OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833/Treryn Castle

see Treryn Dinas
26
* TRERYN CASTLE, FROM PORT CARROW COVE, CORNWALL. THE LOGAN ROCK, UNDER THE BIRD, IN THE DISTANCE
* Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: S. Fisher
TRERYN CASTLE.
A monarch, who had lost his crown,  As crowns have been so often lost, By kindred treachery, or worse,  The price his own fond blindness cost,— Methinks were fitting guest to be Alone, thou rugged scene, with thee; Magnificent, yet desolate, In harmony with thought and fate.
The sky is dark with gathered clouds,  As if night struggled still with day; A single sea-bird seems to bear  The sunshine on his wings away; The heavy rocks o’er-hang the flood, As if the sacrifice of blood, Poured by the Druids, left the gloom, That ever haunts the human tomb.
Their shadow falls, while at their feet  Dashes and foams the restless main, Still beating like the human heart,  And, like that beating, still in vain: Aye, lean upon the granite stone, And muse o’er empires overthrown; How thrones first tremble, and then fall, And for the purple spreads the pall.
There’s nothing here to win the eye,  Or waken calm and pleasant thought; No early flowers, no springing leaves,  Are ever here by summer brought. The stormy sky, the sullen sea, Spread out in drear immensity: Oh! suited to man’s thoughtful mood, It seems ambition’s solitude.
Treryn Castle is the name given to some of those gigantic rocks, from which the idea of architecture would seem to have originated; though it is remarkable, that most mighty edifices have always been the work of flat countries. Perhaps those most accustomed to the presence of rock and mountain, shrank abashed before them. There are old legends which give the Druids Treryn Castle; but, as Dr. Paris observes, "Geologists readily discover, that the only chisel ever employed has been the tooth of time—the only artist engaged, the elements."
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833/Tomb of Mahomed Shah

see Gol Gumbaz
14
* SULTAN MAHOMED SHAH’S TOMB, BEJAPORE.
* Artist: S. Prout - Engraved by: R. Sands
TOMB OF MAHOMED SHAH.
The tomb of the Sultan lies under a wooden canopy, in the centre of the room, on a platform of granite eighty feet square, and is raised four feet above the level of the floor. Over a lofty door-way, through which you enter on the southern side, are some Arabic inscriptions in Togra letters, which are sculptured in alto-relievo. The characters are gilded, and the ground is granited with a liquid preparation of rajaward, or lapis lazuli, which gives the whole an appearance of a beautiful distribution of gold and enamels. All the inscriptions that I shall have occasion to mention are sculptured and ornamented after this fashion; and being disposed in all varieties of shape and figure, have a very elegant effect. They are said to be all extracts from the Koran, but the characters are so entwined and interwoven with each other, that the quickest reader of this hand would find some difficulty in deciphering them. I was, however, successful in discovering a Persian inscription line, which is a chronogram on the death of the Sultan Mahomed. The line translated is, “The end of Mahomed was happy.”—Elliot's Views in India
HAT do they call a happy end,  How did the monarch die? The purple for his winding sheet,  His courtiers standing by; A shadow upon every brow,  A tear in every eye.
Methinks if I could choose my death,  Such end should not be mine; I'd rather fall where banners wave,  And muskets glittering shine, While onwards to its vengeance prest,  My own embattled line.
The faithful and the fond; The faces that I dearly loved,  I could not look beyond— The deep affection of this earth Would be too dear a bond.
He died, and by his death-bed stood  The wife, the child, the friend, And saw pale cheek and anxious eye  O’er him in fondness bend. Oh, agony!—how could they, King, Call thine a happy end?
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834/Airey Force

