Poetic Gleanings, from Modern Writers: With Some Original Pieces

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A. K
Harvey and Darton, 1827 - 160 pages
 

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Page vii - What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle; Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile : In vain with lavish kindness The gifts of God are strown : The heathen, in his blindness, Bows down to wood and stone.
Page 2 - Apples plants of such a price, No Tree could ever bear them twice. With Cedars chosen by his hand, From Lebanon he stores the Land. And makes the hollow Seas, that roar, Proclaim the Ambergris on shore.
Page 12 - So fades a summer cloud away, So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So dies a wave along the shore.
Page vi - The purple heath and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale; But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill, Peeps round the fox's den.
Page 32 - The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.
Page 82 - Disasters, do the best we can, Will reach both great and small And he is oft the wisest man, Who is not wise at all.
Page 40 - Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem : But one alone the Saviour speaks ; It is the Star of Bethlehem.
Page 85 - THE GREEN LINNET BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat ! And birds and flowers once more to greet. My last year's friends together.
Page 19 - Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not.
Page 84 - And, as a fagot sparkles on the hearth, Not less if unattended and alone, Than when both young and old sit gathered round, And take delight in its activity, Even so this happy creature of herself Is all-sufficient; solitude to her Is blithe society; she fills the air With gladness and involuntary songs.

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