The shower of pearls, a collection of poetry, original and selected, for schools, by C. Phillips

Front Cover
Charlotte Phillips
1855
0 Reviews
 

What people are saying - Write a review

We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.

Contents

Other editions - View all

Common terms and phrases

Popular passages

Page 83 - His hair is crisp and black and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow : You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school, Look in at the open door ; They love to see the flaming forge,...
Page 112 - With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Page 92 - THE isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — • Where grew the arts of war and peace,— Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set...
Page 126 - WHEN I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide, ' Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?
Page 145 - New mercies, each returning day, Hover around us while we pray ; New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven. If on our daily course our mind Be set to hallow all we find, New treasures still, of countless price, God will provide for sacrifice.
Page 93 - And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?
Page 65 - THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.
Page 45 - Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea; "Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.
Page 64 - Not there, not there, my child !" " Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds on their starry wings Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?" '. Not there, not there, my child...
Page 51 - The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but him had fled ; The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though childlike form.

Bibliographic information