OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/The Spanish Page

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* THE SPANISH PAGE.
* Artist: Murillo - Engraved by: T. Woolnoth
THE SPANISH PAGE,
OR, THE CITY'S RANSOM.
he was a chieftain’s daughter, and he a captive boy, Yet playmates and companions they shared each childish joy; Their dark hair often mingled, they wandered hand in hand, But at last the golden ransom restored him to his land. A lovely town is Seville amid the summer air, But, though it be a little town, Xenilla is as fair; Fair are the glittering minarets where the purple daylight falls, And rosy the pomegranates of the gardens in its walls.
But its pleasant days are over, for an army girds it round,
With the banner of the red cross, and the Christian trumpets sound; They have sworn to raze the city that in the sunshine stood, And its silvery singing fountains shall flow with Moslem blood. Fierce is the Christian leader, a young and orphan lord,
For all the nobles of his house fell by the Moorish sword; Himself was once a captive, till redeemed by Spanish gold, Now to be paid by Moorish wealth and life an hundred-fold.
The sound of war and weeping reached where a maiden lay, Fading as fades the loveliest, too soon from earth away, Dark fell the silken curtains, and still the court below, But the maiden’s dream of childhood was disturbed by wail and wo. She questioned of the tumult; her pale slaves told the cause; The colour mounted to her cheek, a hasty breath she draws, She called her friends around her, she whispered soft and low, Like music from a wind-touched lute her languid accents flow.
Again upon her crimson couch she laid her weary head; They looked upon the dark-eyed maid—they looked upon the dead. That evening, ere the sunset grew red above the town, A funeral train upon the hills came winding slowly down; They come with mournful chanting, they bear the dead along, The sentinels stood still to hear that melancholy song: To Don Henrique they bore the corpse—they laid it at his feet, Pale grew the youthful warrior that pale sweet face to meet.
As if in quiet slumber the Moorish maid was laid, And her white hands were folded, as if in death she prayed; Her long black hair on either side was parted on her brow, And her cold cheek was colder than marble or than snow. Yet lovelier than a living thing she met the warrior’s gaze, Around her was the memory of many happy days. He knew his young companion, though long dark years had flown, Well had she kept her childish faith—she was in death his own.
"Bring ye this here, a ransom for those devoted walls!" None answered—but around the tent a deeper silence falls; None knew the maiden’s meaning, save he who bent above, Ah! only love can read within the hidden heart of love. There came from these white silent lips more eloquence than breath, The tenderness of childhood—the sanctity of death. He felt their old familiar love had ties he could not break, The warrior spared the Moorish town, for that dead maiden’s sake.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/The Unknown Grave

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THE UNKNOWN GRAVE.
here is a little lonely grave  Which no one comes to see, The foxglove and red orchis wave  Their welcome to the bee. There never falls the morning sun,  It lies beneath the wall, But there when weary day is done  The lights of sunset fall, Flushing the warm and crimson air As life and hope were present there.
There sleepeth one who left his heart  Behind him in his song; Breathing of that diviner part  Which must to heaven belong. The language of those spirit chords,  But to the poet known, Youth, love, and hope yet use his words,  They seem to be his own. And yet he has not left a name, The poet died without his fame.
How many are the lovely lays  That haunt our English tongue, Defrauded of their poet’s praise  Forgotten he who sung. Tradition only vaguely keeps  Sweet fancies round this tomb; Its tears are what the wild flower weeps,  Its record is that bloom; Ah, surely nature keeps with her The memory of her worshipper.
One of her loveliest mysteries  Such spirit blends at last With all the fairy fantasies  Which o’er some scenes are cast. A softer beauty fills the grove,  A light is in the grass, A deeper sense of truth and love  Comes o’er us as we pass; While lingers in the heart one line, The nameless poet hath a shrine.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/The Lake of Como