72
* AIREY FORCE, CUMBERLAND.
* Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: J. C. Bentley
AIREY FORCE.
Aye, underneath yon shadowy side,  I could be fain to fix my home;
Where dashes down the torrent’s pride,  In sparkling wave, and silver foam.
No other sound is waking there,  But that perpetual voice, which seems Like spirit-music on the air,  An echo from the world of dreams.
They were more wise in other days;  Then turned the hermit to his cell,
And left a world where all betrays,  Apart with his own thoughts to dwell.
Content to curb the heart, to be  Indifferent, quiet, mournful, cold
With hopes turned into memory,  With feelings that had lost their hold.
Far better this, than such vain life  As is in crowded cities known;
Where care, repining, grief, and strife,
 Make every passing hour their own.
There, by yon torrent’s rushing wave,  I’d pass what yet of time remain'd;
And feel the quiet of the grave  Long ere that grave itself were gain’d.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833/The Right Honourable Lord Durham

see John Lambton, 1st Earl of Durham
54
* Artist: Sir Thomas Lawrence F.R.A. - Engraved by: J. Cochran
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD DURHAM,
NOW ON AN EMBASSY AT THE COURT OF RUSSIA.
What are the glories, which on history's page Make nations proud; not that her fleets can sweep, Like fate, above the ocean; not that lands, More mighty than herself, yet own her sway; Not that her armies might subdue a world; Not that strength sits within her walls, and wealth Pours its abundance forth: these are but means, And humble instruments, to work renown. Look to what use she puts them. Does her flag Extend protection? Is her sword but drawn For righteous uses? Does her strength supply Force to the weak? and does her wealth relieve The want which follows it? England, these things Are now demanded of thee:—Far away A ship is sailing over northern seas, And in that ship is one who comes from thee, An English statesman, one who lately stood And pledged himself to the immortal cause Of the unalienable rights of man. He goes—and in thy name, and with thy power, To greet the Czar, he, whose far rule extends —"Even to Asia. Will he bear no word Of wrath to the oppressor, and of hope To the oppressed? and will he raise no voice, O gallant Poland! in thy generous cause?  A fearful state—that of society, When all its natural order is o’erthrown, By the o’erwhelming pressure of some fear, More terrible than death; and by some hope, Desperate, but determined: then are changed All common rules, children have thoughts like age, While men ’merge every aim in one atttempt; And all hands grow familiar with the sword. E’en woman leaves the couch by which she watched, The lute o’er which she leant, the home which owed To her its happiness, and seeks the trench, The guarded wall, or mounts the fiery steed;
The sabre glances, and along the line Runs the red flashing of the musketry: The cannon shakes the ground, she trembles not, Her whole sweet nature altered by despair— But stands her ground, and dies as heroes die. This was the struggle—then the triumph came Of the ferocious victor, blood was poured Like wine at some gay feast; the fire arose A wild illumination, for it came From castles, destined ere the morn to be A heap of ashes, and from cottages The clustering vine would never cover more. Crime and captivity were common things, And tortures strange were heralds unto death. ’Twas an unequal struggle; but for that, Should a free people have bent down the knee? Is the expedient, then, our only law? Must we give up the right, because we feel That we are weak, and the oppressor strong? Forbid it, England—by thine own great self, By thine own yet unviolated hearths, By the proud flags which in thy churches wave, Each one a victory by land or sea, Witnesses and thanksgivings to that God, Whose arm upheld thee; by thy future hopes Of peace, of plenty, and of liberty— Let not thy minister go forth in vain: The fate of Poland now is at thy will; The Autocrat will hear and heed thy voice; England, my glorious country, speak, and save!
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833/The Tomb of Aurungzebe

85
* AURUNGZEBE’S TOMB, ROZAH.
* Artist: S. Prout - Engraved by: W. Woolnoth
THE TOMB OF AURUNGZEBE.
"Oh, fleeting honours of the dead,  Oh, high ambition lowly laid."
"A mighty tomb, fit for a mighty king, One last great mockery, a thousand slaves Dug marble from the quarry, then arose The slow foundation—men put forth their skill In rich devices, and in ornament, Then towered the rounded column, and the walls Shone with red gold and many-coloured stones. Then spread the broidered purple for a pall, And all for what?—to hide some grains of dust." So might the cynic say; so say not I. It is a glorious thing for man to war With time, by some great work. Wherefore was skill, And energy, and industry, bestowed, If that he use them not? How many hearts In the completion of this building throbbed With the fine pride of art—that pride which leads To all that can redeem or civilize Our human nature. Now, what solemn thoughts Brood here! an atmosphere from which we draw Such lessons as the dead alone can give, And only they when present to the mind, As they are present in this monument— Oh, build tombs for the dead, they're mightier there Than in their living palaces!
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834/A Legend of Teignmouth

