OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1826/Past 2

Literary Gazette, 10th June, 1826, Page 364
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE PAST.
And years have past since last I gazed
 Upon thy faultless brow—
Have past without a sign of change—
 Thou art just as lovely now.
Yet somewhat there of change has come,
 Though what I scarce may say;—
Thou lookest as though our parting hour
 Had been but yesterday.
Thy lip smiles—but not with the smile
 It wore in days gone by;
'Tis studied, as a sunny mask,
 To hide the rising sigh.
A coronet of gems and gold
 Is shining through thy hair;
It is not worth the sweet wild flowers
 That thou wert wont to wear.
Yet let that pass; and let us talk
 Over the days of old:—
O no! I could not speak of them
 To listener so cold!
That smile, it freezes up the flow
 Of many a kindly thought—
That courtly carelessness!— And thus
 With thee the world has wrought!
Is this the sweet and simple girl,
 Whose inmost soul would gush
At her least word—whose laugh and tear
 Were genuine as her blush?
I knew thee wed to wealth and state—
 'Twas with a foolish joy:
I might have felt that all in life
 Had its own deep alloy.
But this—my once as sister—this
 I dream'd not to behold;
Thy candour into falsehood turn'd,
 And thy once warm heart cold.
It jars the thoughts of former days,
 To see thee as thou art:
Farewell! and can it be relief
 From one so loved to part!IOLE.
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1826/Song 1

Literary Gazette, 21st January, 1826, Page 43
SONGS.
When Love first came to me,
 He had two companions sweet;
Pleasure with her bright cup,
 Hope with her silver feet.
But Hope and Pleasure fled,
 As their wings were of the wind,
And they never came again—
 But Love remained behind.
Oh! why did Love remain,
 With his light and colour fled—
For what avails a mourner
 To the absent and the dead?
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1826/Song 2

I would that I could cease
 To think, false Love, of thee—
I would I could forget
 All thou hast been to me.
Is it some fault of mine
 That has changed thine heart and eye?
And have I sinned 'gainst love or thee?
 Oh, how unconsciously!
If a fault, surely tears
 May wash the wrong away,
As showers melt the clouds
 That darken summer's day.
I would it were in me
 That cause of change were found,
Quickly it would be plucked
 Like a weed from the ground.
But, alas! too well I know
 What has made thy love depart—
'Tis thine own inconstant mood,
 And thine own changeful heart.
L. E. L.
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1826/Song 3

Literary Gazette, 29th April, 1826, Pages 266-267
SONG.
Float, float, down the stream,
 Wreath that bound my raven hair;
Ye shall be to me a dream
 Of the things that were.
Float, float:—what, so soon
 Has that red rose found a grave—
So soon that vale-lily's light
 Lost beneath the wave?
Gone, gone—not a leaf
 Lingers on the faithless tide;
Smooth and sunny, who would think
 What those waters hide?
Gone, gone, as those flowers,
 Pleasures, feelings, hopes depart—
Launch'd upon Life's treacherous stream
 By the trusting heart.
L. E. L.
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1826/The Shadow

Literary Gazette, 16th September, 1826, Page 588
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE SHADOW.
I hung o'er the side of the vessel while cleaving
 Mid the blue rolling waters her pathway of light;
Behind was the white silver track she was leaving,  And before her the billows lay buoyant and bright.
Her white sail was spread to the beauty of Morning,
 Which waked like a rose crimson from her night's rest—
Now wooing the wind, and now, woman-like, scorning
 The lover whose home was yet deep in her breast.
On sprang the ship, like the stag from its pillow,
 In beauty, in music, in gladness, she past;
But follow'd her still one dark shade on the billow;
 That fair ship! from her could such darkness be cast?
The sunbeam hath its shadow, and youth hath its sorrow,
 The fair bark its dark side, and such is mine own;
Brightness and gladness my pathway may borrow,
 But still my heart's darkness upon it is thrown.
L. E. L.
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1826/Moralising

