OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Kentshire tragedy, or, The constant lovers overthrow/The shepherdess lamenting her drowned lover

The SHEPERDESS Lamenting her DROWNED LOVER.
YE maids of the village attend the sorrowful tale I now speak, Oh! refuse not your comfort to lend, for my heart is just ready to break!
Ye know my dear Caledon well, he was sprightly, and handsome, & young, On his lips what persuasion did dwell? how melodiously soft was his song!
​He was all my fond heart e'er desir'd; he was all that was gen'rous and brave; What pity the charms I admir'd, from death had no power to save.
But just as the day did approach, to give the dear youth to my arms, From the water they brought me his corpse, how faded were all his gay charms!
As the lily, when drooping with rain, dejectedly hangs down his head, So languish'd his beautiful cheek, and its vermilion was fled.
His voice, that as music was sweet, no more I enraptur'd shall hear; No more the fond swain shall repeat, a tale of soft love in mine ear.
Convey the dear youth to his grave, lest his beautiful form I adore. Yet one silent kiss let me have, for alas! I shall ne'er see him more.
Ye maidens attend on this day, and strew all the path way with flowers, And oh! the kind Deities hear! may their love be more happy than ours.
As for me, I will henceforth beware how in love I engage my fond heart; For though love is a joy, how severe is the pang from a lover to part?
Glasgow, Printed by J. & M. Robertson, Saltmarket. 1802.
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
# Kentshire tragedy, or, The constant lovers overthrow/The Kentshire tragedy or The constant lovers overthrow

THE KENT-SHIRE TRAGEDY.
A Lady lov'd a gallant Sailor, and she ador'd him as her life, With solemn vows and faithful tokens, she promised to be his wife.
But cruel parents, and deep at variance, to think she lov'd the young man so, By the hard hearted, they soon were parted, which was the cause of his overthrow.
To the Indies then this handsome young man, was forc'd to quit the British shore, For many a day as I heard say, but he never saw his true love more.
In deep distraction this lovely Lady, to Bedlam then she was confin'd;
Crying, Death come ease me, grief hath seiz'd me, Oh! what can ease a troubled mind.
O! what shall I do? or what shall I say? or what shall I do since my love's gone? From Carolina to Pensylvania, I'll search the Indies round and round.
On board I'll enter, my life to venture, for the young man whom I do adore; From Pensylvania to Carolina I'll search the Indies o'er and o'er.
​Like one in battle, my chains I'll rattle, for the young man whom I do adore. My heart’s a breaking, since I'm forsaken, and all by my parents' cruelty.
O what care I for gold and silver, for rubies, pearls, or precious stones, Or what care I for worldly treasure, since my true love is from me gone.
Like a malefactor in grief I rapture, or like a convict in revenge; Alas! fond love has bound me faster, than all the strength of your Bedlam chains,
To fate resign'd, I'm here confin'd, into this dungeon where I do ly; Why was I born, to be forlorn, under the frowns of tyranny?
(illegible text) Bedlam's Porter, be my comforter, and from this dungeon set me free, (illegible text)r bring me to my dearest jewel, that I once more his face may see.
(illegible text) deep despair this Lady fair, in Bedlam died as I heard say; ⟨Or⟩ that very night her faithful lover, in Biscay-bay was cast away.
⟨With⟩ lamentation and great vexation, her mother cry'd, my child is dead; ⟨I've⟩ prov’d her ruin and sad undoing, ⟨This⟩ day her blood lies on my head.
​Is gold and grandure such an honour, that it my piece of mind destroys, True love I find it is much better, than any of such empty toys.
My wit is cracked, with grief distracted, my mind runs like the raging waves, When I think on these loyal lovers who now lie in their silent graves.
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
# Kentucky Finance Corporation v. Paramount Auto Exchange Corporation

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
262 U.S. 544
Kentucky Finance Corporation v. Paramount Auto Exchange Corporation
Argued: Oct. 5, 1922. --- Decided: June 11, 1923
Messrs. Albert K. Stebbins and Jackson B. Kemper, both of Milwaukee, Wis., for plaintiff in error.
Mr. Walter H. Bender, of Milwaukee, Wis., for defendant in error.
Mr. Justice VAN DEVANTER 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).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/Regatta,—Windermere Lake