68
* TEIGNMOUTH, FROM THE NESS.
* Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: J. C. Bentley
A LEGEND OF TEIGNMOUTH.
A story of the olden time, when hearts
Wore truer faith than now—a carved stone
Is in a little ancient church which stands
Mid yonder trees, ’tis now almost defaced;
But careful eye may trace the mould’ring lines,
And kind tradition has preserv’d the tale;
I tell it nearly in the very words
Which are the common legend.
OME few brief hours, my gallant bark,  And we shall see the shore;
My native, and my beautiful,  That I will leave no more.
And gallantly the white sails swept  On, on before the wind;
The prow dash’d through the foam and left  A sparkling line behind.
The sun look’d out through the blue sky,  A gladsome summer sun;
The white cliffs like his mirrors show
 Their native land is won.
And gladly from the tall ship’s side,  Sir Francis hailed the land,
And gladly in his swiftest boat,  Row’d onward to the strand.
"I see my father’s castle walls  Look down upon the sea;
The red wine will flow there to-night,
 And all for love of me.
"I left a gentle maiden there:  For all the tales they say
Of woman’s wrong and faithlessness
 To him who is away;
"I’ll wager on her lily hand,
 Where’s still a golden ring;
But, lady, ’tis a plainer one
 That o’er the seas I bring."
His bugle sound the turret swept
 They meet him in the hall;
But ’mid dear faces where is here,
 The dearest of them all!   Ah! every brow is dark and sad,  And every voice is low;
His bosom beats not as it beat
 A little while ago.
They lead him to a darkened room.  A heavy pall they raise;
A face looks forth as beautiful
 As in its living days.
A ring is yet upon the hand,  Sir Francis, worn for thee.
Alas! that such a clay-cold hand,
 Should true love’s welcome be!
He kissed that pale and lovely mouth,  He laid her in the grave;
And then again Sir Francis sailed
 Far o’er the ocean wave.
To east and west, to north and south,  That mariner was known;
A wanderer bound to many a shore,
 But never to his own.
At length the time appointed came,  He knew that it was come;
With pallid brow and wasted frame,
 That mariner sought home.
The worn-out vessel reached the shore,
 The weary sails sank down;
The seamen cleared her of the spoils
 From many an Indian town.   And then Sir Francis fired the ship;  Yet tears were in his eyes,
When the last blaze of those old planks  Died in the midnight skies.
Next morning, ’twas a Sabbath morn
 They sought that church, to pray;
And cold beside his maiden's tomb
 The brave Sir Francis lay.
Oh, Death! the pitying that restor'd  The lover to his bride;
Once more the marble was unclosed,
 They laid him at her side.
And still the evening sunshine sheds
 Its beauty o’er that tomb; Like heaven’s own hope, to mitigate
 Earth’s too unkindly doom.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834/Coniston Water

96
* CONISTON WATER FROM NEBTHWAITE, LANCASHIRE.
* Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: T. Jeavons
CONISTON WATER.
Thou lone and lovely water, would I were
A dweller by thy deepest solitude!
How weary am I of my present life,
Its falsehoods, and its fantasies—its noise,
And the unkindly hurry of the crowd,
’Mid whom my days are numbered! I would watch The tremulous vibration of the rays
The moon sends down to kiss thy quiet waves;
And when they died, wish I could die like them,
Melting upon the still and silvery air:
Or when the autumn scatters the wan leaves
Like ghosts, I’d meditate above their fall, And say "So perish all our earthly hopes."
So is the heart left desolate and bare,
And on us falls the shadow of the tomb,
Before we rest within it—
# Letters from India Volume I/To a Friend 19