Literary Gazette, 1st July, 1826, Page 412
ORIGINAL POETRY.
MORALISING.
I cannot count the changes of my heart,
So often has it turned away from things
Once idols of its being:—they depart— Hopes, fancies, joys, illusions—as if wings
Were given from their former selves to start:
Or if they linger, longer life but brings
Weariness, canker, hollowness. and stain,
Till the heart says of pleasure, it is pain.
And thus it is with all that made life fair:—
Gone with the freshness which they used to wear,
‘Tis sad to mark the ravage which the heart
Makes of itself,—how one by one depart
The colours that formed hope. We seek—we find—
And find the charm has with the search declined.
Affections—pleasures—all in which we trust,— What do they end in?—Nothing, or disgust.
Think no more of that sweet time,
 When the heart and cheek were young,—
Think no more of that sweet time
 Ere the veil from life was flung.
Still the cheek shows the young rose,
 Which its beauty had of yore;
But the bloom upon the heart  Is no more.
We have mingled with the false,
 Till belief has lost the charm
Which it had when life was new,
 And the pulse of feeling warm.
We have had the bosom wrung
 When dropt the mask which Friendship wore,—
Affection's trusting happiness
 Is no more.
We have seen the young and gay
 Dying as the aged die;
Miss we not the cheerful voice?—  Miss we not the sunny eye?
Wishes take the place of Hope;—
 Hope hath dreamed till dreams are o‘er;— Its freshness made life fresh, and that
 Is no more.
Take away yon purple bowl;—
 What is left to greet it now?— Loathing lip that turns away,
 Sullen eye, and weary brow;—
Social joys that wont to laugh,—
 Mirth that lit its purple store,—
Friends with whom we poured its wealth.—
 Are no more.L. E. L.
# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1826/Past 1

Literary Gazette, 4th February, 1826, Page 77
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE PAST.
"Hope may charm Love, but Memory proves it."
My spirit may not turn away
 From Love, that was its first and last;
With thoughts the future cannot bring,
 I turn and dwell upon the past.
You do not know how I have loved—
 You do not know what I have lost;—
My bark of venturing hope is wreck'd—
 My own heart only knows the cost.
I may look on a face as fair
 As that for ever from me gone:
However fair it be, can I
 Look as I look'd upon that one?
No—ere you bid me love again,
 Love as I once loved, you must bring
The passionate feelings of my youth,
 The warmth and dew that made it spring.
Love is divine in our belief
 Of its eternity—how vain,
When we have known that Love can die,
 To think that he can live again!
Even if I could dream once more,
 What have I left to offer now?
A heart which knows that it can change—
 A sullied faith—a broken vow,
But this is vain:—go search the seas,
 And bring Oblivion's wave with thee,
Its deepest one:—then thou may'st speak,
 And only then, of love to me.
My heart is full of other days,—
 And its dark bodings are as those
Felt by the Elders of the land,
 When Judah's second Temple rose:
Those who had look'd upon the first,
 How could they think the second fair?
They only turn'd aside, and wept
 Another temple should be there.
Then never name Love's name to me,
 Unless the gentle word is said
As Pity names a buried friend,—
 As Sorrow murmurs of the dead.
For love and death are grown to me
 Associate terms; I only crave
From one the gift of memory,
 And from the other of a grave.
IOLE.
# Julius Caesar (1919) Yale/Appendix C

Layout 2
APPENDIX C
The Text of the Present Edition
The text of the present volume is, by permission of the Oxford University Press, that of the Oxford Shakespeare, edited by the late W. J. Craig, except for the following deviations:
1. The stage directions of the Folio have been restored as far as possible, with necessary modern additions in square brackets.
2. The punctuation, especially in the use of exclamation points, has been modernized, and the spelling of Calpurnia brought into conformity with current usage.
3. The only significant verbal departures—usually in the direction of a return to the Folio—are listed below, the readings adopted in the present text being placed before the colon while Craig's readings follow it; and Folio authority is given wherever involved:
I. i. 65 whether: whe'r (F where)
ii. 154 walks F: walls
iii. 96 these F: those
II. i. 72 moe F: more
275 you are F: are you
283 or F: of
ii. 76 statue F: statua
III. i. 31 Cæs. F: Casca
206 lethe (F1 Lethee F4 Lethe): leth
209 stricken F2, 3, 4: strucken (F1 stroken)
ii. S. d. et pas. Plebeians F: Citizens
193 statue F: statua
IV. i. 37 objects, arts F: abject orts
iii. 13 speaks (speakes F): speak
101 Pluto's F: Plutus'
V. iii. 61 to night F: to-night
97 whether: whe'r (F where)
104 Thasos: Thassos (F Tharsus)
iv. 18 Brutus is ta'en, Brutus is ta'en, my Lord F: Brutus is ta'en, my lord
30 whether: whe'r (F where)
# Julius Caesar (1919) Yale/Appendix D

