OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Semper Eadem

SEMPER EADEM
“Whence,” ask you, “is this heavy sadness shed, Rising like ocean round the bare black stone?” When the heart’s crop has once been harvested Life is a burden! ’Tis of all men known.
A simple grief and not mysterious, Blown like thy joy for all the world: so cease, Cease, O fair questioner, to probe me thus, And, though thy voice be gentle, hold thy peace.
Hold thy peace, rapturous one! Child’s mouth so rife With merriment. Death’s links with us oft seem Subtler than those which bind our souls to Life.
Let, let my heart grow drunken with a lie, And plunge in thy great eyes as in a dream, And slumber ’neath thy lashes tranquilly!
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Midnight

MIDNIGHT
The night is dark and the place is lone, The wind is weary and maketh moan, The dank tree drips on the moss-covered stone, And the brain is an ash when the spark has flown.
But the horror of Death is an ecstasy, And the sweetest song is an elegy, And the loveliest flowers in the world for me Are the roses which bloom on the cypress-tree.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/On the Balcony

ON THE BALCONY
Night, purpled night From her starry crown Sheds a doubtful glimmer On the sleeping town; I scarce can see your face Soft and shadowy-white, But I know your eyes Look deep into the night.
Do you think, perchance, Of one I never knew, One I never heard of, All in all to you; Dead, maybe, or lost ’Mid the many years?. . . . You are very still; Are you shedding tears?
The night feels your tears, The night returns your sigh From where the spires and towers Stand dim against the sky; But my heart leaps swift, Swift, and leaps again, Ah! to soothe and quiet Your poor soul in pain.
Ah! to soothe your soul! It may never be, For I cannot draw one veil From your mystery,
For your brow is lineless But your heart is old, And the wind is rising Fast, and growing cold, And in the crowded rooms Swells the merry din. Clasp your cloak’s neck, come, Let us go within.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Love’s Lightning

LOVE’S LIGHTNING
Last night as I lay awake in bed A flash of you came into my head And into my heart, and straightway fled.
It passed from the chamber suddenly, Leaving no trace to know it by But a tightened breast and a wet, glad eye.
Like a moonray soft it came and went, Which glimmers through where the cloud-wrack’s rent, Hovers a moment and then is spent;
Or a bee against a window-pane, Which taps but once and never again, Some autumn day, before the rain.
For one brief moment I felt it stealing Along the verge of thought and feeling As though some great vague thing revealing,
As though for that moment sad and sweet My soul was out in the infinite. And Life and Death were as one to it.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Love’s Praise

LOVE’S PRAISE
They praise their ladies: They praise their ladies:Feet “Shapely,” and eyes “demure,” And lips “down-curved, discreet,” Brows “virginal and pure,” And breasts whose dazzling loveliness Frail men may scarce endure.
Their necks are white as snow, Their hair as yellow gold, Their teeth are set a-row As pearls of price untold; They have all charms of body and face— That fade when one grows old.
But I, I am scarce ’ware Of the colour of your eyes Or the colour of your hair, And sing not in this wise, For your heart is all my care And the love that in it lies.
Haply your neck is white, Your hair continually May send forth gleams more bright Than any gold may be, Your cheeks may peach-like bloom; but yet, What’s that to Love or me?
Are other lips discreeter? Are other eyes demurer? I know no heart is sweeter, The faith of none is surer. And, since no love’s more pure than yours, What boots whose brow is purer?
Are they not fond who think This love and this love’s praise To draw in waning ink, The body’s passing phase; Is it thus that you and I should waste The unreturning days?
When earth’s alive with Spring And hearts nigh break with bliss, Should I stand forth and sing Praises as vain as this? Nay, Love is its own praise, and speaks Itself in every kiss.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Pastoral