Government House, October 7, 1836.
Chance continues to be remarkably well, you will be happy to hear, or rather has become so, for he was very ailing at one time; but since I have allowed him to sleep under my punkah at night, and sent him out for a swim every morning and evening, his clear little constitution has righted. —— has taught him an immense variety of tricks, which he displays at dessert, and which not only make conversation in a country where that article does not abound, but which really do surprise some people not used to the highly educated modern dog. Mrs. —— was suddenly forced into an interminable fit of laughter by seeing Chance lie down on his back and feed himself with his hind paw, and she has not relapsed into gravity since. The servants now, seeing what a treasure he is, call him ‘Chance Sahib,’ and have got over ​their Mussulmanic prejudices enough to take him up in their hands, though they scream like rabbits if he barks. Fanny will tell you about her bird, which is very amusing.
My pigeons are all grown so tame that they scuffle into my lap to be fed when I sit down on the floor to feed them. They have only one fault; they lay nothing but addled eggs. I should not dislike some addled young pigeons; they would be giddy, pleasant young creatures—only they won't come.
Yours most affectionately,
E. E.
# Letters from India Volume I/To a Friend 13

July 6.
I long very much to hear from you after you have had one or two of these long letters; first ​to know whether they are entirely ruinous? Some people say that they cost nothing, some that they cost a fortune; but then nobody here knows anything—poor baked creatures! Secondly, how tiresome they are? And, thirdly, how many of them come to hand? I think I see you saying to Sister, ‘I am rather tired of Calcutta and Barrackpore, and the heat and the natives, aren’t you? I wish they could write about something else.’ It is all so tiresome in doing, that in telling, I cannot imagine what it may be; but then it is all ‘the fault of them wot transported us here;’ and bad as the climate is, our healths are all very good. Mine is much better than usual. Moore is the only great sufferer; he has had one bad illness after another ever since we left England; but Dr. Drummond says, and, indeed, everybody sees, by his own fault. He will go out in the sun, even in the middle of the day, and he never is quiet for a moment; but he has had a very serious illness in consequence the last week, and is frightened now, and will be quieter.
We have been here nearly four months—the third part of a year, the twelfth part of four years. These calculations I make for you, as ​they are difficult to people not in the hourly habit of them.
Yours most affectionately,
E. E.
# Letters from India Volume I/To a Friend 15

Government House, Sunday, July 22.
We went to the Scotch Church, where there is supposed to be very good preaching; but it is clear to me that they want a pattern sermon sent out to Calcutta, just as new gowns and bonnets are sent; and I think you must trouble Dr. Thorpe to make them up a morning sermon and Mr. Blunt an evening one, for we cannot manage it for ourselves. Mr. ——, the Scotch clergyman, is an excellent man, and his prayer ​after the sermon was a very beautiful one, though I like to know beforehand what I am going to pray for, but he said, in the real fervent tone that belonged to it, ‘Bless our native land, from which we are wanderers and exiles, and bless, with Thy choicest blessings, those dearly loved friends whom we have left there,’ which was Just what I was watching for. But I think the fault of the Scotch service is that ignorance in the congregation of what they are to expect, and also the very small quantity of the Bible that is read. The whole service is so entirely the word of man and not the Word of God. There was some beautiful singing in this church. George did not go out again to-day, and Fanny and I took a drive in the evening.
Monday, July 23.
We had a Madras juggler quietly smuggled into ——’s room this morning, and he and Fanny and I, with Wright and Jones at the side scenes, established ourselves there to see him. He was not like the noisy jugglers we had last week, and some of his tricks surpassed all belief. He did all the tricks the Indian jugglers in England used to do with balls and ​balancing, and swallowing the sword, &c., and then he spit fire in large flames, and put a little rice into the top of a basket on a small tray and shook it, and before our eyes a tiny handful of rice turned into a large quantity of cowrie shells. Then he made a little boy, who is one of my servants, sit down, and he put a small black pebble into his hand and apparently did nothing but wave a little baguette round his head, and forty rupees (coins as big as half crowns) came tumbling out of the boy’s little hands. He made him pick them up again, and hold them as tight as he could, and in an instant the rupees were all gone and a large live frog jumped out. The little boy was so frightened that I gave him a book the next day for having gone through such alarms. We were so charmed with our juggler that we told him to come to-morrow night when George could see him.
# Letters from India Volume I/To a Friend 2

