OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Luck (Brown)

published in: The New England Magazine / Volume 15, Issue 3. November 1893.
I sought a four-leaved clover,—  The grass was gemmed with dew,— I searched the meadow over To find a four-leaved clover; I was a lucky rover,—  You sought the charm-grass, too, And seeking luck and clover  I found it—finding you.
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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Lucifer

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Lucifer."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Lucifer" by Anatole France, in Devil stories
* "Lucifer" by Achmed Abdullah, (1923)
* "Lucifer" by John D. Swain. in Weird Tales, 2 (4) (November 1923)
# Luck

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Luck."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* Luck, a short story by Mark Twain
* Luck, a poem by Abbie Farwell Brown
* Luck, a short story by Wilbur Daniel Steele
# Lyrical Ballads (1798)/Expostulation and Reply

EXPOSTULATION
AND
REPLY.
# Lyrical Ballads (1798)/Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands near the Lake of Esthwaite

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.
—Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb; What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
————————Who he was That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod
First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree, Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, I well remember.—He was one who own'd No common soul. In youth, by genius nurs'd, And big with lofty views, he to the world Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate, And scorn, against all enemies prepared, All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped At once, with rash disdain he turned away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper; And on these barren rocks, with juniper, And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene; how lovely 'tis Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time, Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, Warm from the labours of benevolence, The world, and man himself, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh With mournful joy, to think that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost man! On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale lie died, this seat his only monument.
If thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye Is ever on himself, doth look on one, The least of nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
# Lyrical Ballads (1798)/Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames, at Evening

LINES
WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND, UPON THE THAMES;
AT EVENING.
How rich the wave, in front, imprest With evening-twilight's summer hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent path pursues! And see how dark the backward stream! A little moment past, so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleano, Some other loiterer beguiling.
Such views the youthful bard allure, But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure 'Till peace go with him to the tomb. —And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
Glide gently, thus for ever glide, O Thames! that other bards may see, As lovely visions by thy side As now, fair river! come to me. Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so; Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 'Till all our minds for ever flow, As thy deep waters now are flowing.
Vain thought! yet be as now thou art. That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such heart did once the poet bless, Who, pouring here a later ditty, Could rind no refuge from distress, But in the milder grief of pity.
Remembrance! as we glide along, For him suspend the dashing oar, Awd pray that never child of Song May know his freezing sorrows more. How calm! how still! the only sound. The dripping of the oar suspended! —The evening darkness gathers round By virtue's holiest powers attended.
# Lyrical Ballads (1798)/Anecdote for Fathers

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS,
SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT.
I have a boy of five years old, His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me.
One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk, Our quiet house all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, My pleasant home, when spring began, A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear To think, and think, and think again; With so much happiness to spare, I could not feel a pain.
My boy was by my side, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And oftentimes I talked to him, In very idleness.
The young lambs ran a pretty race; The morning sun shone bright and warm; "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, "And so is Liswyn farm.
"My little boy, which like you more," I said and took him by the arm— "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, "Or here at Liswyn farm?"
"And tell me, had you rather be," I said and held him by the arm, "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, "Or here at Liswyn farm?
In careless mood he looked at me, While still I held him by the arm, And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be "Than here at Liswyn farm."
"Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why;" "I cannot tell, I do not know." "Why this is strange," said I.
"For, here are woods and green-hills warm; "There surely must some reason be "Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm "For Kilve by the green sea."
At this, my boy, so fair and slim, Hung down his head, nor made reply; And five times did I say to him, "Why? Edward, tell me why?"
His head he raised—there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain— Upon the house-top, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock, And thus to me he made reply; "At Kilve there was no weather-cock, "And that's the reason why."
Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn.
# Lyrical Ballads (1798)/Lines written in early spring

LINES
WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING,
I heard a thousand blended notes. While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it griev'd my heart to think What man has made of man.
Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd; Their thoughts I cannot measure, But the least motion which they made, It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.
If I these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
# Lyrical Ballads (1798)/Old Man travelling

OLD MAN TRAVELLING;
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY,
A SKETCH.
# Lyrical Ballads (1798)/Lines written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the Person to whom they are addressed

LINES
WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSED.
It is the first mild day of March; Each minute sweeter than before, The red-breast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare. And grass in the green field.
My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Make haste, your morning task resign; Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you, and pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress, And bring no book, for this one day We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate Our living Calendar: We from to-day, my friend, will date The opening of the year.
Love, now an universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth, —It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason; Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts may make. Which they shall long obey; We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above; We'll frame the measure of our souls, They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress, And bring no book; for this one day We'll give to idleness.
# Lyrical Ballads (1798)/Simon Lee, the old Huntsman

SIMON LEE,
THE OLD HUNTSMAN,
WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 4

