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Article TO THE EDITOR OF THE FREEMASONS' MAGAZINE. ← Page 2 of 3 →
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
To The Editor Of The Freemasons' Magazine.
Inspir'd thy bosom with th * expansive glow that answers to a husband ' s name , Retire , and silent drop a tear for him whose only consolation Is to rear those lovely plants thou seest , which she in life esteem'd , And twine the branches of that sacred bower which her own hands First planted . Or , if it please thee more to rest a while in this retir'd asylum , Indulge thy wish : angels will guard thee from all thoughts of ill , And harmonise thy soul to love and friendshi p . But if love not these laintive strainsand rather wish for bold
you p , heroic measure , I am here also ready to answer your call , as you will find by the following specimen : O for a Muse , a muse of thunder ! To fill th' astonish'd world with wonder —• While I recount the actions dire Of villains breathing blood and fire ,
Who mighty London threaten'd to consume , As Catiline of old did mightier Rome . But lyric measure is my chief delight ; that sweetly-varied measure , in which the . poet can display all the unbounded strength of his genius , unfettered by forms and trammels ; in which he can make The clarion shrill
Sound at his will ; Make thunders roll That shake the pole , And rend the Welkin wild with loud affray ; Or , in numbers trim and gay , Sing the sweets of blooming May ! Or , in . notes solemn and dull , To siveet repose the irits lull .
sp On a bed of roses , See , the nymph reposes ! Stop the flute , Be nature mute ; " Ov , in a dying , dying fall , " Sink all to rest , men , women , children , brutes , and all . Hark 1 I hear the din of battle ;•
Trumpets sound , and drums do rattle ; Plorses neigh , Asses bray ; The wide-mouth'd cannon Joud'y roar ; Whole ranks are steep'd in blood and gore . Heard you that groan ? ' Tis Nature ' s self that makes her moan . Dismal cries
Rend the skies ; Piteous sighs Spontaneous rise : Alas , he dies ! he dies ! the mighty hero dies ! " In broken troops , trembling , the scar'd horses trot , " In oceans of blood mangled carcases float ; While , pale with fear , Bellona in the rear
, The infantry in sad disorder fl y , And in whole ranks beneath the victor ' s sword inglorious die . O , sir ! I could write for ever in this strain—for ever could I write in praise of modern poetry , and of the immense improvements
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
To The Editor Of The Freemasons' Magazine.
Inspir'd thy bosom with th * expansive glow that answers to a husband ' s name , Retire , and silent drop a tear for him whose only consolation Is to rear those lovely plants thou seest , which she in life esteem'd , And twine the branches of that sacred bower which her own hands First planted . Or , if it please thee more to rest a while in this retir'd asylum , Indulge thy wish : angels will guard thee from all thoughts of ill , And harmonise thy soul to love and friendshi p . But if love not these laintive strainsand rather wish for bold
you p , heroic measure , I am here also ready to answer your call , as you will find by the following specimen : O for a Muse , a muse of thunder ! To fill th' astonish'd world with wonder —• While I recount the actions dire Of villains breathing blood and fire ,
Who mighty London threaten'd to consume , As Catiline of old did mightier Rome . But lyric measure is my chief delight ; that sweetly-varied measure , in which the . poet can display all the unbounded strength of his genius , unfettered by forms and trammels ; in which he can make The clarion shrill
Sound at his will ; Make thunders roll That shake the pole , And rend the Welkin wild with loud affray ; Or , in numbers trim and gay , Sing the sweets of blooming May ! Or , in . notes solemn and dull , To siveet repose the irits lull .
sp On a bed of roses , See , the nymph reposes ! Stop the flute , Be nature mute ; " Ov , in a dying , dying fall , " Sink all to rest , men , women , children , brutes , and all . Hark 1 I hear the din of battle ;•
Trumpets sound , and drums do rattle ; Plorses neigh , Asses bray ; The wide-mouth'd cannon Joud'y roar ; Whole ranks are steep'd in blood and gore . Heard you that groan ? ' Tis Nature ' s self that makes her moan . Dismal cries
Rend the skies ; Piteous sighs Spontaneous rise : Alas , he dies ! he dies ! the mighty hero dies ! " In broken troops , trembling , the scar'd horses trot , " In oceans of blood mangled carcases float ; While , pale with fear , Bellona in the rear
, The infantry in sad disorder fl y , And in whole ranks beneath the victor ' s sword inglorious die . O , sir ! I could write for ever in this strain—for ever could I write in praise of modern poetry , and of the immense improvements