Layout 2
APPENDIX D
Suggestions for Collateral Reading
Thomas Rymer: A Short View of Tragedy . . . with some Reflections on Shakespear. London, 16923. (Chapter viii begins with some twelve pages devoted to crude ridicule of Julius Cæsar.)
John Dennis: On the Genius and Writings of Shakespeare. London, 1711, (Reprinted in D. Nichol Smith's Eighteenth Century Essays on Shakespeare. Glasgow, 1903. Early appreciation of the Roman plays, disgruntled by pseudo-classical bias.)
William Hazlitt: Characters of Shakespear' s Plays. London, 1817. (Reprinted in 'Everyman's Library.' Standard criticism.)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Lectures and Notes on Shakespeare and Other English Poets. London, v. d. (Reprinted in 'Everyman's Library,' and in Bohn's Libraries. A landmark in modern literary criticism of Shakespeare.)
Henry Norman Hudson: Lectures on Shakespeare. New York, 1848. (Very full and sympathetic interpretations of character and action.)
George L. Craik: The English of Shakespeare; illustrated in A Philological Commentary on his Julius Cæsar. Revised ed. by W. J. Rolfe. Boston, 1867. (The most detailed commentary on the text of the play.)
Richard G. Moulton: Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist. Oxford, 1885. (Contains some interesting theories of dramatic construction, with two chapters analyzing Julius Cæsar.)
Frederick S. Boas: Shakspere and his Predecessors. New York, 1896. (A useful general history, with a ​noticeably good treatment of Julius Cæsar among the discussions of the separate plays.)
Thomas R. Lounsbury: Shakespeare and Voltaire. New York, 1902. (A rather prolix study of pseudo-classicism's opposition to Shakespeare, with a searching discussion of Voltaire's revamping of Julius Cæsar.)
C. F. Tucker Brooke: Shakespeare's Plutarch. Vol. I: containing The Main Sources of Julius Cæsar. London, 1909. (A very convenient and thorough edition of North for the student's purposes.)
M. W. MacCallum: Shakespeare's Roman Plays and their Background. London, 1910. (An elaborate and comprehensive work.)
W. F. P. Stockley: Reading Julius Cæsar. Dublin, n. d. (By no means first-class in quality, but offering many helpful suggestions to the elementary-school teacher.)
A. DeV. Tassin: Julius Cæsar, in Shaksperian Studies by Members of the Department of English . . . in Columbia University. New York, 1916. (A fine piece of appreciative criticism, though one may fail to concur in all its views.)
H. H. Furness, Jr.: A New Variorum Edition of Shakespeare. Vol. XVII: Julius Cæsar. Philadelphia, 1913. (For the faults of this volume, see the present writer's article in Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 1919.)
# King Coal/Book IV/Chapter 16

Edward turned upon his brother. "Now what the devil did you want to put me through a scene like that for? So undignified! So utterly uncalled for! A quarrel with a man so far beneath you!"
Hal stood where the superintendent had left him. He was looking at his brother's angry face. "Was that all you got out of it, Edward?"
"All that stuff about your private character! What do you care what a fellow like Cartwright thinks about you?"
"I care nothing at all what he thinks, but I care about having him use such a slander. That's one of their regular procedures, so Billy Keating says."
Edward answered, coldly, "Take my advice, and realise that when you deny a scandal, you only give it circulation."
"Of course," answered Hal. "That's what makes me so angry. Think of the girl, the harm done to her!"
"It's not up to you to worry about the girl."
"Suppose that Cartwright had slandered some woman friend of yours. Would you have felt the same indifference?"
"He'd not have slandered any friend of mine; I choose my friends more carefully."
"Yes, of course. What that means is that you choose them among the rich. But I happen to be more democratic in my tastes--"
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" cried Edward. "You reformers are all alike--you talk and talk and talk!"
"I can tell you the reason for that, Edward--a man like you can shut his eyes, but he can't shut his ears!"
"Well, can't you let up on me for awhile--long enough to get out of this place? I feel as if I were sitting on the top of a volcano, and I've no idea when it may break out again."
Hal began to laugh. "All right," he said; "I guess I haven't shown much appreciation of your visit. I'll be more sociable now. My next business is in Pedro, so I'll go that far with you. There's one thing more--"
"What is it?"
"The company owes me money--"
"What money?"
"Some I've earned."
It was Edward's turn to laugh. "Enough to buy you a shave and a bath?"
He took out his wallet, and pulled off several bills; and Hal, watching him, realised suddenly a change which had taken place in his own psychology. Not merely had he acquired the class-consciousness of the working-man, he had acquired the money-consciousness as well. He was actually concerned about the dollars the company owed him! He had earned those dollars by back- and heart-breaking toil, lifting lumps of coal into cars; the sum was enough to keep the whole Rafferty family alive for a week or two. And here was Edward, with a smooth brown leather wallet full of ten- and twenty-dollar bills, which he peeled off without counting, exactly as if money grew on trees, or as if coal came out of the earth and walked into furnaces to the sound of a fiddle and a flute!
Edward had of course no idea of these abnormal processes going on in his brother's mind. He was holding out the bills. "Get yourself some decent things," he said. "I hope you don't have to stay dirty in order to feel democratic?"
"No," answered Hal; and then, "How are we going?"
"I've a car waiting, back of the office."
"So you had everything ready!" But Edward made no answer; afraid of setting off the volcano again.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1632