MARIA to MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.
LYONS, HOTEL DU NORD, Oct. 22, 1820.
Lyons! is it possible that I am really at Lyons, of which I have heard my father speak so much? Lyons! where his active spirit once reigned, and where now scarce a trace, a memory of him remains. The Perraches all gone, Carpentiers no more to be heard of, Bons a name unknown; De la Verpilliere—one descendant has a fine house here, but he is in the country.
The look of the town and the fine facades of the principal buildings, and the Place de Bellecour, were the more melancholy to me from knowing them so well in the prints in the great portfolio, with such a radiance thrown over them by his descriptions. I hear his voice saying, La Place de Bellecour and l'Hotel de Ville—these remain after all the horrors of the Revolution—but human creatures, the best, the ablest, the most full of life and gaiety, all passed away.
It is a relief to my mind to pour out all this to you. I do not repent having come to Lyons; I should not have forgiven myself if I had not.
I have been writing to dear Mrs. Moilliet—nothing could exceed her kindness and Mr. Moilliet's. Dumont was excessively touched at parting with us, and gave Fanny and Harriet La Fontaine and Gresset, and to me a map of the lake—of the tour we took so happily together.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 39

MARIA to MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH.
ABBOTSFORD, July 31, 1823.
I take a pen merely to say that I will not write! I have so much to say, that I dare not trust myself, as I am still so far from strong, I must not venture to play tricks with that health which it cost my dear, kind nurses so much to preserve. I am as careful of myself as any creature can be without becoming an absolute, selfish egotist. Lady Scott is really so watchful and careful of me, that even when my own family guardian angels are not on either or both sides of me, I can do no wrong, and can come to no harm.
It is quite delightful to see Scott in his family in the country: breakfast, dinner, supper, the same flow of kindness, fondness, and genius, far, far surpassing his works, his letters, and all my hopes and imagination. His castle of Abbotsford is magnificent, but I forget it in thinking of him.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 41

To MRS. RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Nov. 20, 1823.
It is a long time since I have written to you, always waiting a day longer for somebody's coming or going, or sailing or landing. You ask what I am doing: nothing, but reading and idling, and paving a gutter and yard to Honora's pig-stye, and school-house. What have I been reading? The "Siege of Valencia," by Mrs. Hemans, which is an hour too long, but it contains some of the most beautiful poetry I have read for years. I have read Quin's letters from Spain, entertaining; the review of it in the Quarterly is by Blanco White. Dr. Holland's letters continue to be as full of information and interest as ever, though he is a married man. Tell Sophy that the subject of electricity and electro-magnetism is every day affording new facts, and all the philosophers on the Continent are busy about it. Sir Humphry Davy had a narrow escape of breaking his neck by a fall down stairs, but he is not hurt, tout an contraire. I had a letter, written in very good English, the other day from M. de Staël; he is now in London, and tells me the French and the Holy Alliance are tyrannising sadly at Geneva, and have ordered all the Italian patriots who had taken refuge there to decamp. There is one of these, Count Somebody or other, whose name I cannot persuade myself to get up to look for, whom M. de Staël wishes I would take by the hand in London, and what I am to do with him when I have him by the hand I don't know.
I had a letter from Walter Scott, who has been delighted with the history of Caraboo, which I sent to him: a pamphlet published at the time. He says that nobody with a reasonable head could attempt to calculate the extent of popular credulity, and observes that she, like all the great cheats who have imposed upon mankind, was touched with insanity, half knave, half mad, at last the dupe of her own acting of enthusiasm.
Prince Hohenlohe and the pamphlets, pro and con, occupy us much. Crampton's second edition of his I think excellent. Some very curious facts have been brought out of the effect of the imagination upon the bodily health. And while Scott is writing novels to entertain the world, and the philosophers in France trying experiments on electro-magnetism, Davy tumbling down stairs, and Denham and Co. in Africa looking for the Niger, here is all London rushing out to look at the cottage in which a swindler lived who murdered another swindler, and buying bits of the sack in which the dead body was put! Have your newspapers given what we have had in the Morning Chronicle? views of Roberts's cottage and the pond with Thurtell and Hunt dragging the body out of it? Shakespear understood John Bull right well, and always gave him plenty of murders and dead bodies. I am glad there are no Irishmen in this base as well as savage gang.

## Footnotes

* ↑ Caraboo is alluded to in St. Roman's Well, published in the autumn of this year. Sir Walter had never heard of her till Miss Edgeworth told her history to him at Abbotsford.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 42

To MISS RUXTON.
PAKENHAM HALL, Jan. 21.
We, my mother, Lovell, Fanny, and I, came here yesterday, glad to see Lord Longford surrounded by his friends in old Pakenham Hall hospitable style,—he always cordial, unaffected, and agreeable. The house has been completely new-modelled, chimneys taken down from top to bottom, rooms turned about from lengthways to broad-ways, thrown into one another, and out of one another, and the result is that there is a comfortable excellent drawing-room, dining-room, and library, and the bedchambers are admirable. Mrs. Smyth, of Gaybrook, and her daughter are here, and Mr. Knox; and I have been so lucky as to be seated next to him at dinner yesterday, and at breakfast this morning; he is very agreeable when he speaks, and when he is silent it is "silence that speaks."
Lady Longford has been very attentive to us. She has the finest and most happy open-faced children I ever saw—not the least troublesome, yet perfectly free and at their case with the company and with their parents.
A box will be left in Dublin for you on Monday morning. There is no telling you how happy I have been getting ready and packing and fussing about the said box for you, flying about the house from the library to the garret. And all for what? When Sophy, whom I beg to be the unpacker, opens it, you will see a certain dabbed-up crooked pasteboard tray in which are four frills for you: I hemmed every inch of them myself, to give them the only value they could have in your eyes.

