Odes by Mr. Mason

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J. Bentham; and sold by William Thurlbourn, and R. & J. Dodsley, London, 1756 - 31 pages
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Page 22 - Hell from beneath is moved for thee to meet thee at thy coming: it stirreth up the dead for thee, even all the chief ones of the earth; it hath raised up from their thrones all the kings of the nations.
Page 16 - Whose cheeks, bestrew'd with roses, know No channel for the tide of tears ; To thee yon Abbey, dank and lone, Where Ivy chains each mould'ring stone That nods o'er many a Martyr's tomb, May cast a formidable gloom.
Page 30 - That I will break the Assyrian in my land, and upon my mountains tread him under foot: then shall his yoke depart from off them, and his burden depart from off their shoulders.
Page 15 - For Fancy is the friend of Woe. Say, mid that grove, in love-lorn state...
Page 24 - How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning ! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations ! For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north: I will ascend above the heights of the clouds ; I will be like the most High.
Page 26 - But thou art cast out of thy grave like an abominable branch, and as the raiment of those that are slain, thrust through with a sword, that go down to the stones of the pit; as a carcase trodden under feet.
Page 11 - Muses' vestal fires I bring : Here, at thy feet, the sparks I spread : Propitious wave thy wing, And fan them to that dazzling blaze of song, Which glares tremendous on the sons of Pride. But, hark ! methinks I hear her hallow'd tongue ! In...
Page 23 - Rejoice thro' all their pomp of shade ; The lordly Cedars nod on sacred Lebanon : Tyrant ! they cry, since thy fell force is broke, Our proud heads pierce the skies, nor fear the woodman's stroke.
Page 13 - That bloom'd those vocal shades among, " Where never Flatt'ry dar'd to tread, " Or Interest's servile throng ; " Receive, thou favour'd Son, at my command, " And keep, with sacred care, for D'ARCY'S brow : " Tell him, 'twas wove by my immortal hand, " I breath'd on every flower a purer glow; " Say, for thy sake I send the gift divine " To him, who calls thee HIS, yet makes thee MINB.
Page 11 - Yet nourifh ftill the lambent flame ; " Still ftrike thy blamelefs Lyre : " Led by the moral Mufe fecurely rove ; " And all the vernal fweets thy vacant Youth " Can cull from bufy Fancy's fairy grove, " O hang their foliage round the fane of Truth : " To arts like thefe devote thy tuneful toil, " And meet its fair reward in D'ARCY'S fmile.

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