77
* FERRY HOUSE REGATTA, WINDERMERE LAKE.
* Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: J. Starling
REGATTA,—WINDERMERE LAKE.
With sunshine on their canvass,
 And sunshine at their side—
Like court beauties at a pageant,
 The stately vessels glide.
The sound of shout and music
 Comes from the boats behind;
And the peal of youthful laughter
 Makes glad the summer wind.
But we will not go with them,
 My loved one and my own;
We never are so happy
 As when we are alone.
Yet when the purple shadows
 Of the quiet eve come on,
And the ripple of those vessels
 From each still wave is gone:—
When stars with silver footsteps
 Pass like angels o’er the sky;
When the breath of leaf and blossom
 To the lulling winds reply:—
Then let our boat, my sweet one!  To yonder shore depart,
When not a sound is louder  Than our own beating heart.
Like a dream beneath the moonlight,  Our fairy float will be;
Let the weary crave the many—
 I ask only for thee!
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/Robert Blake

15
* ROBERT BLAKE.
* GENERAL AND ADMIRAL OF THE PARLIAMENTARY FORCES.
* Artist: from Briggs - Engraved by: J. Cochran
ROBERT BLAKE,
ADMIRAL AND GENERAL OF THE PARLIAMENTARY FORCES.
What! will they sweep the channels,  And brave us as they go!
There’s no place in English annals
 For the triumph of a foe.
Thus spoke the English admiral,  His hand was on his sword;
Hurrah! was the sole answer
 From every man on board.
The Dutch came o’er the ocean,  As if it were their home,
With a slow and gliding motion  The stately vessels come.
The sky is blue above them,  But ere an hour be past,
The shadows of the battle  Will over heaven be cast
They meet—it is in thunder,
 The thunder of the gun;
Fire rends the smoke asunder,  The battle is begun.
He stands amid his seamen,
 Our Admiral of the White,
And guides the strife more calmly,
 Than of that strife I write.
For over the salt water  The grape-shot sweeps around;
The decks are red with slaughter,  The dead are falling round.
But the bold flag of old England
 Flies bravely at the mast;
The Dutch take down their colours,
 While the cannons fire their last.
From that hour victorious  Have we kept the seas,
And our navy glorious,  Queens it o’er the breeze.
Long may we keep such empire,  It is a noble debt
We owe to those past triumphs,
 We never may forget.
The victory over the Dutch was won by Admiral Blake in the time of the Protectorate. Von Tromp sailed into the channel with a broom at his masthead, intimating that he would sweep the seas of the English. The result is stated above.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/Sir Robert Peel

9
* Artist: Sir Thomas Lawrence F.R.A. - Engraved by: J. Cochran
SIR ROBERT PEEL.
Mrs. Hemans' last hours were cheered by the kindness of Sir Robert Peel; and the letter promising an appointment to her eldest son, was one of the latest that she received. This fact is my excuse for having deviated from my general rule of leaving contemporary portraits to speak for themselves. I frankly confess that I can never write till interested in my subjects. Now, a female writer cannot pretend to even an opinion on the political and public characters of the day. The above incident, on the contrary, belongs to the many who look back with admiration and gratitude to the gifted and the gone.
Dim through the curtains came the purple twilight slowly, Deepening like death’s shadow around that silent room; There lay a head, a radiant head, but lowly, And the pale face like a statue shone out amid the gloom.  Never again will those white and wasted fingers Waken the music they were wont to wake of yore, A music that in many a beating heart yet lingers, The sweeter and the sadder that she will breathe no more.  It is a lovely world that the minstrel leaves behind him, It is a lovely world in which the minstrel lives, Deep in its inmost life hath the soul of love inshrined him, And passionate and general the pleasure which he gives.  But dear-bought is the triumph, what dark fates are recorded Of those who held sweet mastery o’er the pulses of the lute, Mournfully and bitterly their toil has been rewarded, For them the tree of knowledge puts forth its harshest fruit.  Glorious and stately the ever-growing laurel, Flinging back the summer sunshine, defying winter’s snow, Yet its bright history has the darkly-pointed moral, Deadly are the poisons that through its green leaves flow.  And she, around whose couch the gentle daylight dying, Seems like all nature’s loving, last farewell; She with the world’s heart to her own soft one replying, How much of song’s fever and sorrow could she tell.  Yet upon her lip a languid smile is shining, Tokens of far-off sympathy have soothed that hour of pain; Its sympathy has warmed the pallid cheek reclining On the weary pillow whence it will not rise again.  It is the far-off friend, the unknown she is blessing, The statesman who has paused upon toils' hurried way, To learn the deepest charm that power has in possessing, The power to scatter benefits and blessings round its sway.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/Sir William Stanley

