OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Parker v. the Judges of the Circuit

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
25 U.S. 561
Parker v. the Judges of the Circuit
Feb. 9th.
Mr. Raymond, for the plaintiffs, having, on a former day, obtained a rule to show cause why a mandamus should not issue to the Judges of the Circuit Court of Maryland, cause was this day shown, and the question argued by Mr. Raymond, for the rule, and by the Attorney General, against it. Feb. 19th.
Mr. Chief Justice MARSHALL delivered the opinion of the Court.

## Notes

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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# Parkersburg Ohio River Transp Company v. City of Parkersburg

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.

## Dissenting Opinion

    Harlan
United States Supreme Court
107 U.S. 691
Parkersburg Ohio River Transp Company v. City of Parkersburg
C. W. Moulton, for appellant.
C. C. Cole and Wm. A. Cook, for appellee.
BRADLEY, J.

## Notes

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).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Parkinson v. United States

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
121 U.S. 281
Parkinson v. United States
[No appearance for plaintiff in error.
Asst. Atty. Gen. Maury, for defendant in error.
WAITE, C. J.

## Notes

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).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Prescott)

POEMS
MARY NEWMARCH PRESCOTT
RICHARD G. BADGER
THE GORHAM PRESS
BOSTON
Copyright 1912 by Richard G. Badger
All rights reserved
The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.
To
Katharine Prescott Moseley
CONTENTS
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Requiem

XXXIII.
REQUIEM.
TAKEN from men this morning, Carried by men to-day, Met by the gods with banners
Who marshalled her away.
One little maid from playmates,
One little mind from school.—
There must be guests in Eden; All the rooms are full.
Far as the east from even,
Dim as the border star,— Courtiers quaint, in kingdoms, Our departed are.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Simplicity

XXXIII.
SIMPLICITY.
How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And does n't care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Returning

LIII.
RETURNING.
I YEARS had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before
Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there. My business,— just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there?
I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near; The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear.
I laughed a wooden laugh That I could fear a door, Who danger and the dead had faced, But never quaked before.
I fitted to the latch My hand, with trembling care, Lest back the awful door should spring, And leave me standing there.
I moved my fingers off As cautiously as glass, And held my ears, and like a thief Fled gasping from the house.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Secrets

XVI.
SECRETS.
THE skies can't keep their secret! They tell it to the hills — The hills just tell the orchards — And they the daffodils!
A bird, by chance, that goes that way Soft overheard the whole. If I should bribe the little bird, Who knows but she would tell?
I think I won't, however, It's finer not to know; If summer were an axiom, What sorcery had snow?
So keep your secret, Father! I would not, if I could, Know what the sapphire fellows do, In your new-fashioned world!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Shipwreck

XXV.
SHIPWRECK.
It tossed and tossed, — A little brig I knew, — O'ertook by blast, It spun and spun, And groped delirious, for morn.
It slipped and slipped, As one that drunken stepped; Its white foot tripped, Then dropped from sight.
Ah, brig, good-night To crew and you; The ocean's heart too smooth, too blue, To break for you.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Saved

XXXIX.
SAVED!
OF tribulation these are they Denoted by the white; The spangled gowns, a lesser rank
Of victors designate.
All these did conquer; but the ones
Who overcame most times Wear nothing commoner than snow, No ornament but palms.
Surrender is a sort unknown On this superior soil; Defeat, an outgrown anguish, Remembered as the mile
Our panting ankle barely gained
When night devoured the road; But we stood whispering in the house,
And all we said was "Saved"!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Sight

XXXVI. SIGHT.
BEFORE I got my eye put out, I liked as well to see As other creatures that have eyes, And know no other way.
But were it told to me, to-day, That I might have the sky For mine, I tell you that my heart Would split, for size of me.
The meadows mine, the mountains mine, — All forests, stintless stars, As much of noon as I could take Between my finite eyes.
The motions of the dipping birds, The lightning's jointed road, For mine to look at when I liked, — The news would strike me dead!
So safer, guess, with just my soul Upon the window-pane Where other creatures put their eyes, Incautious of the sun.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Some, too fragile for winter winds

​192 POEMS.
                XI.
SOME, too fragile for winter winds,
The thoughtful grave encloses, — Tenderly tucking them in from frost
Before their feet are cold.
Never the treasures in her nest
The cautious grave exposes,
Building where schoolboy dare not look
And sportsman is not bold.
This covert have all the children
Early aged, and often cold, — Sparrows unnoticed by the Father;
Lambs for whom time had not a fold.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/She sweeps with many-colored brooms