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* THE LAKE OF COMO, ITALY.
* Artist: S. Prout - Engraved by: William Miller
THE LAKE OF COMO.
gain I am beside the lake,
The lonely lake which used to be
The wide world of the beating heart,
When I was, love, with thee.
I see the quiet evening lights Amid the distant mountains shine;
I hear the music of a lute,
It used to come from thine.
How can another sing the song, The sweet sad song that was thine own? It is alike, yet not the same, It has not caught thy tone.
Ah, never other lip may catch The sweetness round thine own that clung; To me there is a tone unheard, There is a chord unstrung.
Thou loveliest lake, I sought thy shores,
That dreams from other days might cast,
The presence elsewhere sought in vain,
The presence of the past.
I find the folly of the search,
Thou bringest but half the past again;
My pleasure calling faintly back
Too vividly my pain.
Too real the memories that haunt
The purple shadows round thy brink—
I only asked of thee to dream,
I did not ask to think.
False beauty haunting still my heart,
Tho' long since from that heart removed;
These waves but tell me how thou wert
Too well and vainly loved.
Fair lake, it is all vain to seek
The influence of thy lovely shore—
I ask of thee for hope and love—
They come to me no more.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/The Sacred Shrines of Dwarka

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* THE SACRED SHRINES OF DWARKA.
* Artist: W. Purser - Engraved by: R. Wallis
THE SACRED SHRINES OF DWARKA.
UCH was the faith of old—obscure and vast,
And offering human triumphs unto heaven.
Then rose the stately temple, rich with spoils
Won from the vanquished nations. There the god
Stood visible in golden pageantry;
And pride, pomp, power were holy attributes.
A humbler creed has wandered o’er the earth,
Known, as a quiet scarce-seen stream is known,
But by the greener growth upon its banks.
It is our Christian worship, which doth lead
The heart of man to Heaven by love alone.
Plant ye the Cross then by these ancient shrines: Far let it spread its genial influence—
Peace for its shadow—Hope for its sunshine.
The introduction of Christian Missionaries was always advocated by Sir Alexander Johnston, while President of His Majesty's Council in Ceylon. A leading Brahmin mentioned, while in conversation with him, the following striking fact. "For our toleration," said he, "I refer to the little Roman Catholic chapel of St. Francis, which had for the last three hundred years stood under a banyan tree, close by the great Hindoo temple. Not one of the innumerable devotees who resort thither on pilgrimages had ever molested the shrine of another faith."
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/The Earl of Sandwich

Actually the islands were named after John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich, which conforms with the poem title but not the attached portrait.
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* Artist: Sir Peter Lely - Engraved by: H. T. Ryall
THE EARL OF SANDWICH.
They called the Islands by his name*,  Those isles, the far-away and fair; A graceful fancy linked with fame,  A flattery—such as poets' are;
Who link with lovely things their praise,  And ask the earth, and ask the sky, To colour with themselves their lays  And some associate grace supply.
But here it was a sailor’s thought,  That named the island from the Earl— That dreams of England might be brought  To those soft shores, and seas of pearl.
How very fair they must have seemed  When first they darkened on the deep! Like all the wandering seaman dreamed  When land rose lovely on his sleep.
How many dreams they turned to truth  When first they met the sailor’s eyes; Green with the sweet earth’s southern youth,  And azure with her southern skies.
And yet our English thought beguiles  The mariner where’er he roam. He looks upon the new-found isles,  And calls them by some name of home.
* The Sandwich Islands were so called in honour of the Earl of Sandwich, then first lord of the Admiralty.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/The Princess Victoria

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* Artist: Sir Geo. Hayter - Engraved by: J. Cochran
THE PRINCESS VICTORIA.
A fair young face o’er which is only cast
The delicate hues of spring,
Though round her is the presence of the past,
And the stern future gathers darkly fast;
As yet no heavy shadow loads their wing.
A little while hast thou to be a child, Thy lot is all too high; Thy face is very fair, thine eyes are mild, But duties on thine arduous path are piled— A nation’s hopes and fears blend with thy destiny.
Change is upon the world, it may be thine To soothe its troubled way, To make thy throne a beacon and a shrine Whence knowledge, power, and liberty may shine, As yet they have not shone on mortal day.
There is much misery on this worn earth, But much that may be spared; Of great and generous thought there is no dearth, And highest hopes of late have had their birth, Hopes for the many, what the few have shared.
The wind that bears our flag from soil to soil, Teaches us as it flies; It carries in its breath a summer spoil, And seeds spring up to stimulate man’s toil, So should our mind spread round its rich supplies.
Thou, royal child, the future is thine own, May it be blessed in thee! May peace that smiles on all be round thy throne, And universal truth, whose light alone Gives golden records unto history.
# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1837/Town and Harbour of Ithaca

