The Complaint: Or, Night Thoughts

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N. Hickman, 1837 - 293 oldal
 

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22. oldal - tis madness to defer; Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life Procrastination is the thief of time ; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
22. oldal - Un-anxious for ourselves,- and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty man suspects himself a fool ; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to Resolve; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves, and re-resolves ; then dies the same. And why ? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves...
7. oldal - TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep ! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes ; Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.
21. oldal - Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. Silence how dead ! and darkness how profound ! Nor eye nor listening ear an object finds ; Creation sleeps.
7. oldal - This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule ; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free...
13. oldal - Pis not in folly, not to scorn a fool; And scarce in human wisdom to do more. All promise is poor dilatory man, And that through every stage: when young, indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
82. oldal - Know'st thou th' importance of a soul immortal ? Behold this midnight glory : worlds on worlds ! Amazing pomp ! redouble this amaze ; Ten thousand add ; add twice ten thousand more ; Then weigh the whole ; one soul outweighs them all ; And calls th' astonishing magnificence Of unintelligent creation, poor.
57. oldal - Can it be? Matter immortal? And shall spirit die? Above the nobler, shall less noble rise? Shall man alone, for whom all else revives, No resurrection know? Shall man alone, Imperial man ! be sown in barren ground, Less privileged than grain, on which he feeds?
9. oldal - Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars. The sun himself by thy permission shines; And, one day, thou shalt pluck him from his sphere. Amid such mighty plunder, why exhaust Thy partial quiver on a mark so mean ? Why thy peculiar rancour wreak'd on me ? Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? Thy shaft flew thrice; and thrice my peace was slain; y And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn.
7. oldal - A worm! a god! I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels! Oh what a miracle to man is man!

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