​162 POEMS.
                XL.
SHE sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!
You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars — And then I come away.
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Sorrowful Crossing

THE SORROWFUL CROSSING.
"Yet sorrow not as those who have no hope."
O Ellan Vannin we are grieving sore, Lost Ellan Vannin, for the souls you bore Through that dark crossing to an unseen shore.
What was the story of that last farewell? Nought but the ocean's voice remains to tell, Tolling above them with its endless knell.
O sorrow, sorrow, for the ship that's lost, O sorrow, sorrow, for the tears she cost, But sorrow not for those that safely crossed.
Though through the darkness of the wintry morn Came that stern call for them ere day Was born; No time to grieve for those they left forlorn!
Though with the blare of that great trumpet blast, High over head the mighty wave was cast, From storm to Peace eternal, swift they passed.
O sorrow, sorrow, for the ship that's lost, O sorrow, sorrow, for the tears she cost, But sorrow not for those that safely crossed.
For One came to them on that awful wave, With loving hands outstretched to calm and save— Straight to the Port of His strong Arms they drave.
He took the nestling babe to His own Breast, He drew them safely through the surging crest Of death's dark wave to Light, and Peace, and Rest.
Long may we sorrow for the ship that lost, Long may we sorrow for the tears she cost, But sorrow breaks in joy for those that crossed.
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Tholtan

THE THOLTAN.
LONE little tholtan, left by the wayside,
Where have they wandered that loved thee of old?
Where are the children that played by the fireside?
Poor little chiollagh, forlorn and cold!
Mutely thy gables are standing asunder,
Rafterless, ragged, the ruin between!
All that was homelike, secluded and tender,
Stripped of its sheltering thatch is seen.
Why have they left thee so drear and forsaken,
Was it misfortune, or sadder unthrill?
Was there a stone of the Church in thy building
Secretly working to send them adrift?
Was it the dream of a new Eldorado
Lured them away with its roseate hue?
Only to find the green hills of the distance
Bare as Barooil to the nearer view.
Come winds of Autumn and cover it gently,
Poor little hearth-stone deserted and bare;
Cover it softly with leaves from the woodlands,
Lap it away from the cold bleak air.
Hasten the day when those desolate gables,
Holding their secret of failure and dearth,
Gently shall sink to their grave by the wayside,
Hidden at last in the warm kind earth.
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Wans from Up

THE WANS FROM UP
"Mother," she said, "when you're not by, There's lil wans talkin' to me, They're showin' me pictures out in the sky, Where the sun sets over the sea. Will I lave a piece of my supper," she said, "An' a dhrop of milk in the cup? D'you think its Fairies thass in?" she said. —I'm thinkin' 'twas Wans from Up.
"Mother," she said, "when the nights is long There's lil wans comin' to me. They're bringin' a harp an' makin' a song, An' houlin' a light to see. I'll lave a bit of my supper," she said, "An' a tase of milk in the cup; I'm thinkin' its Fayries thass in," she said, —But I knew it was Wans from Up.
"Mother," she said, "my head is sore, An' the lil wans is callin' me; They say there's a boat waitin' down at the shore To take me a sail on the sea. Keep by a piece of my supper," she said, "An' lave some milk in the cup; I'll go with the Fayries a bit," she said. —An' she went to the Wans from Up.
# Poems by "Cushag"/Traa-dy-liooar

TRAA-DY-LIOOAR
THERE'S a wickad little falla that goes among us here,
An' the wickadness thass at him is tellin' far an' near;
He's prowlin' in the haggart an' in at every dhure,
An' coaxin' an' persuadin',—an' his name is Traa-dy-Liooar.
The house is all through others, the childher's late for school,
The man is spendin'all his time in lookin'for a tool,
The wumman's tired thremendjus with clearin' up the flure,
An' the wan that's doin' all the jeel is wickad Traa-dy-Liooar.
The fields is full of cushag, the gates is patched with gorse,
You'll hardly see the harness for the mire upon the horse;
The cows is shoutin' shockin', an' puzzlin' them for sure,
Is the waitin' doin' on them at that tejus Traa- dy-Liooar.
There's a power of foes within us, and enemies without,
But the wan that houls the candle is that little lazy lout;
So just you take an' scutch him, an' put him to the dhure,
An' navar let him in again, that tejus Traa-dy-Liooar.
# Poems by "Cushag"/Where I was rarin' to