PASTORAL
Out in the fields, at times, When you are too tired to speak And I cease from stringing you rhymes And kissing your mouth and cheek,
When the sun beats down so hot That you lie with half-closed eyes Drinking in what air’s to be got, I move from your breast, half rise,
And bend o’er your face awhile, My arm round your neck beneath, And gaze past your lazy smile ’Twixt the even white lines of your teeth,
To your inner mouth and your throat Where, like water-anemones, Pink mounds and tendrils float In silky salivan seas.
I scarce can believe it true That within that delicate gate Is the whole strange structure of you So wondrously ornate.
And I marvel that a brain That can think is thereabove, That below that tiny drain Is a crimson heart that can move—
A living brain so near Behind its carven screen, A heart I can often hear And yet have never seen;
That through head and trunk and limbs, In artery and vein, The blood sings pulsing hymns To serve that heart and brain;
That your stomach’s creamy skin, Soft-downed like a giant peach, Conceals a coiled fire within That flames in thought and speech;
Tubes in a cavern of bone Writhing fold upon fold, Mine, miner, philosopher’s stone, Pent forge of infinite gold;
That there rest in your raftered room, Distilling their secret dews, Great gems of flesh in the gloom With a hundred hidden hues.
And I fetch back my eyes, half dazed At the miracles richly spread In this temple Time has raised On countless tribes of the dead,
And draw our bosoms asunder, And quiver, and backward sink In a luminous cloud of wonder, And look at the sky and think
Of this you and this shrine of yours That I cannot tell from you, This complicate thing that lures My being and thrills me through
With hopes and longings and lusts, Tumults of body and mind, A medley of pulls and thrusts Unnumbered and undefined.
A medley they are, but I learn them On the summits of thought and dream As parts of a whole, and discern them One Love though many they seem:
The Love that gloats on the swell Of your breast all ripe for its fang, The Love that would suffer a hell To save you a passing pang,
The Love with throb and sting At whose waking my loins are stirred, The Love that would make me fling From a cliff-top at your word. . . . .
On a sudden I break my thought With a little laugh, and turn As a dutiful lover ought To fanning your cheeks that burn,
And smoothing your tangled hair From your forehead, strand by strand, With such a caressing care That you needs must draw back my hand
And lift your arms to enfold me And draw me down to your face, And closer, closer, hold me In the depths of a dumb embrace,
Till we cling without stir on the grass Under the quiet sun, Forgetting that all things pass, Dead to all things but one.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Obsession

OBSESSION
Great woods! like mighty fanes you frighten me, You howl like the organ; in our cursed souls, Grey grief-chambers where old death-rattles be, Your many-echoing “De profundis” rolls.
I hate thee, Ocean! for my spirit is torn With tumults like thine own; a laugh has birth, Like a beaten man’s, full of all tears and scorn And bitterness, within the sea’s vast mirth.
Ah! how I love thee, Night, when not a star Speaks with known tongue of light through the dark air; For lo! I seek the void, the black, the bare;
Yet even darkest depths but curtains are Where live, shot from my eye, innumerable Lost forms and faces that I know too well.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/On the Road

ON THE ROAD
I. MORNING
I have no name, no cares, no kin, Beneath the whole blue sky, None ever had a gladder heart Or freer limbs than I.
The sun shines bright, my step is light, I, who have no abode, Jeer at the stuck, monotonous Black posts along the road.
II. MIDDAY
The wood is still, As here I sit My heart drinks in The peace of it.
A something stirs I know not where, Some quiet spirit In the air.
O tall straight stems! O cool deep green! O hand unfelt! O face unseen!
III. EVENING
The evening closes in; A-down this last long lane I plod; there patter round First heavy drops of rain.
Feet ache, legs ache, but now Step quickens as I think Of mounds of bread and cheese And something hot to drink.
IV. NIGHT
Ah! sleep is sweet, but yet I will not sleep awhile Nor for a space forget The toil of that last mile;
But lie awake and feel The cool sheets’ tremulous kisses O’er all my body steal. . . . Is sleep as sweet as this is?
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Lola de Valence

LOLA DE VALENCE INSCRIPTION FOR THE PICTURE BY EDWARD MANET
Friends, though on every side of you you see Such beauties that desire must hesitate, In Lola de Valence there scintillate Strange charms o’ a gem of rose and ebony.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Music

MUSIC
Oft Music, as it were some moving mighty sea, Bears me toward my pale Star: in clear space, or ’neath a vaporous canopy On-floating, I set sail.
With heaving chest which strains forward, and lungs outblown, I climb the ridgèd steeps Of those high-pilèd clouds which ’thwart the night are thrown, Veiling its starry deeps.
I suffer all the throes, within my quivering form, Of a great ship in pain, Now a soft wind, and now the writhings of a storm
Upon the vasty main Rock me: at other times a death-like calm, the bare Mirror of my despair.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1828/Juliet after the Masquerade