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XI. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1632. — September 18, 1875. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXVI. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | The Inheritance of the Great Mogul, | Contemporary Review, | 707 |
| II. | Nan: A Summer Scene. Conclusion, | Blackwood's Magazine, | 721 |
| III. | On Animal Instinct: In its Relation to the Mind of Man, | Contemporary Review, | 730 |
| IV. | Fated to be Free. By Jean Ingelow. Conclusion, | Good Words, | 744 |
| V. | Self-Government in Russia, | Macmillan's Magazine, | 753 |
| VI. | Boys at Home, | Saturday Review, | 761 |
| VII. | The Rising of the Herzegovina, | Economist, | 763 |
| VIII. | Drawing-Room Music, | Saturday Review, | 765 |
| IX. | Bishop Thirlwall's Study, | Guardian, | 767 |
POETRY. :
| The Fisherman's Funeral, | 706 | Norwich, | 706 |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 768 |
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1632/The Fisherman's Funeral

* THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL.
* Up on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made,
* Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed;
* Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June,
* And under the cliffs the billows were chanting their ceaseless tune:
* For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore,
* Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more.
* The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird, and the priest's low tone were blent
* In the breeze that blew from the moorland, all laden with country scent;
* But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains,
* Or of lilies deep in the wild wood, or roses gemming the lanes.
* Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed men who gathered around the grave.
* Where lay the mate who had fought with them the battle of wind and wave.
* How boldly he steered the coble across the foaming bar.
* When the sky was black to the eastward and the breakers white on the Scar!
* How his keen eye caught the squall ahead, how his strong hand furled the sail.
* As we drove o'er the angry waters before the raging gale!
* How cheery he kept all the long dark night; and never a parson spoke
* Good words, like those he said to us, when at last the morning broke!
* So thought the dead man's comrades, as silent and sad they stood.
* While the prayer was prayed, the blessing said, and the dull earth struck the wood;
* And the widow's sob, and the orphan's wail, jarred through the joyous air;
* How could the light wind o'er the sea, blow on so fresh and fair?
* How could the gay waves laugh and leap, landward o'er sand and stone,
* While he, who knew and loved them all, lay lapped in clay alone?
* But for long, when to the beetling heights the snow-tipped billows roll,
* When the cod, and skate, and dogfish dart around the herring shoal;
* When gear is sorted, and sails are set, and the merry breezes blow.
* And away to the deep sea-harvest the stalwart reapers go,
* A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they will give to him who lies
* Where the clover springs, and the heather blooms, beneath the northern skies.
* All The Year Round.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1632/Norwich

