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# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1828/The Bridal Morning

* The Bridal Morning.
* Painted by J. Stephanoff Engraved by E. Finden
Poem sourced from the New York Mirror and Ladies’ Literary Gazette. Page 160, 24th November 1827
THE BRIDAL MORNING.
BY MISS LANDON.
Thy bridal morning? They are now
The last braid of thy tresses wreathing;
 The last white pearl is on thy brow,
The orange flower's beside thee breathing.
 Why, thou art queen-like; that rich zone,
The satin’s snowy folds confining,
 Is bright with every Indian stone
Whose hues have caught the day-break shining.
 And thou art fair—O, very fair!
And suitest well thy gay adorning;
 Thy clear brow and thy sunny hair,
Are they not beautiful as morning?
But thou art yet less fair than pale—
Pale!—it is but a bride’s sweet sorrow;
 Fling over her the silver veil—
That cheek will be more bright to-morrow.
 No more, no more!—the rose hath said
Farewell to that pale cheek for ever;
 Those gems may cast a meteor red
Upon that face, but the heart never.
 Those eyes have tears they may not weep,
Those lips words never to be spoken:
 As weak as frail, thou canst not keep,
Nor yet forget, vows thou hast broken.
 Her eye is on the mirror fixed,
Yet sees she not on what she gazes;
 The past has with the present mixed,
Till both seem one in memory’s mazes.
 That long past hour—what doth it here,
The slumbering pulses to awaken?
 His image—how can that be dear?— His image whom thou hast forsaken?
 What does it here?—that cypress grove, That hour of moonlight and of dreaming;
 That one fond dream of early love,
Half of life’s worldliness redeeming?
 The curl he took, the ring he gave—
The vow that bound your hearts together!
 O froth, such is on ocean’s wave!
O change, such is in April weather!
 And has that fickle heart been won
By baubles such as those around thee?
 This chain of gold—is this the one
In which thy newer love has bound thee?
 Go, queen it in the lightest hall;
Be there the gayest and the brightest:  Soon words were little to recall What now in vanity thou slightest.
 Go, glittering slave! go, school thy brow:
Henceforth thy heart must still its beating;  Go forth—thy lord awaits thy vow—
Thy lover! shrinkest thou from such meeting?
 In vain! thine early dream is past, Thy heart is sold—there are its fetters:—
 Love’s flowery contract did not last;
This may—’tis writ in golden letters.
 O shame, that ever this should be!
Gold thus o’er love and faith prevailing!
 Great curse! where shall we ﬂy from thee, When even woman’s faith is failing?
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fraser’s Magazine, 1830

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fraser's Magazine, 1830
collected by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Youngest
* The Dead
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1828

Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1828 compiled from contemporary sources by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Sword
* The Bridal Morning
* I gave thee, love
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
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1835

A Poem of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1835
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
* Madeira
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fraser’s Magazine, 1830/The Dead

Fraser’s Magazine, July, 1830, page 643
THE DEAD.
A spirit doth arise
From the ashes of the dead,
Holy as if the skies
 Thrice sacred influence shed.
There ethereal hopes are born,
Such as sanctify the earth— The noblest wreath e'er worn,
 Owes to the grave its birth.
For we think upon the dead;
The glorious, and the good:
And the thought where they have led
 Stirs the life-blood like a flood;
Where the pure bright moon hath shed
The light which bids it rise,
Towards the heaven o'er its head;
 Even such our sympathies.
Is it some hero's grave,
Who for his country died?
Then honour to the brave,
 We would be proud to rest beside.
Is it some sage, whose mind
Is as a beacon light
To save and guide his kind,
 Amid their mental night?
Some poet who hath sung
The griefs o'er which he wept;
The rose where rain hath clung,
 That fresh and sweet is kept?
Some martyr who hath sealed
With his blood, his faith divine;
That ever men should yield
 To their passions, God's own shrine?
Who can think on men like these?
Nor feel that in them dwell,
The highest energies;
 And a hope unquenchable:
While the grave an altar seems,
For the most exalted creed,
Till resolves that were as dreams,
 End in honourable deed.
Plant the laurel on the grave,
There the spirit’s hope hath fed,
By the good, the great, the brave,—
 Be honour to the dead.
L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1827/Love's Motto