The attribution to J rather than H Thomson beneath the engraving is presumably an error
III.—Juliet after the Masquerade. Engraved by Charles
 Rolls; from a Painting by Henry Thomson, Esq.,  R.A., in the possession of W. Chamberlayne,  Esq., M.P.....
* Painted by J. Thomson R.A.Engraved by Chas. Rolls
* JULIET AFTER THE MASQUERADE.
* Published by Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green
JULIET AFTER THE MASQUERADE.
From a picture, by Henry Thomson, Esq., R.A.
Those fond, vague dreams, that make love's happiness;
Its first—and oh, its last!
I. She has left the lighted hall,
She has flung down cap and plume,
Her eye wears softer light,
And her cheek a tenderer bloom:
II. And her hair in sunny showers
Falls o'er her marble brow,
From its midnight bonds of pearl,
Free as her thoughts are now.—
III.
She has left the yet glad dance,
O'er those gentle thoughts to brood,
That haunt a girl's first hour
Of love-touched solitude.
IV. Music's sweet and distant sound
Comes floating on the air,
From the banquet-room it tells
The dancers still are there:
V.
But she, their loveliest one,
Has left the festal scene,
To dream on what may be,
To muse o'er what has been;
VI.
To think on low, soft words,
Her ear had drunk that night,
While her heart beat echo-like,
And her cheek burnt ruby bright.
VII.
How beautiful she looks
Beneath that moonlit sky,
With her lip of living rose,
Her blue and drooping eye!
VIII.
Spell-like, the festal scene
Rises on heart and brain;
Not a word, and not a look,
But she lives them o'er again.
IX.
Well, dream thy dream, fair girl!
Tho' ne'er did morning close,
With its cold and waking light,
Dreams fair and false as those:
X.
They are like the mists that rise
At day-break to the sky,
There, touched by all bright hues,
On its breast awhile they lie;
XI.
But the darker hour draws on,
The rose-tint disappears,
And the falling cloud returns
To its native earth in tears.—
XII.
Yet dream thy dream, fair girl!
Tho' away it will be driven,
'Tis something to have past
A single hour in heaven.
XIII.
Tho' thine eye has April light,
Tho' thy cheek has April bloom,
There is that upon them both
Which marks an early tomb.
XIV. So young, so fair, to die—
And can those words be true?
Ah! better far 'to die,'
Than live as some must do;
XV.
With a heart that will not break,
Though every nerve be strained,
Whether won to be betrayed,
Or discovered and disdained:—
XVI.
For Love to watch Hope's grave,
And yet itself breathe on,
Like the blighted flower which lives,
Tho' scent and bloom be gone.
XVII.
But this watching each last leaf,
Green on the fading tree,
The while we see it wither,
Is maiden not for thee.
XVIII,
One hour of passionate joy,
And one of passionate grief—
A morning and a midnight—
Fill up thy life's short leaf!
XIX. Short, sad, but still how much
Of death's bitterness is past,
Thy last sigh breathed upon the heart,
Beating thine unto the last! L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1828/Love Tormenting the Soul