WHERE I WAS RARIN' TO
The little stream of Ballacowle. It tumbles down the Glen And hides beneath the lady-fern To sparkle out again— Then plunges underneath the road To seek a devious way, Where lost in quarry refuse now, Its early cradle lay.
A roomy cradle once it was, O'er-arched with spreading trees; A tangled Paradise of flowers, Scarce touched by passing breeze, And here, among the primrose tufts, It wound its cheerful way, When, long ago, we wove our wreaths To Welcome in the May.
On May Day Eve I wandered there, And, by the old plum tree, I found a bent and aged man Who gazed along the lea. His dress was of the loaghtan-brown, His hair was white as snow; And quietly he rested there And watched the streamlet flow.
"Good evening, friend," I gently said, "Good everin'," said he; I said "What do you here so late, Beneath our old plum tree?" "Good everin'," he said again, His voice was soft and low, "I came to put a sight down here, Where I was rarin' to."
He laid a bleached and withered hand Upon the cold grey wall That once was gable of the house, The house of Ballacowle— Though little now remains to show Where once it stood so fair, And, but the plum tree lives to mark The garden that was there.
"I mind the day we rode to church, The hay was nearly teddin', The apple trees were dressed in pink As we came through Claghbeddin: We rode along the Cuckoo Field, The skies were blue and fair, And through the Croshag's miry lane, To Kirk Christ of Lezayre.
I mind th' oul' ancient Masthar well That lived at the Claghbeddin: He lent the horse and pillion line To take us to our weddin'. I mind the dogs and childher too, That scampered to and fro, And pussy cats wisout no tails, Where I was rarin' to."
The sunset faded into gray; I heard the little stream, It seemed to mingle with his voice Like music in a dream. No longer could I see his face, But still he murmered low: "I came to put a sight once more Where I was rarin' to."
# Poems by "Cushag"/The Thram

THE THRAM
The golden sunshine filled the room, To every corner stealing; It glanced on Charlotte's silver hair, And flashed along the ceiling.
It touched the dingy walls with gold, And painted all the china; The "rosy basins" on the shelf Grew rosier and finer.
The window high above the road Looked over field and meadow, To where the sun, fast rolling down, Left Scacafell in shadow.
And Charlotte placidly enjoyed, But gazed without emotion; Something was lacking, I could see, But what, I had no notion.
"The windhar on the stairs," she said, And now she showed elation; "There's where the thram is, an' the lights, An' all the 'Lectric Station!"
"An' all the folks as plain as plain, That's comin' in or goin'— That's what I like," she said, "the thram An' all the lights a-glowin'!"
# Poems by "Cushag"/Work or Play

WORK OR PLAY.
ON a fine summer day the misthress would say:
"Them windies is scandalous mucky,
"But if Kitty an' you will agree to consent
"For to clane them, we'll think ourselves lucky!" It wasn' the work we was wan tin' to shirk
When the windies was goin' a rubbin',
But feelin' the saf' on each side of the pane
To be watched by the other gel scrubbin'.
An' still an' for all, there wasn' no call
For Kitty to stan' on the lather,
When Johnny an' me had agreed to consent
For to go for to clane them togather,
So "Kitty," says I, "'Tis time for to thry
"For to go for to polish them windies,
"An' the misthress," says I, "Says 'Jus you be spry
'"An' not to be makin' no shindies.'"
For Kitty an' me was used for to be
The wans that was doin' the clanin',
Not like in them houses in towns where you're took
If out of the windie you're lanin',
But "Kitty." says I, " I'm thinkin'," says I,
"Of them berries you're wantin' to gather.
"An'safeter,"says I, "When a mansarvant's by
"For him to be out on the lather."
So Kitty give place with a graue on her face
An' took her revenge on the kettles,
An' only I cleant middlin' handy from theet
She'd have had me threw out in the nettles.
"An' Kitty," says I, "Don't go for to thry
"For to take for to give me no imperince,
"Or its likely," says I, "If the masthar come by,
"He'll be havin' ye took for intimperince. "
An' well to be sure, there was polish dy-liooar
Goin' a usin' that day on the wind it
When Johnny begun for to come for to go
For to take for to work with no shindies.
For smilin' he wass, an' wilin' he wass,
An' talkin' the gentle an' aisy—
Till th'everin' come down, an' the misthress come roun’—
An' she said we was Scandalous Lazy!
# Poems by "Cushag"/To the Cushag's Friend

