The complaint; or, Night thoughts, on life, death, and immortality. [Followed by] A paraphrase on part of the book of Job. With the life of the author [signed G.W.].
Thomas Tegg, 1815 - 312 pages
What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
ambition angels beneath bids blest bliss cause creation dark dead death deep Deity divine dread dust earth eternal ev'ry fair fall fate fear feel fire flame fond fool future give glory gods grave guilt hand happiness hear heart heav'n hope hour human immortal kind leave less life's light live look LORENZO man's mankind mean mind mortal nature nature's never night o'er once pain passion past peace pleasure poor praise present pride proud reason rich rise round scene seen sense shade shines sight skies smile song soon soul speak sphere spirit stars strange strike thee theme thine things thou thought thousand throne triumph true truth turn various virtue whole wide wing wisdom wise wish wonder wretched
Page 3 - The bell strikes one. We take no note of time, But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the, knell of my departed hours : Where are they?
Page 13 - Fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread: But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close ; where past the shaft no trace is found. As from the wing no scar the sky retains, The parted wave no furrow from the keel, So dies in human hearts the thought of death : Even with the tender tear which Nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.
Page 6 - The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss ; it breaks at every breeze.
Page 4 - 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 ! O what a miracle to man is man ! Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy!
Page 288 - When tired with vain rotations of the day, Sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn ; Fresh we spin on, till sickness clogs our wheels, Or death quite breaks the spring, and motion ends.
Page 1 - From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose I wake : how happy they who wake no more ! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wreck'd, desponding thought, From wave to wave of fancied misery At random drove, her helm of reason lost.
Page 54 - The world's a stately bark, on dang'rous seas, With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril; Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore, I hear the tumult of the distant throng, As that of seas remote, or dying storms : And meditate on scenes, more silent still ; Pursue my theme, and fight the Fear of Death.
Page 4 - This is the desert, this the solitude : How populous, how vital, is the grave ! This is creation's melancholy vault, The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom : The land of apparitions, empty shades ! All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed...
Page 247 - One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine ; And light us deep into the Deity ; How boundless in magnificence and might! O what a confluence of ethereal fires, From urns unnumber'd, down the steep of heaven, Streams to a point, and centres in my sight! Nor tarries there; I feel it at my heart. My heart, at once, it humbles, and exalts ; Lays it in dust, and calls it to the skies.