II.—Title to face Frontispiece: Love Tormenting the  Soul. Engraved by William Greatbatch and  John Lewis; from a Painting by John Wood
* Painted by J. WoodEngraved by W. Greatbatch & J. Lewis
LOVE TORMENTING THE SOUL *
I. Young tyrant, and young torturer!
Young Love! how can it be,
That such extremes and opposites
Should meet and mix in thee?
II.
Thou of the rainbow wing! whose reign
Is as the colours there,
If thou hadst such delight in pain,
Thou could'st not be so fair.
III. I looked upon thy morning cheek,
Thy lip with ruby dyed,
And then I blamed thy painted task,
And said thou wert belied.
IV. Methought I would go forth awhile,
And track thy steps of flame,
Henceforth my young lute should be vowed
To vindicate thy name.
V.
I paused beside a convent grate,
I heard a mournful tone,
The maiden's cheek was very pale,
Her eye's blue light was gone;
VI.
For tears had washed the rose and light
Away from cheek and eye;
She knelt before the crucifix,
And only prayed to die.
VII.
The maiden's tale was quickly told—
Of love that could forsake,
Of a fond heart that beat too true,
And then could only break.
VIII.
I saw a young knight spur his steed
Amid the thickest fight;
It was not for the warrior's meed,
Nor for his country's right:
IX. It was to seek forgetfulness,
Though from the sword or spear—
How could he think on one too false,
And, oh! yet still too dear.
X.
I stood next by a lovely one,
She looked the queen of all;
And every eye was turned to her,
Star of the festal hall!
XI.
But her dark eye had troubled light,
Such as the wild storms shed;
The beacon-sign of inward strife
Was that cheek's flushing red.
XII.
That proud heart had been given to one,
Who sought it not to win,
And now she only strove to hide
The burning wound within.
XIII.
Leant by a marble column near,
There stood a youthful bard,
And were praise all the poet asks,
He had won his reward.
XIV.
But oh! there was a dearer hope
Nurst in that gentle strain,
He turned to meet one worshipped eye,
He sought, and sought in vain.
XV.
The heavy dew came o'er his brow,
His flashing eye grew dim,
He felt the vanity of song,
And oh! I felt with him.
XVI. For love and song have been the same
From early youth to me;
And withered feelings, blighted hope,
May tell what they can be.
XVII.
I am still young in time, but I
Have lived through wasting years
Of sleepless nights, of anxious days,
Of heart-burnings and tears.
XVIII.
'Tis a charmed destiny—tho' well
I know the wearying chain,
I cannot even wish to be
Free as I was again.
XIX. I sought no longer a defence,
Flung down the useless shell;
Oh Love! this likeness is thine own,
The painter knows thee well.
L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1831

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 The Literary Souvenir, 1831
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Maiden Astrologer
* Robert Burns and his Highland Mary
* The Violet
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1835/Henri IV. to the Fair Gabrielle

* HENRI IV AND GABRIELLE D’ESTRÉES
* Painted by R. Westall R. A.Engraved by R. Staines
HENRI IV. TO THE FAIR GABRIELLE.
BY MISS L. E. LANDON.
I. Nay, fling back that veil,—'t is a shame to the sky
The sight of such beauty as thine to deny!
Nay, fling back that veil,—were it but to disclose
A cheek that is reddening to rival the rose.
II. And yet thou art fair, my beloved one, how fair!
And thy young cheek is pale, save when blushes are there.
Sweet messengers springing, the rosy and fleet,
Thy heart's timid truths to surprise and repeat.
III. Come, give me the cup; but how pale is the wine!
It is mocked by the light in those blue eyes of thine!
Those eyes that the midnight and morning unite,
Like the moonshine so soft, like the sunshine so bright.
IV. They say that the stars, which are shining above,
Can tell of man's glory, can tell of man's love;
But I ask not the love that is writ in the skies,
So long as I read of thy heart in thine eyes.
V. Ah! give me one moment that little white hand;
Its least wave commandeth where'er I command;
Oh! fair are the lilies of Bourbon's proud line—
But they are not so fair as this white hand of thine.
VI.
The trumpet soon summons the soldier from rest,
He has brief while to gaze on the face he loves best;
My foot in the stirrup, my hand on my sword,
I must live on a look, I must woo with a word.
VII.
My idol, farewell!—But ah! give me to wear
One curl from thy ringlets of long golden hair;
It will cheer me when lonely, will lead me in war,
And in death will be found next the heart of Navarre.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1831/Robert Burns and his Highland Mary

