William Mason (1725-1797)


A plaintive sonnet flowed from Milton's pen 
When time had stolen his three and twentieth year: 
Say, shall not I, then, shed one tuneful tear, 
Robbed by the thief of three-score years and ten? 
No! for the foes of all life-lengthened men, 
Trouble and toil, approach not yet too near; 
Reason, meanwhile, and health, and memory dear 
Hold unimpaired their weak yet wonted reign. 

Still round my sheltered lawn I pleased can stray; 
Still trace my sylvan blessings to their spring: 
Being of beings! yes, that silent lay 
Which musing gratitude delights to sing, 
Still to thy sapphire throne shall faith convey, 
And hope, the cherub of unwearied wing. 

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