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* TOWN AND HARBOUR OF ITHACA.
* Artist: C. Bentley - Engraved by: J. Tingle
TOWN AND HARBOUR OF ITHACA.
By another light surrounded  Than our actual sky; With the purple ocean bounded  Does the island lie, Like a dream of the old world. Bare the rugged heights ascending,  Bring to mind the past, When the weary voyage ending,  Was the anchor cast. And the stranger sails were furled Beside the glorious island Where Ulysses was the king.
Still does fancy see the palace,  With its carved gates; Where the suitors drained the chalice,  Mocking at the Fates. Stern, and dark, and veiled are they. Still their silent thread entwining  Of our wretched life; With their cold pale hands combining  Hate, and fear, and strife. Hovers the avenging day O’er the glorious island Where Ulysses was the king.
Grant my fancy pardon,  If amid these trees Still it sees the garden  Of old Laertes, Where he met his glorious son. The apple boughs were drooping  Beneath their rosy fruit, And the rich brown pears were stooping  To the old man at their foot, While his daily task was done In the glorious island, Where Ulysses was the king
’Tis a vain and cold invention,  ’Tis the spirit’s wrong, Which to some small mind's pretension  Would subdue that song, Shrined in manhood’s general heart. One almighty mind—one only,  Could such strain have sung; Ever be the laurel lonely,  Where such lyre is hung. Be the world a thing apart, Of the glorious island, Where Ulysses was the king
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1629/Pansy

* PANSY.
* What blossom have you brought to-day,
* Beside my pillow, dear, to lay?
* Come, let me see my prize.
* A velvet pansy, large and fair,
* With petals yellow as your hair,
* And purple as your eyes.
* I think I know the very spot.
* Where, bordered with forget-me-not,
* This lovely blossom grew;
* We knew that pansy bed of old,
* A sweet, swift story there was told,
* Between black eyes and blue.
* It seems but yesterday we stood,
* Each unto each God's greatest good,
* Beneath the morning sky!
* We stood as lovers stand, to part,
* (But hand from hand, not heart from heart),
* With lingering good-bye.
* Upon your snow-white dress you wore
* One blossom, plucked an hour before.
* While still the dew was wet:
* A purple pansy, fair as this,
* I took it, with your first shy kiss;
* I have that blossom yet.
* We thought our fate was hard that day.
* But, darling, we have learned to say,
* "Whatever is, is best."
* That far-off parting which is o'er.
* Foretold one longer, on before.
* Awaiting which we rest.
* We wait as friends and lovers do.
* Each reading true heart through and through,
* Until that parting come.
* Then if you speak I shall not hear,
* I shall not feel your presence near.
* Nor answer. Death is dumb.
* You may bring pansies, too, that day.
* To spread above the senseless clay.
* But none so sweet as this;
* And never one like that dear flower,
* You gave me in love's dawning hour.
* With your shy clinging kiss.
* I may not give you courage strong.
* And help and counsel all life long,
* As once I hoped to do.
* But, love, be fearless, faithful, brave;
* The pansies on my quiet grave
* May bring heart's-ease for you.
* All The Year Round.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1629/Thou and I

* THOU AND I.
* Strange, strange for thee and me
* Sadly afar;
* Thou safe, beyond, above,
* I 'neath the star;
* Thou where flowers deathless spring,
* I where they fade;
* Thou in God's paradise,
* I 'mid the shade.
* Thou where each gale breathes balm,
* I tempest-tossed;
* Thou where true joy is found,
* I where 'tis lost.
* Thou counting ages thine,
* I not the morrow;
* Thou learning more of bliss,
* I more of sorrow.
* Thou in eternal peace,
* I 'mid earth's strife;
* Thou where care hath no name,
* I where 'tis life.
* Thou without need of hope,
* I where 'tis vain;
* Thou with wings dropping light,
* I with time's chain.
* Strange, strange for thee and me.
* Loved, loving ever;
* Thou by life's deathless fount,
* I near death's river;
* Thou winning wisdom's lore,
* I strength to trust;
* Thou 'mid the seraphim,
* I in the dust.
* Phœbe Cary.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 126/Issue 1630