65
* SIR WILLIAM STANLEY, KC..
* LORD CHAMBERLAIN OF THE HOUSEHOLD TO HENRY 7TH.
* Artist: a painting in Wentworth Ho. - Engraved by: H. Robinson
SIR WILLIAM STANLEY.
The man was old, his hair was grey—
And I have heard the old man say,
‘Keep thou from royal courts away;' In proof thereof, he wont to tell
The Stanley’s fatal chronicle.
ing Henry sat amid his court, and of the nobles there
Not one with William Stanley for favour could compare;
He was the royal chamberlain, and on his bended knee
Within King Henry’s silver cup the red wine poured he.
There came a knight in presence there, he named my master’s name,
As he stood betting golden coin upon the royal game.
And on Sir Robert Clifford’s word, they took his sword away,
And William Stanley to the Tower was prisoner sent that day.
God only knows the hearts of men, but ’twas a wondrous thing
My noble master should conspire against the crowned king;
For well I know on Bosworth Field it was his red right hand
That placed upon Earl Richmond’s brow King Richard’s royal band.
But ancient service is forgot; and he, the Wiseman, said, Think thou no evil of the king upon thy lonely bed; And therefore little will I name of what I then heard told,
That my good lord’s worst treasons were his broad lands and his gold.
I saw him on the scaffold stand, the axe was gleaming bright,
But I will say he faced its shine as best became a knight;
He prayed a prayer—he knelt him down—there smote a sullen sound,
I saw my master’s severed head upon the dark red ground.
No nobles bore the noble’s pall, there was no funeral bell,
But I stood weeping by the grave of him I loved so well.
I know not of the right or wrong, but this much let me say,
Would God my master had been kept from kings and courts away!
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/Strada Reale—Corfu

54
* STRADA REALE, CORFU.
* Artist: S. Prout - Engraved by: E. Finden
STRADA REALE—CORFU.
am weary of the green wood
Where haunteth the wild bee,
And the olive’s silvery foliage
Droops o’er the myrtle tree.
The fountain singeth silvery,
As with a sleepy song,
It wandereth the bright mosses,
And drooping flowers among.
I will seek the cheerful city,
And in the crowded street,
See if I can find the traces
Of pleasure’s winged feet.
The bells are ringing gayly, And their music gladdens all,
From the towers in the sunshine,
To the date and orange stall.
Gay voices are around me, I seem to gladden too; And a thousand changing objects Win my wandering eyes anew.
It is pleasant through the city
In a sunny day to roam;
And yet my full heart turns to thee,
My own, my greenwood home.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/The Delectable Mountains

13
* THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS.
* Artist: H. Melville - Engraved by: A. LePetit
THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS.
"Is this the way to the celestial city? "You are just in the way. "————They went up the mountains, to behold the gardens and the orchards."
Pilgrim's Progress.
Oh, far away ye are, ye lovely hills,  Yet can I feel the air  Grow sweet while gazing where The valley with the distant sunshine fills.
Fair Morning! lend thy wings, and let me fly  To thy eternal home,
 Where never shadows come, Where tears are wiped away from every eye.
I'm weary, weary of this earth of ours;
 I’m sick with the heart’s want;  My fever’d spirits pant, To cling to things less transient than its flowers.
I ask of the still night—it answers me,  This earth is not my home:  Great Father! let me come, A wanderer and a penitent, to Thee!
Ye far, fair mountains, echo with my cry.  Unto your realm of bliss  The grave the threshold is; Let its dark portals open—let me die!
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/Scale Force, Cumberland