TO THE CUSHAG'S FRIEND
O the cushag flower in a fairy bower Would shine like a star of gold; But when it grows in the farmer's close 'Tis a shocking weed, we're told. Yet common things May have their wings To help our souls above; And wayside weeds, Like kindly deeds, Spring from a father's love.
The cushag flower had fairy power In olden times, you know, To bear you away on a summer's day Wherever you wished to go. Its golden wings Were slender things To carry souls aloft; But fairy tales, Like fresh'ning gales, May have their uses oft.
The cushag flower in a stormy hour Shines brighter for the gloom; So kindly deeds, like wayside weeds, May shine when troubles loom. Old folks would say, In their own day, When troubles took their fill, And times were bad, And hearts were sad, "There's gool on the cushag still!"
Now the cushag we know must never grow Where the farmer's work is done; But along the rills in the heart of the hills The cushag may shine like the sun, Where the golden flowers Have fairy powers To gladden our hearts with their grace; And in Vannin Veg Veen, In the valleys green, The cushags have still a place.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Keepsake, 1833/Marius at the Ruins of Carthage

* GAIUS MARIUS MOURNING OVER THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE
* Artist John MartinEngraved by W. Wallace
MARIUS AT THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.
BY L. E. L.
He turn'd him from the setting sun,  Now sinking in the bay:— He knew that so his course was run,  But with no coming day; From gloomy seas and stormy skies He had no other morn to rise.
He sat, the column at his feet,  The temple low beside; A few wild flowers blossom'd sweet  Above the column's pride; And many a wave of drifted sand The arch, the once triumphal, spann'd.
The place of pleasant festival,  The calm and quiet home, The senate, with its pillar'd hall,  The palace with its dome,— All things in which men boast and trust Lay prone in the unconscious dust.
Yet this the city which once stood  A queen beside the sea, Who said she ruled the ocean flood  Wherever there might be Path for bold oar or daring prow:— Where are her thousand galleys now?
A bird rose up—it was the owl,  Abroad at close of day; The wind it brought a sullen howl,  The wolf is on his way; The ivy o'er yon turret clings, And there the wild bee toils and sings.
And yet these once were battlements,  With watchers proud and bold, Who slept in war-time under tents  Of purple and of gold! This is the city with whose power Rome battled for earth's sovereign hour!
That hour it now was Rome's, and he  Who sat desponding there, Had he not aim'd the soul to be  Of all that she could dare; The will that led that mighty state, The greatest, too—where all were great?
An exile and a fugitive,  The Roman leant alone; All round him might those lessons give  The past has ever shown, With which is all experience fraught, Still teaching those who are not taught.
He saw and felt wealth, glory, mind  Are given but for a day; No star but hath in time declined,  No power but pass'd away! He witness'd how all things were vain, And then went forth to war again!
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1825/Signature

Page 383
From autographs of the the living Poets of England
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1825

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1825 compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Decision of the Flower
* Christine
* The Criminal
* Autograph of L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Keepsake, 1832/Good Angels

* GOOD ANGELS
* Painted by H. Howard R. A.Engraved by C. Rolls
GOOD ANGELS.
BY L. E. L.
THE ANGEL OF EARTH.
Triumph, for my task is done—
Triumph, for my prize is won.
Angel! who dost keep the gate
Where the rescued souls await
For the speaking of that word
Which doth sheath the fiery sword,
And reveals to human eyes
Hope's long promised paradise,
Bend thine head, and stretch thine hand:
Place! in thy immortal band,
For the child I bear above,
In the strength of faith and love.
Vanquish'd at my feet, behold
He the serpent king of old.
Round us is the burning coil—
Who may 'scape from such a toil?
Flashes yet his fiery eye—
Who may its fierce light defy?
Who might aid? for vain were here
Human sword, or human spear.
Death is on each forked tongue,
Lightning round each neck is hung:
But I triumph'd, for I came
In the Saviour's blessed name.
Victory o'er the soil and snare,
O'er earth's crime, and o'er earth's care;
Over hopes which lead astray,
Wishes yet more wild than they;
Over each delusive sin
Which the heart takes pleasure in.
Red ambition, which doth ask
Kingdoms for its glorious task;
Avarice, which hath cast its lot
'Mid the gold it uses not;
Pleasures, which like opiates steep
Higher aims in idle sleep;
Vain affections which control
All too much the heaven-bound soul:
These are vanquish'd 'neath my tread.
See the serpent's bruised head:—
Angel! take the child I bring.
Oh, death! where is now thy sting?
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Keepsake, 1833

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Keepsake, 1833
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* Marius at the Ruins of Carthage
* The Adieu