The Cabinet of Irish Literature: Selections from the Works of the Chief Poet, Orators, and Prose Writers of Ireland, Volume 1
Blackie and Son, 1893 - Irish literature
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Page 270 - In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs— and God has given my share — I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes— for pride attends us still — Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell, of all I felt, and all I saw...
Page 310 - I knew a man in Christ above fourteen years ago, (whether in the body, I cannot tell ; or whether out of the body, I cannot tell : God knoweth ;) such an one caught up to the third heaven.
Page 272 - Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. And savage men more murderous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Page 273 - Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all ; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed...
Page 257 - Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, When it is in the power of thine hand to do it. Say not unto thy neighbour, Go, and come again, And to-morrow I will give; When thou hast it by thee.
Page 269 - Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. And Desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest...
Page 238 - He shall not drop." said my uncle Toby, firmly. "A-well-o'day, do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point,; "the poor soul will die." "He shall not die, by G— !" cried my uncle Toby. The Accusing Spirit, which flew up to heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in, and the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.
Page 269 - Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please...
Page 272 - And pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain...
Page 270 - Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place.