The Sentimental and Masonic Magazine, Volume 1 (Google eBook)

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J. Jones., 1792
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Page 44 - EXCEPT the LORD build the house, they labour in vain that build it : except the LORD keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.
Page 176 - I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth...
Page 470 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Page 469 - Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave Await alike th' inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Page 81 - Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries No more I weep : they do not sleep ! On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
Page 82 - Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me : with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care, To triumph and to die are mine.
Page 81 - The characters of hell to* trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing King ! She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heav'n.
Page 114 - Eas'd of her load, subjection grows more light, And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight: Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.
Page 82 - Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn.
Page 198 - And you have an army in Ireland that you may employ to reduce this kingdom to obedience ; for I am confident the Scots cannot hold out five months.

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