* NORWICH.
* SEPTEMBER — 1849.
* (SEE "MEMORIALS OF A QUIET LIFE.")
* The good old bishop was lying dead.
* His people knew he had wished to die,
* For after the life of the soul is fled.
* That the body might live to be clothed and fed
* Was a fear he had been troubled by.
* In dismal black was the palace draped.
* Black were the plumes and funeral pall,
* And nothing about him the story shaped
* That a beautiful soul had from earth escaped,
* To dwell in heaven above us all.
* Stately and grand was the palace gloom,
* The old cathedral was very grand.
* And very magnificent was the tomb,
* And the great old bell, with majestic boom,
* Toll'd the tale to a sorrowing land.
* Sorrowing? Yes — there was sorrow there -
* For he was a wise and trusty chief.
* It was not the sorrow of a despair.
* Nor yet of a deep and a deathless care.
* But of a gentle and reverent grief.
* Clergy and friends, and the nearer yet.
* Will follow the good dead man with pain.
* And when in his grave they have seen him set,
* With the "tender touch" of a kind regret
* Return to their pleasant homes again.
* Such is the natural, proper course —
* Only one little chorister boy
* Wept with a wild and a vehement force.
* Wept with a passion that seem'd like remorse,
* And that emptied the world of its joy.
* A white-robed boy with a rosy face,
* A baby eye and a dimpling chin;
* They crowded about him with kindly grace
* The cause of this tempest of grief to trace.
* And to show him such grief was a sin.
* But the little chorister raised his head
* And shook his fist at the gloomy bier,
* "It is such a pity," he sharply said,
* "That a boy should live when a bishop is dead.
* And he should be there while I am here."
* Thou innocent white-robed chorister.
* Is death the worst that a life can bring?
* Loyal the thoughts that thy bosom stir
* But may not a good old bishop prefer
* A peaceable death to anything?
* Grudge not the crown to the aged brow.
* He has lived his life and fought his fight;
* But pray that when death shall approach thee, thou
* May'st then be as ready to die as now.
* Innocent-hearted and robed in white!
* A.
* Sunday Magazine.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1632/Miscellany

​Hay Fever. — In a letter to his son-in-law, Dr. Holland, the renowned humourist, Sidney Smith, says: — "I am suffering from my old complaint, hay fever; the membrane of my nose is in such a state of irritation, that light dust, contradiction, an absurd remark, the sight of a Dissenter, anything sets me sneezing, and when I begin to sneeze at twelve, I don't leave off till two, and may be heard at Baunton, when the wind sets that way — a distance of six miles. Turn your attention to this little curse. If consumption is too powerful for physicians, at least they should not let themselves be baffled by such a little upstart as hay fever."
# Letters of Two Brides/Chapter XVII

April 2nd.
Yesterday the weather was splendid. I dressed myself like a girl who wants to look her best in her sweetheart's eyes. My father, yielding to my entreaties, has given me the prettiest turnout in Paris—two dapple-gray horses and a barouche, which is a masterpiece of elegance. I was making a first trial of this, and peeped out like a flower from under my sunshade lined with white silk.
As I drove up the avenue of the Champs-Elysees, I saw my Abencerrage approaching on an extraordinarily beautiful horse. Almost every man nowadays is a finished jockey, and they all stopped to admire and inspect it. He bowed to me, and on receiving a friendly sign of encouragement, slackened his horse's pace so that I was able to say to him:
"You are not vexed with me for asking for my letter; it was no use to you." Then in a lower voice, "You have already transcended the ideal. . . . Your horse makes you an object of general interest," I went on aloud.
"My steward in Sardinia sent it to me. He is very proud of it; for this horse, which is of Arab blood, was born in my stables."
This morning, my dear, Henarez was on an English sorrel, also very fine, but not such as to attract attention. My light, mocking words had done their work. He bowed to me and I replied with a slight inclination of the head.
The Duc d'Angouleme has bought Macumer's horse. My slave understood that he was deserting the role of simplicity by attracting the notice of the crowd. A man ought to be remarked for what he is, not for his horse, or anything else belonging to him. To have too beautiful a horse seems to me a piece of bad taste, just as much as wearing a huge diamond pin. I was delighted at being able to find fault with him. Perhaps there may have been a touch of vanity in what he did, very excusable in a poor exile, and I like to see this childishness.
Oh! my dear old preacher, do my love affairs amuse you as much as your dismal philosophy gives me the creeps? Dear Philip the Second in petticoats, are you comfortable in my barouche? Do you see those velvet eyes, humble, yet so eloquent, and glorying in their servitude, which flash on me as some one goes by? He is a hero, Renee, and he wears my livery, and always a red camellia in his buttonhole, while I have always a white one in my hand.
How clear everything becomes in the light of love! How well I know my Paris now! It is all transfused with meaning. And love here is lovelier, grander, more bewitching than elsewhere.
I am convinced now that I could never flirt with a fool or make any impression on him. It is only men of real distinction who can enter into our feelings and feel our influence. Oh! my poor friend, forgive me. I forgot our l'Estorade. But didn't you tell me you were going to make a genius of him? I know what that means. You will dry nurse him till some day he is able to understand you.
Good-bye. I am a little off my head, and must stop.