83
* SCALE FORCE, CUMBERLAND.
* Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: J. C. Bentley
SCALE FORCE, CUMBERLAND.
This cascade, distant about a mile and a half from the village of Buttermere, exceeds in extent of fall the renowned Niagara, yet, owing to a difficulty of access, it is frequently neglected by the tourist.
It sweeps, as sweeps an army
Adown the mountain side,
With the voice of many thunders,
Like the battle’s sounding tide.
Yet the sky is blue above it,
And the dashing of the spray
Wears the colour of the rainbow
Upon an April day.
It rejoices in the sunshine,
When after heavy rain
It gathers the far waters
To dash upon the plain.
It is terrible, yet lovely, Beneath the morning rays: Like a dream of strength and beauty, It haunted those who gaze.
We feel that it is glorious,
Its power is on the soul;
And lofty thoughts within us
Acknowledge its control.
A generous inspiration
Is on the outward world;
It waketh thoughts and feelings
In careless coldness furled.
To love and to admire
Seems natural to the heart;
Life’s small and selfish interests
From such a scene depart.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/Strada St. Ursola,—Malta

69
* STRADA STA. URSOLA, - MALTA.
* Artist: S. Prout - Engraved by: J. Carter
STRADA ST. URSOLA,—MALTA.
"A View of many dwellings, long tenanted by the last remnants of Chivalry."
Young knight, that broidered cloak undo,
And break that golden chain in two;
Take from your hand its jewels fair,
Shear those bright curls of sunny hair,
And offer up at yonder shrine
All vanities that once were thine.
No more the victor of the ring,
Thy triumphs will the minstrel sing;
No more upon thy helm the glove
Will ask of fame to sanction love.
The saraband untrod must be,
The lists, the dance are closed for thee.
Look to the past—if present there
Be visible one great despair:
Look to the future—if it give
Nothing which charmeth thee to live.
Then come—the present knows its doom;
Thy heart already is a tomb.
Thy cheek is pale—thy brow is worn—
Thy lip is bitter in its scorn.
I read in them the signs that tell
The heart’s impassioned chronicle.
’Tis past!—and Malta’s iron vow
To thee is less than nothing now.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/The Church at Polignac

44
* THE CHURCH AT POLIGNAC.
* Artist: J. D. Harding - Engraved by: T. Higham
[Written during the imprisonment of Prince Polignac and his colleagues, after the French Revolution of 1830.]
THE CHURCH AT POLIGNAC.
neel down in yon chapel, but only one prayer Should awaken the echoes its tall arches bear; Pale mother, pray not for the child on the bed, For the sake of the prisoner let matins be said; Old man, though the shade of thy grave-stone be nigh, Yet not for thyself raise thy voice to the sky; Young maiden, there kneeling, with blush and with tear, Name not the one name to thy spirit most dear. The prayer for another, to Heaven addrest, Comes back to the breather thrice blessing and blest.
Beside the damp marsh, rising sickly and cold, Stand the bleak and stern walls of the dark prison hold; There fallen and friendless, forlorn and opprest, Are they—once the flattered, obeyed, and carest, From the blessings that God gives the poorest exiled, His wife is a widow, an orphan his child; For years there the prisoner has wearily pined, Apart from his country, apart from his kind; Amid millions of freemen, one last lonely slave, He knoweth the gloom, not the peace of the grave.
I plead not their errors, my heart’s in the cause, Which bows down the sword with the strength of the laws; But France, while within her such memories live, With her triumphs around, can afford to forgive. Let Freedom, while raising her glorious brow, Shake the tears from her laurels that darken there now, Be the chain and the bar from yon prison removed, Give the children their parent, the wife her beloved. By the heart of the many is pardon assigned, For, Mercy, thy cause is the cause of mankind.
Mr. Duncombe, in his eloquent speech which first excited the sentiment I have faintly endeavoured to express above, after giving most painful details of the prisoners in that fortress, says, "I put it to the house and to the public, whether persecution like this be necessary to the ends of national justice! The same feeling which prompted us on a former occasion to address our allies in the language of congratulation, should now induce us to advise the French people to temper triumph with clemency." Surely, the matter cannot be allowed to merge in that selfish carelessness with which we are too apt to regard the sufferings of others. Political enlightenment has yet many steps to make, while justice and vengeance are synonymous terms. But an appeal was never yet made in vain to the generous sympathies of "La Belle France."
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838/The Tournament