## Footnotes

* ↑ Georgiana, daughter of the first Earl Beauchamp.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 35

To MRS. O'BEIRNE.
BLACK CASTLE, Jan. 15, 1823.
We are delighted with Peveril, though there is too much of the dwarfs and the elfie. Scott cannot deny himself one of these spirits in some shape or other; I hope that we shall find that this elfin page, who has the power of shrinking or expanding, as it seems, to suit the occasion, is made really necessary to the story. I think the dwarf more allowable and better drawn than the page, true to history, and consistent; but Finella is sometimes handsome enough to make duke and king ready to be in love with her, and sometimes an odious little fury, clenching her hands, and to be lifted up or down stairs out of the hero's way. The indistinctness about her is not that indistinctness which belongs to the sublime, but that which arises from unsteadiness in the painter's hand when he sketched the figure. He touched and retouched at different times, without having, as it seems, a determined idea himself of what he would make her; nor had he settled whether she should bring with her "airs from heaven," or blasts from that place which is never named to ears polite. *** In May 1823 Miss Edgeworth took her half-sisters Harriet and Sophy to Scotland. It was a very happy time to her, chiefly because there she made an acquaintance with Sir Walter Scott, which soon ripened into an intimate and lasting friendship. He had already admired her stories, which he spoke of as "a sort of essence of common sense."
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 83

To CAPTAIN BASIL HALL.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, August 14, 1831.
My last visit to universal London confirms to my own feelings your eulogium. I never was so happy there in my life, because I had besides all the external pleasures, the solid satisfaction of a home there, and domestic pleasures, without which I should soon grow a-weary of the world, and wish the business of the town were done. I should be very sorry if I were told this minute that I was never to see London again, and yet I am wondrous contented and happy at home. I hope you will come and see some time whether I am only making believe or telling true.
You say I must never say a discouraging word to you, because you are so easily discouraged: for shame! What is that but saying, "Flatter me"? Now flattery can never do good; twice cursed in the giving and the receiving, it ought to be. Instead of flattering I will give you this wholesome caution: in your new volumes do not weaken the effect by giving too much of a good thing; do not be lengthy; cut well before you go to press, and then the rest will live all the better. With your facility, this cannot cost you much.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 85

To MISS RUXTON.
EDGEWORTHSTOWN, Dec. 22, 1831.
Francis was married on the 19th to Rosa Florentina Eroles; Sneyd, Fanny, and Lestock were present. The bride was dressed in a plain white muslin, with a mantilla lace veil of her own work on her head, without any hat, after the fashion of her own country, with a small wreath of silver flowers in her dark hair. Her sister was dressed English fashion, in a bonnet. Both Sneyd and Fanny say that nothing could appear more gentlemanlike, gentle, amiable, and happy than the bridegroom.
# Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 8

To MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH.
CALAIS, Dec. 5, 1820.
It is a great satisfaction to me, my dear Lucy, to feel that we are now so much nearer to you, and that before I finish this little note we shall be still nearer to you in the same United Kingdom, so that in eight days we can have an answer to questions about you; what a difference from the three long weeks we used to wait at Geneva.
And now, my dear Lucy, I must employ you to break to my mother an important secret. Choose a proper time for speaking to her on the subject, when she is not very busy, when her mind is at ease, that is, when you are pretty well. My aunts and Honora may be in the room, if you think proper. Begin by saying that I know both my mother and Lovell are so kind and have such confidence in me that I am sure they will not hastily object to the introduction of a new person into the family, though they may perhaps feel a little surprised at hearing of my having actually decided upon such a measure without writing first to consult them. I have actually brought with me from Paris, and intend, unless I am actually forbidden, to bring with me to Edgeworthstown, a French washerwoman. I cannot expect that Lovell should build a house for her, though I know he has long had it in contemplation to build a laundry; but my little French woman does not require a house, she can live in our house, if he and my mother, and my aunts please, and I will engage that she shall give no sort of trouble, and shall cost nothing. She is a sourde et muette, an elderly woman with a very good countenance, always cheerful, and going on with her own business without minding other people's. She was recommended to me by Madame François Delessert, and has lived for some time in their family, much liked by all, especially by the children, for whom she washed constantly, till one of her legs was hurt, so that she cannot work now quite as well as formerly. But still she washed so as to give general satisfaction. Fanny and Harriet like her washing, and I am sure my aunts will like it and her very much; and I think she might, till some other place be found for her, sleep in my mother's dressing-room.
And here, my dear Lucy, I beg you will pause and hear what everybody says about this washerwoman and this plan.
And after five minutes given to deliberation, go on and say, that if no better place can be found for my washerwoman, she may stand on my mother's chimney-piece!
No more nonsense at present.

## Footnotes

* ↑ A pretty little French toy given by Madame François Delessert.