* R. Westall, R.A. del. E. Finden sculpt.
* LOVE'S MOTTO.
FORGET ME NOT.
LOVE’S MOTTO.
Is it that natural impulse of the heart, Its consciousness of immortality, Which makes it happiness to be remembered? Memory—the Hero buys it with his blood; The Patriot, with proud sacrifice of self; The Poet, with sweet music from his lute, Of which his feelings are the subtle chords: Nay, even the vain Rich build palaces To make their name immortal: but of these Is there one whose delight in memory Can be like the young Lover’s?—’tis as life, As hope, to know his image is secure, Recall’d by all sweet thoughts in one fond heart.  The pictur’d scroll, that lies before me now, Has wakened thoughts of this: upon the grass, Fresh as his new-sprung feelings, kneels a youth, While through the green boughs of the shadowy beech The sunshine falls like rain-drops, and behind,
On a bright cloud, whose purple hue has caught Its lustre from his wings, the boy-god floats— He whose sway is of smiles, and sighs, and tears, And yet whose rule is iron; he has lent A golden arrow from his quiver’s store, And the youth’s eager hand has on the bark Carved these so gentle words, “FORGET ME NOT,”— Murmuring the while one of those tender songs, Which have their echo in each lover’s heart:
 Wave—that wanderest singing by,  Bearing leaves and flowers with thee,  To the lady of my heart  Waft a benison from me.
 Wind—that rov’st around the grove,  Kissing every flower nigh,  I’ll send thee on a sweeter search—  Bear my own sweet love my sigh.
 Bark—that show’st my graven words,  Thine be yet a happier lot—  May’st thou meet my maiden’s eye,  Bidding her “Forget me not!” L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1827/The Stag

* R. Hills. del. E. Finden sculpt.
* THE STAG.
THE STAG.
It is morning, and the sky, Like a royal canopy, Burns with crimson and with gold;
And from out his cloudy hold
Joyfully breaks forth the sun,
While each thing he looks upon
Seems bright as if only born
For that first glad hour of morn.
What sweet sound then pass'd along?
'Twas the skylark's earliest song.
What soft breath is floating by? The wild rose's waking sigh, Breathing odours, as the gale
Shakes away her dewy veil.
There are other sights than these,
Other sounds are on the breeze:
Hearken to the baying hound,
Hearken to the bugles sound;
Horse-tramp, shout, upon the ear,
Tell the hunter-band are near.
Sweep they now across the plain—
Sooth it is a gallant train:
Many a high-born dame is there;
Dance their rich curls on the air, Catching many a golden hue, Catching many a pearl of dew;
Flush the colours on their cheek,
Lovelier than the morning's break;
Scour the young knights far and wide,
As they would to battle ride,
Finding, gallant chase, in thee
Somewhat of war's mimickry.
Hark! the hunters' shouts declare
They have found the red deer's lair;
Rising from his fragrant sleep, Where a thousand wild flowers creep,
With one sudden desperate spring
Rushes forth the forest-king,
Like the lightning from the sky, Like the wind, when winds are high.
Far, ere yet the train were near,
Dash'd away the noble deer, As rejoicing in the speed
Which might mock the Arab steed.
As he pass’d the forest green, Well his pathway might he seen;
Many a heavy oaken bough
Bent before his antler'd brow;
Shout and horn rung through the wood—
Paused he not beside the flood; Foam and flake shone on its blue, As the gallant stag, dash'd through.
Long or ever midday came, Wearied stopt each lovely dame,
In some green tree's shade, content
But to hear the day's event.   Still the stag held on his way, Careless through what toils it lay,
Down deep in the tangled dell,
Or o'er the steep rock’s pinnacle;
Stanch the steed, and bold the knight,
That would follow such a flight.
Of the morning's gallant train
Few are those who now remain.
Wearily the brave stag drew
His deep breath, as on he flew;
Heavily his glazed eye
Seems to seek somewhere to die;
All his failing strength is spent—
Now to gain one steep ascent! Up he toils—the height is won—
'Tis the sea he looks upon.
Yet upon the breeze are borne
Coming sounds of shout and horn:
The hunters gain the rock's steep crest—
Starts he from his moment's rest,
Proudly shakes his antler'd head,
As though his defiance said,
"Come, but your triumph shall be vain!"—
The proud stag plunges in the main,
Seeks and finds beneath the wave
Safety, freedom, and a grave.L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1828/I gave thee love

Also sourced from the New York Mirror and Ladies’ Literary Gazette. Page 160, 24th November 1827
I GAVE THEE, LOVE.
BY MISS LANDON
I gave thee, love, a snow-white wreath
 Of lilies for thy raven hair;
Alas! that now another’s gift,
 Rubies and gold, should glitter there.
I saw this morn that lily wreath
 Neglected thrown upon the ground,
And then I saw upon thy brow
 The chaplet of those rubies bound.
’Tis no new passion, no new face,
 Hath won thy fickle heart from me;
That I had better borne than know
 That gold hath wrought this change in thee.
# Piety

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Piety."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* “Piety,” a poem by Itō Sachio
* “Piety,” a poem by John Cowper Powys
# Pietro von Abano