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.
| Fifth Series, Volume XI. | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | No. 1630. — September 4, 1875. | $\scriptstyle {\left\{{\begin{matrix}\ \end{matrix}}\right.}$ | From Beginning Vol. CXXVI. |
CONTENTS. :
| I. | Memoirs of Count de Segur, | Quarterly Review, | 579 |
| II. | Nan. A Summer Scene, | Blackwood's Magazine, | 603 |
| III. | German Home Life. By a Lady. Part VI., | Fraser's Magazine, | 613 |
| IV. | Fated to be Free. By Jean Ingelow. Part XV., | Good Words, | 624 |
| V. | The Michael Angelo Celebration, | Academy, | 639 |
POETRY. :
| Nature and Love, | 578 | August on the Mountains, | 578 |
| The Everlasting Pity, | 578 | Dying Summer, | 578 |
| Miscellany, | Miscellany, | Miscellany, | 640 |
# Le Morte d'Arthur/Volume I/Book IV

* Chapter I: How Merlin was assotted and doted on one of the ladies of the lake, and how he was shut in a rock under a stone and there died
* Chapter II: How five kings came into this land to war against King Arthur, and what counsel Arthur had against them
* Chapter III: How King Arthur had ado with them and overthrew them, and slew the five kings and made the remnant to flee
* Chapter IV: How the battle was finished or he came, and how King Arthur founded an abbey where the battle was
* Chapter V: How Sir Tor was made knight of the Round Table, and how Bagdemagus was displeased
* Chapter VI: How King Arthur, King Uriens, and Sir Accolon of Gaul, chased an hart, and of their marvellous adventures
* Chapter VII: How Arthur took upon him to fight to be delivered out of prison, and also for to deliver twenty knights that were in prison
* Chapter VIII: How Accolon found himself by a well, and he took upon him to do battle against Arthur
* Chapter IX: Of the battle between King Arthur and Accolon
* Chapter X: How King Arthur's sword that he fought with brake, and how he recovered of Accolon his own sword Excalibur, and overcame his enemy
* Chapter XI: How Accolon confessed the treason of Morgan le Fays King Arthur's sister, and how she would have done slay him
* Chapter XII: How Arthur accorded the two brethren, and delivered the twenty knights, and how Sir Accolon died
* Chapter XIII: How Morgan would have slain Sir Uriens her husband, and how Sir Uwaine her son saved him
* Chapter XIV: How Queen Morgan le Fay made great sorrow f-or the death of Accolon, and how she stole away the scabbard from Arthur
* Chapter XV: How Morgan le Fay saved a knight that should have been drowned, and how King Arthur returned home again
* Chapter XVI: How the Damosel of the Lake saved King Arthur from a mantle which should have burnt him
* Chapter XVII: How Sir Gawaine and Sir Uwaine met with twelve fair damosels, and how they complained on Sir Marhaus
* Chapter XVIII: How Sir Marhaus jousted with Sir Gawaine and Sir Uwaine, and overthrew them both
* Chapter XIX: How Sir Marhaus, Sir Gawaine, and Sir Uwaine met three damosels, and each of them took one
* Chapter XX: How a knight and a dwarf strove for a lady
* Chapter XXI: How King Pelleas suffered himself to be taken prisoner because he would have a sight of his lady, and how Sir Gawaine promised him to get to him the love of his lady
* Chapter XXII: How Sir Gawaine came to the Lady Ettard, and how Sir Pelleas found them sleeping
* Chapter XXIII: How Sir Pelleas loved no more Ettard by the mean of the Damosel of the Lake, whom he loved ever after
* Chapter XXIV: How Sir Marhaus rode with the damosel, and how he came to the Duke of the South Marches
* Chapter XXV: How Sir Marhaus fought with the duke and his four sons and made them to yield them
* Chapter XXVI: How Sir Uwaine rode with the damosel of sixty year of age, and how he gat the prize at tourneying
* Chapter XXVII: How Sir Uwaine fought with two knights and overcame them
* Chapter XXVIII: How at the year's end all three knights with their three damosels met at the fountain
# Letters of John Huss Written During His Exile and Imprisonment/Letter 10, To Peter Maldoniewitz

