Compositions & Translations by the Late Henry Charles Finch Mason

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C. J. Clay and sons, 1903 - English poetry - 167 pages
 

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Page 34 - Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.
Page 126 - And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He, that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his friends, And say — to-morrow is Saint Crispian : Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars, And say, these wounds I had on Crispin's day.
Page 62 - A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; I had no human fears : She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force ; She neither hears nor sees ; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.
Page 46 - I'll never love thee more. As Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone ; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all.
Page 114 - Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest ; I see thee still, And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. There's no such thing : It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.
Page 158 - I, man was made in vain ! how is he given away to misery and mortality ! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death ! The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. Look no more...
Page 72 - I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun.
Page 84 - The mountain sheep are sweeter, But the valley sheep are fatter ; We therefore deemed it meeter To carry off the latter.
Page 114 - Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight ? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw.
Page 152 - Alas, alas ! Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once ; And He that might the vantage best have took Found out the remedy.

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