Novella, written in 1824 and first published in 1825.
English-language translations of Pietro von Abano include:
* Pietro of Abano, translated by Julius Charles Hare (1825)
* "Pietro d'Abano; a Tale of Enchantment, from the German of Tieck" in Blackwood's Magazine, 46 (286) (August, 1839), pp. 228–255, translated by James Frederick Ferrier
# Popular Mechanics/1929

Works from 1929 will become Public Domain in the US at the start of 2025.
# Popular Mechanics/1928

Layout 1
| January 1928 | February 1928 | March 1928 |
| April 1928 | May 1928 | June 1928 |
| July 1928 | August 1928 | September 1928 |
| October 1928 | November 1928 | December 1928 |
# Popular Mechanics/Volume 13/Issue 6

Content exists for this periodical, though at this stage it is not specifically organised beyond a basic hierarchy.
The pages listed below are an automatically generated listing.
Special:PrefixIndex/Popular Mechanics/Volume 13/Issue 6/
# Popular Mechanics/Volume 13

Content exists for this periodical, though at this stage it is not specifically organised beyond a basic hierarchy.
The pages listed below are an automatically generated listing.
Special:PrefixIndex/Popular Mechanics/Volume 13/
# Popular Mechanics

* related portals: Periodicals.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article.
A magazine of popular science and technology, featuring automotive, home, outdoor, electronics, science, do-it-yourself, and technology topics. First published in 1902 as a weekly, it quickly became a monthly publication. Founded by Henry Haven Windsor, who also owned the publisher, and (along with his son) was editor for more than 50 years.
Popular Mechanics by Year :
| 1900s | | | 1902 | 1903 | 1904 | 1905 | 1906 | 1907 | 1908 | 1909 |
| 1910s | 1910 | 1911 | 1912 | 1913 | 1914 | 1915 | 1916 | 1917 | 1918 | 1919 |
| 1920s | 1920 | 1921 | 1922 | 1923 | 1924 | 1925 | 1926 | 1927 | 1928 | 1929 |
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The Candle Indoors

Editor's Note
26
The Candle Indoors
Some candle clear burns somewhere I come by. I muse at how its being puts blissful back With yellowy moisture mild night's blear-all black, Or to-fro tender trambeams truckle at the eye. By that window what task what fingers ply, I plod wondering, a-wanting, just for lack Of answer the eagerer a-wanting Jessy or Jack ThereGod to aggrándise, God to glorify.—
Come you indoors, come home; your fading fire Mend first and vital candle in close heart's vault: You there are master, do your own desire; What hinders? Are you beam-blind, yet to a fault In a neighbour deft-handed? Are you that liar And cast by conscience out, spend savour salt?
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Strike, churl; hurl, cheerless wind, then; heltering hail

Editor's Note
71
Strike, churl; hurl, cheerless wind, then; heltering hail May's beauty massacre and wispèd wild clouds grow Out on the giant air; tell Summer No, Bid joy back, have at the harvest, keep Hope pale.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Summa

Editor's Note
UNFINISHED POEMS & FRAGMENTS
52
Summa
The best ideal is the true And other truth is none. All glory be ascribèd to The holy Three in One.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The Habit of Perfection

Editor's Note
3
The Habit of Perfection
Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear.
Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: It is the shut, the curfew sent From there where all surrenders come Which only makes you eloquent.
​Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark And find the uncreated light: This ruck and reel which you remark Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.
Palate, the hutch of tasty lust, Desire not to be rinsed with wine: The can must be so sweet, the crust So fresh that come in fasts divine!
Nostrils, your careless breath that spend Upon the stir and keep of pride, What relish shall the censers send Along the sanctuary side!
O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet That want the yield of plushy sward, But you shall walk the golden street And you unhouse and house the Lord.
And, Poverty, be thou the bride And now the marriage feast begun, And lily-coloured clothes provide Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The Handsome Heart

Editor's Note
27
The Handsome Heart:
at a Gracious Answer
'But tell me, child, your choice; what shall I buy You?'—'Father, what you buy me I like best.' With the sweetest air that said, still plied and pressed, He swung to his first poised purport of reply.
What the heart is! which, like carriers let fly— Doff darkness, homing nature knows the rest— To its own fine function, wild and self-instressed, Falls light as ten years long taught how to and why.
Mannerly-hearted! more than handsome face— Beauty's bearing or muse of mounting vein, All, in this case, bathed in high hallowing grace...
Of heaven what boon to buy you, boy, or gain Not granted?—Only...O on that path you pace Run all your race, O brace sterner that strain!
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The Caged Skylark

Editor's Note
15
The Caged Skylark
As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage Man's mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells— That bird beyond the remembering his free fells; This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life's age.
Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage, Both sing sometímes the sweetest, sweetest spells, Yet both droop deadly sómetimes in their cells Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.
Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest— Why, hear him, hear him babble and drop down to his nest, But his own nest, wild nest, no prison.
Man's spirit will be flesh-bound when found at best, But uncumbered: meadow-down is not distressed For a rainbow footing it nor he for his bónes rísen.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The Lantern out of Doors

