowy pinion— To me thou comest with the coming night.
 'Neath the soft shadow of thy wing thou bearest The scroll, which is to me of life or death; The likeness of my love to me thou wearest, He kissed thy plumes, still fragrant with his breath.
 How weary is the golden noon which covers Our valleys with the loveliness of light; Dearer the purple twilight when it hovers O’er the far mountain, and thy homeward flight.
Above my head the cool green myrtles twining, Shelter the rose while blushing into bloom; There the pale jasmine like a star is shining, But faint, as languid with its own perfume.
 I love them not—I dwell among them lonely; By other influence my soul is stirred: My heart hath only room for him—him only, For whose sake thou art loved, my gentle bird.
Too much I love him; 'tis a fatal error To live but in another's life, and be For ever vexed by one perpetual terror, Lest when apart his thoughts are not with me.
 I tremble with my passionate emotion, If any careless lip but name his name; I worship him with such entire devotion, That all to me seem as they felt the same.
 Alas! It is so natural to love him; I am so happy when I meet his eyes; What have I done that fate should now remove him, Who takes the sunshine from my native skies?
 I think upon him when the stars are keeping Their weary watch above a world like ours; If sleep forgets him, I reproach my sleeping; Ah, only bring his shade, ye dreaming powers!
Another scroll is ready; sad and slowly Will the long moments waste till thy return; I ponder on the past, pale, melancholy, As one who droops above a funeral urn.
 Tell him, of all the beauty he remembers, How much has wandered with himself away; My weary heart mourns 'mid the cold wan embers Of hopes, that perish with his long delay.
# Letter from Florence Earle Coates to Amos Niven Wilder (8 February 1924)

2024 Spruce Street, Philadelphia.
My dear Mr. Wilder:—
I have been ill and am not yet able to write, but I cannot allow another day to pass without thanking you for the two poems and for the pleasure it has given me to receive them.
I hope you are quite well, and am with cordial regard,
Faithfully yours,
Florence Earle Coates.
February 8/24
This work is from the United States and in the public domain because it was not legally published with the permission of the copyright holder before January 1, 2003 and the author died more than 70 years ago. This is a posthumous work and its copyright in certain countries and areas may depend on years since posthumous publication, rather than years since the author's death. Translations or editions published later may be copyrighted.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# Letter from Frank Wilson updating the Capone investigation, April 8, 1931

SI*7085-F FJW-MD
Chief, Intelligence Unit, Bureau of Internal Revenue, Washington, D.C.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
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# Letter from Florence Earle Coates to Miss Katherine Brégy (24 September 1912)

Miss Katherine Brégy
2033 N. Broad Street
Philadelphia
U.S.A
F.E.C.
September 24/12
Dear Miss Brégy:—
I have thought of you many, many times since we steamed away from our native shores, bearing your most kind letter with us. It was my intention to write immediately we should have seen the Meynells, but I was ill following that delightful experience, and since my recovery the pressure of daily and hourly events, plus proof-reading &c. &c. for my new volume which the Houghton, Mifflins are desirous of bringing out in time for the Christmas sales—the book to be called "The Unconquered Air, and other Poems," have sadly interrupted my correspondence. However, I have but thought of you the more.
It would I think gratify you could you know how generously and how delightfully Mr. & Mrs. Meynell honoured your introduction. Indeed we were received by them with the most beautiful hospitality—a hospitality such as one rarely looks to find outside of America—and we look back to our visits to them,—I hope we did not tax them by too full an acceptance of their gracious welcome,—as amongst the most charming of our English experiences.
We so liked them all! Afterward, I put into verse something of my feeling for dear Mrs. Meynell which will be ​included, in a somewhat revised shape, in my new volume. Naturally we talked much of you, and Mrs. Meynell said she should write you of our visit.
There will be much of which we shall wish to talk when we meet, which will I trust be soon, as we expect to be in our home—if not quite settled there—by the first of November.
Now I must only send you my love and my renewed thanks, and beg you to believe me always
Faithfully and affectionately yours,
Florence Earle Coates
Miss Katherine Brégy
Philadelphia
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1927, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 96 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# Letter from Florence Earle Coates to Mr. Jayne (Easter 1913)

"Mr. Jayne" is Henry La Barre Jayne (1857-1920), Philadelphia philanthropist and lawyer. Mrs. Coates wrote a memorial poem about Mr. Jayne entitled, "In Memory of Henry La Barre Jayne" (1920)
​Dear Mr. Jayne:—
With many Easter-greetings, to you and to your exquisite wife—would I had skill to sing my thought of her!—I send herewith the volumes you honoured me by saying you would accept. I have inscribed them to you, but Mrs. Jayne will know that they are, from my heart, also her's, and that your united interest and sympathy in my work and in the things I value most, has meant more to me than I can put into words.
Edward joins me in all, and I remain
Yours faithfully ever, Florence Earle Coates
2024 Spruce Street Easter Sunday 1913
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1927, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 96 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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