George Inn, Portsmouth, Thursday.
Your letter came to me this morning in bed, or rather to such share of me as is left, for you have no idea what the animals are in this inn; they have eaten us both up! We have no ​chance of sailing; the wind is right against us, and a great deal of it, so we shall probably cross over to Ryde this afternoon, and wait there, as a cleaner and quieter place. There is such a dreadful quantity of people here, all bursting into the room at all moments; and a tribe of Sir Johns and Sir Henrys, whom George knows, and who come with offers of dinners, which we have declined.
Your long letter is a great comfort to me. I shall keep it, and study it the ﬁrst time I am able to ﬁx my eyes on anything; but I do not feel at all as if I pursued my wretched way so evenly as you say I do—quite the contrary. The last ten days at the Admiralty I think I was in a fair way to go quietly and genteelly mad—what with regrets and annoyances, and one thing and another. I am better since we have been here, and that the actual work is undertaken; and, after all, I keep thinking that if I had come down to see George off, and not to go with him, how very much worse it would have been. In short, that would have been out of the question, and there certainly is nothing that he has not deserved from us. Robert is here, and a great comfort to us. We have just ​been down to look at the sea, and you never saw anything so shocking!—so rough and white. None of the officers of the ‘Jupiter’ can get off, even to dine on board; and we are obliged to stay here another night, from the impossibility of crossing to Ryde. I think there must have been several things I did not tell you from London for want of time.
I had such a pretty letter from Lord Melbourne on Tuesday, with a beautiful copy of ‘Milton.’ He says: ‘My mother always told me I was very selfish, man and boy, and I believe she was right. I always ﬁnd some excuse for not doing what I am anxious to avoid. I cannot bear to come and bid you good-bye, for few events of my life have been so painful to me as your going. May God bless and keep you!’ He then says a great deal that is very kind, and that he sends me a ‘Milton,’ which he has often read in, and marked what he thought I should like; and he begs I will write constantly, and he will do the same. I do not think he is so heartless as he says; at least, he has been most constantly kind to us, and puts himself out of the way for it.
I think your journal plan a very good one, ​particularly that idea of a résumé at the top; and I certainly shall keep your effusions to myself, because it will give you so much greater comfort in writing them.
I do hope you will not go on overworking yourself, doing a little too much every day, but keep resting yourself. This is not my last letter by any means, as we have no chance of going till the day after to-morrow, at soonest, nor much then. Love to all. I never part with my little cross, and have had a second ring put to it, for fear of accidents.
Ever, dearest, your most affectionate
E. E.
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/Notes to the Poem of The Brothers

NOTES to the POEM of THE BROTHERS.
NOTE I.
Page 26—line 20 "There were two springs that bubbled side by side." The impressive circumstance here described, actually took place some years ago in this country, upon an eminence called Kidstow Pike, one of the highest of the mountains that surround Hawes-water. The summit of the pike was stricken by lightning; and every trace of one of the fountains disappeared, while the other continued to flow as before.
NOTE II.
Page 29—line 5 "The thought of death sits easy on the man," &c. There is not any thing more worthy of remark in the manners of the inhabitants of these mountains, than the tranquillity, I might say indifference, with which they think and talk upon the subject of death. Some of the country church-yards, as here described, do not contain a single tombstone, and most of them have a very small number.
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/Inscription (1)

INSCRIPTION
For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water.
If thou in the dear love of some one friend Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thought Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot.——St. Herbert hither came And here, for many seasons, from the world Remov'd, and the affections of the world He dwelt in solitude. He living here, This island's sole inhabitant! had left A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd As his own soul; and when within his cave Alone he knelt before the crucifix While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore ​Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So pray'd he:—as our Chronicles report, Though here the Hermit number'd his last days, Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, Those holy men both died in the same hour.