16
* The Rescue of Ivanhoe.Le Délivrance d’Ivanhoe.
* Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: R. Staines
THE TOURNAMENT.
His spur on his heel, his spear in its rest. The wild wind just waving the plumes on his crest;
The young knight rides forward—his armour is bright
As that which it mirrors, the morning’s clear light.
His steed it is black as the raven that flies ’Mid the tempest that darkens its way through the skies;
From his nostril the white foam is scattered around;
He knoweth the battle and spurneth the ground.
His master is young—but familiar his hand Has been from its childhood with axe and with brand.
His gold locks have darkened with blood and with toil,
Where the battle of Ascalon darkened the soil
He is calm, though a youth, save when his blue eye
Sees afar the red banners that sweep through the sky; It kindles—there waiteth the triumph again—
He poises his lance, and he tightens his rein.
The belt of a knight was in Palestine won; By the hand of King Richard the belt was bound on. On his shoulder the cross, by his helmet a glove,
Tell he serveth his God, and his King, and his Love,
On his lip is a song whose last murmur was heard
When the castle’s old ivy the summer wind stirred; Low and love-touched the words, that are never so dear
As when battle and danger and triumph are near.
He flings the bright marks from his scarf’s silken fold— What careth the warrior for silver or gold?
And he bends till his plumes touch his horse’s dark mane,
To the minstrel who mingles one name with his strain.
So loyal of heart, and so liberal of hand, Were the gallant—the high-born—of England’s fair land.
But their glory is gathered—their honours are told—
Let the race of to-day match the good knights of old.
There was amongst the ranks a champion in black armour, mounted on a black horse, large, tall, powerful, and strong, like the rider by whom he was mounted. This knight bore no device upon his shield, evinced little interest in the event of the day, beat off, with ease, those who attacked him, but neither pursued his advantage, nor assisted any one. This conduct procured him the title of the "Black Sluggard." Suddenly the sluggard, perceiving the leader of his party hard bestead, threw aside his apathy, and rushed like a thunder-bolt to his assistance, exclaiming "Desdichado! to the rescue!" The sable knight dealt such a stroke to one, as brought both horse and rider to the ground; then wrenching the battle-axe from the hand of a second, bestowed on him a stunning blow, that laid him senseless on the field. — (Vide Rescue of Ivanhoe, Waverley Novels.)
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1838/The Ionian Captive

52
* THE IONIAN CAPTIVE.
* Artist: H. W. Pickles - Engraved by: Charles Fox
THE IONIAN CAPTIVE.
Sadly the captive o'er the flowers is bending,  While her soft eye with sudden sorrow fills; They are not those that grew beneath her tending  In the green valley of her native hills.
There is the violet—not from the meadow  Where wandered carelessly her childish feet; There is the rose—it grew not in the shadow  Of her old home—it cannot be so sweet.
And yet she loves them—for those flowers are bringing  Dreams of the home that she will see no more; The languid perfumes are around her, flinging  What almost for the moment they restore.
She hears her mother's wheel, that slowly turning  Murmured unceasingly the summer day; And the stone murmur, when the pine-boughs burning  Told that the summer-hours had passed away.
She hears her young companions sadly singing  A song they loved—an old complaining tune; Then comes a gayer sound—the laugh is ringing  Of the young children—hurrying in at noon.
By the dim myrtles, wandering with her sister,  They tell old stories, broken by the mirth Of her young brother: alas! have they missed her,  She who was borne a captive from their hearth?
She starts—too present grows the actual sorrow,  By her own heart she knows what they have borne; Young as she is, she shudders at to-morrow,  It can but find her prisoner and forlorn.
What are the glittering trifles that surround her—  What the rich shawl—and what the golden chain— Would she could break the fetters that have bound her,  And see her household and her hills again!