LETTER X.
TO PETER MALDONIEWITZ.
I have written nothing at present on my captivity except the letter, if, indeed, thou hast sent it, in which I besought to be prayed for. Thou understandest, without doubt, that I allude to the letter I addressed to Master Jacobel, and in which I wrote: “My enemies have said that I shall not obtain an audience, unless I, first of all, pay two thousand ducats to the ministers of Antichrist for their expenses.” Michael has brought a copy of this letter, and the answer of Master Jacobel, which, I have reason to believe, is severe for me. He came with the patriarch, accompanied by scribes and witnesses, amongst whom was Master Nicholas. Stoggis stood up right in front of me. One of the commissioners handing me the copy to read over, asked me to declare on ​path if it was mine. I answered; Yes, and I do not believe, since the cruel salutations of Master Paletz, that any thing troubled me more than these letters. I shudder at the wickedness of Michael, and of his accomplices. As to Master Jacobel, who preaches that we should beware of hypocrites, he is deceived by them more than any one, and delivers himself up to them. I have not read his letter, but I believe it to be severe. There were two copies in the same paper, and I thought at first it was not an answer to mine, but a copy of the letter of the Curé of Janowitz.
* ↑ This is the 43d in the collection of John Huss’s Works.
* ↑ The letter thus alluded to has not come down to us.
* ↑ Michael Causis
# Letters of John Huss Written During His Exile and Imprisonment/Letter 1, To Master Martin

LETTER I.
TO MASTER MARTIN.
Master Martin, my much beloved brother in Christ, I exhort thee to fear God, to keep his commandments, and to watch over thyself when in female company. Be provident in listening to their confessions, that Satan may not deceive thee by honied words; for Saint Augustin has said—“Trust not thyself to devotion; for corruption is sometimes the greater in proportion as the devotion is apparent; and disordered passions may conceal themselves under a mask of piety. . . Beware, then, of incurring an irreparable loss: and I trust you will remain pure from all commerce with women, for I have taught thee, from thy youth upwards, to serve Jesus Christ. Know, therefore, it is for having condemned the avarice ​and disorderly life of priests, that, by the grace of God, I suffer a persecution, which will soon be extinguished by my death. I do not fear to be confounded for the name of Jesus Christ.
I conjure thee not to seek after benefices. Nevertheless, if thou art called to a cure, let the glory of God, the salvation of souls, and labour alone, occupy you, and not the possession of riches. If thou shouldst obtain a church, take not a young woman for servant, and avoid ornamenting thy house more than thy soul; above all, bestow thy cares on the spiritual edifice; be pious and humble with the poor, and consume not thy estate with feasting. If thou dost not amend thy life, and abstain from sumptuous clothing and superfluities, I fear that thou mayest be chastened, as I myself am,—I who have used such things, seduced by the custom and approbation of the wicked, and troubled by a spirit of pride which is in opposition to God. From thy youth, thou hast known my preaching and private exhortations; it is, therefore, useless to write thee more; but I conjure thee, by the mercy of our Lord, not to follow me in any of the vanities into which thou hast seen me fall. Know, alas! that before receiving the priesthood, I lost much time in playing at chess, and through this game often suffered myself to be provoked, as well as provoked others to anger. I recommend myself to thy prayers before God, for this sin, and for my other innumerable transgressions. I ​invoke his mercy for me, that he may deign to direct my life, and that after the victory over the perverse powers of this age, over the flesh, the world, and Satan, he may open to me at the day of judgment the celestial country. Adieu, then, in Jesus Christ, with all those who keep his laws. Receive my grey gown as a mark of my remembrance of thee; nevertheless, if thou art ashamed of the grey colour, dispose of it for the best, and as thou thinkest proper. Thou wilt give my white gown to the Curé, my disciple; thou wilt also give to George or to Suzikon, sixty silver groschen, or my grey gown, because he has faithfully served me.
Outside the letter, Huss wrote—
I conjure thee not to open this letter before thou hast ascertained the certainty of my death.