Editor's Note
10
The Lantern out of Doors
Sometimes a lantern moves along the night, That interests our eyes. And who goes there? I think; where from and bound, I wonder, where, With, all down darkness wide, his wading light?
Men go by me whom either beauty bright In mould or mind or what not else makes rare: They rain against our much-thick and marsh air Rich beams, till death or distance buys them quite.
Death or distance soon consumes them: wind What most I may eye after, be in at the end I cannot, and out of sight is out of mind.
Christ minds: Christ's interest, what to avow or amend There, éyes them, heart wánts, care haúnts, foot fóllows kínd, Their ránsom, théir rescue, ánd first, fást, last friénd.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection

Editor's Note
48
That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection
Cloud-puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows | flaunt forth, then chevy on an air- built thoroughfare: heaven-roysterers, in gay-gangs | they throng; they glitter in marches. Down roughcast, down dazzling whitewash, | wherever an elm arches, Shivelights and shadowtackle in long | lashes lace, lance, and pair. Delightfully the bright wind boisterous | ropes, wrestles, beats earth bare Of yestertempest's creases; in pool and rut peel parches Squandering ooze to squeezed | dough, crust, dust; stanches, starches Squadroned masks and manmarks | treadmire toil there Footfretted in it. Million-fuelèd, | nature's bonfire burns on. But quench her bonniest, dearest | to her, her clearest-selvèd spark Man, how fast his firedint, | his mark on mind, is gone! Both are in an unfathomable, all is in an enormous dark Drowned. O pity and indig | nation! Manshape, that shone Sheer off, disseveral, a star, | death blots black out; nor mark Is any of him at all so stark But vastness blurs and time | beats level. Enough! the Resurrection, A heart's-clarion! Away grief's gasping, | joyless days, dejection. Across my foundering deck shone A beacon, an eternal beam. | Flesh fade, and mortal trash Fall to the residuary worm; | world's wildfire, leave but ash: In a flash, at a trumpet crash, I am all at once what Christ is, | since he was what I am, and This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, | patch, matchwood, immortal diamond, Is immortal diamond.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/The Bugler's First Communion

Editor's Note
23
The Bugler's First Communion
A bugler boy from barrack (it is over the hill There)—boy bugler, born, he tells me, of Irish Mother to an English sire (he Shares their best gifts surely, fall how things will),
​This very very day came down to us after a boon he on My late being there begged of me, overflowing Boon in my bestowing, Came, I say, this day to it—to a First Communion.
Here he knelt then ín regimental red. Forth Christ from cupboard fetched, how fain I of feet To his youngster take his treat! Low-latched in leaf-light housel his too huge godhead.
There! and your sweetest sendings, ah divine, By it, heavens, befall him! as a heart Christ's darling, dauntless; Tongue true, vaunt- and tauntless; Breathing bloom of a chastity in mansex fine.
Frowning and forefending angel-warder Squander the hell-rook ranks sally to molest him; March, kind comrade, abreast him; Dress his days to a dexterous and starlight order.
How it dóes my heart good, visiting at that bleak hill, When limber liquid youth, that to all I teach Yields tender as a pushed peach, Hies headstrong to its wellbeing of a self-wise self-will!
Then though I should tread tufts of consolation Dáys áfter, só I in a sort deserve to And do serve God to serve to Just such slips of soldiery Christ's royal ration.
​Nothing élse is like it, no, not all so strains Us: fresh youth fretted in a bloomfall all portending That sweet's sweeter ending; Realm both Christ is heir to and thére réigns.
O now well work that sealing sacred ointment! O for now charms, arms, what bans off bad And locks love ever in a lad! Let mé though see no more of him, and not disappointment
Those sweet hopes quell whose least me quickenings lift, In scarlet or somewhere of some day seeing That brow and bead of being, An our day's God's own Galahad. Though this child's drift
Seems by a divíne doom chánnelled, nor do I cry Disaster there; but may he not rankle and roam In backwheels though bound home?— That left to the Lord of the Eucharist, I here lie by;
Recorded only, I have put my lips on pleas Would brandle adamantine heaven with ride and jar, did Prayer go disregarded: Forward-like, but however, and like favourable heaven heard these.
# Poems (Dickinson)/'Twas later when the summer went

XXVI.
'Twas later when the summer went Than when the cricket came, And yet we knew that gentle clock Meant nought but going home.
'T was sooner when the cricket went Than when the winter came, Yet that pathetic pendulum Keeps esoteric time.
# Poems (Dickinson)/A Book

XXI.
A BOOK.
HE ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was dust. He danced along the dingy days, And this bequest of wings Was but a book. What liberty A loosened spirit brings!
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 19

Scans
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