* ROBERT BURNS AND HIS HIGHLAND MARY
* Painted by R. EdmonstoneEngraved by J. Mitchell
ROBERT BURNS AND HIS HIGHLAND MARY.
After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affection, we met by appointment, on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands.
Burns' Letters.
A Highland girl, a peasant he,
 To whom the present made
Within itself eternity,
 And the whole world that shade
Beneath the trees which gently stirred
 With music on each bough,
The waving leaf, the singing-bird,
 And whispers fairy low,—
A long, a bright long summer's day
 Passed, like the stream beside,
Which ran in shine and song away,
 Though scarcely seen to glide.
They parted—she to early rest,
 And he to earn a name
A nation ranks amid her best,
 And gives, what they gave, fame:
Let no one deem, that vain regret
 Is in the peevish lays
Which say, too high a price is set
 Upon such hard-won praise.
Look on the wrong and littleness,
 The sorrow and the strife,
The hope, that every day makes less,
 Of literary life;
Look on the consciousness of power,
 The presence of despair,
The vision of the loftier hour,
 Broken by real care;
Even as the Jewish monarch fared,
 Who walked in joy or pain
Alternate, as sweet music shared
 The evil spirit's reign.
But what have we to do with this?  Ours is that earlier time,
Ere the heart fevered for vain bliss,
 Or the lip spoke in rhyme.
The power within him only gave
 New beauty to the scene;
Linked love-thoughts with the gentle wave,
 And with the forest green;
And gave the sweet and simple face
 On which he gazed, a charm;—
A grace beyond all other grace,
 Beyond all time to harm.
The influence of that hour appears,
 When it could only seem
'Mid other loves, and hopes, and fears,
 To memory, like a dream.
Still it rose beautiful and young;
 A thought alone—apart—
A first creed, to which faith still clung,—
 An Eden of the heart!
Ah! early love! ah! only love!
 Yes, only!—what can be
Our flower below, our star above,
 In after life, like thee?
Affection lingers to the last,
 And we may love once more;
Morn's freshness is with morning past—
 We love not as of yore.
We have grown selfish, and we know
 The strength of chance and change;
For many a voice is altered now,
 And many an eye grown strange.
Where is the early confidence,
 Whose kindly trust depends,
Drawn from itself its inference,
 On future hours and friends?
Gone, gone! so soon!—yet not in vain
 Has been their sojourn here;
A fountain in the desert plain
 Of memory, pure and dear.
A well of sympathy for those,
 The loving and the young,
Letting not that harsh circle close
 By interest round us flung.
If thus with them—the stern, the cold,
 What must its charm have been
To one cast in the poet's mould,—
 He of this fairy scene?
A spirit from that hour was shed,
 His spell of song to be;
And if in other hearts he read,
 His own heart was the key! L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1828/Ballad

BALLAD.
I. My ship is weighing from the land,
My prow points o'er the sea,
Yet here I linger on the strand,
To bid farewell to thee.
II.
Farewell thou lovely islander;
I only ask for mine,
A boon a princess might confer,
A single look of thine.
III.
I do not ask for sigh or smile,
A smile I could not brook;
A sigh I should not leave thine isle,
Then give me but a look.
IV.
Oh, lovely are your English dames,
Although not fair like thee;
The wine shall circle to their names,
In our far Sicily.
V. But thine shall be unnamed, unknown,
The cup that I shall press,
Will only be thy name to drown
In deep forgetfulness.
VI.
I will go gaze on raven eyes,
Like thine they cannot be;
The brightest smiles, the softest sighs,
Are nothing now to me.
VII.
Give me the battle on the brine,
The revel on the shore;
Be peril or be pleasure mine,
To think of thee no more.
VIII.
My way is on the wandering wave,
My home on many a coast;
But I must seek within the grave,
The peace that I have lost.
IX.
My night dream still will be of her,
My day thoughts on her dwell!
Then farewell lovely islander,
A long but vain farewell! L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1828/Lost Star

THE LOST STAR.
I. A light is gone from yonder sky,
A star has left its sphere;
The beautiful—and do they die
In yon bright world as here?
Will that star leave a lonely place,
A darkness on the night?—
No; few will miss its lovely face,
And none think heaven less bright!
II. What wert thou star of?—vanished one!
What mystery was thine?
Thy beauty from the east is gone:
What was thy sway and sign?
Wert thou the star of opening youth?—
And is it then for thee,
Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth,
So early cease to be?
III.
Of Hope?—and was it to express
How soon hope sinks in shade;
Or else of human loveliness,
In sign how it will fade?
How was thy dying like the song,
In music to the last,
An echo flung the winds among,
And then for ever past?
IV.
Or didst thou sink as stars whose light
The fair moon renders vain?—
The rest shine forth the next dark night,
Thou didst not shine again.
Didst thou fade gradual from the time
The first great curse was hurled,
Till lost in sorrow and in crime,
Star of our early world!
V. Forgotten and departed star!
A thousand glories shine
Round the blue midnight's regal car,
Who then remembers thine?
Save when some mournful bard like me
Dreams over beauty gone,
And in the fate that waited thee,
Reads what will be his own. L. E. L.