Hide Article Text (OCR)
A SOLILOQUY. God created man to be immortal, and an image of his own eternity. —Wis. 1: 23. From the grave just returning, the grave of a friend, I pause, to contemplate the state of the dead : To think of man's being, creation, and end. And the various mazes, through which he is ed, He indicates first a sensation of pain. A soretaste of dangers through which he Must rum, Of anguish and conflicts he needs must sustain, And end in a sige as he first had begun. Some seek after pleasure, and strive to look gay, Pursuing a phantom, or something that’s new. But every enjoyment soon passetls away. And leaves nought but emptiness all the way through. Or, flying from danger, are filled with dismay. _ So! there is a champion, that valiantly stands To brave all the labour and heat of the day. Ye cowardly tribe, who now impiously think; Who boast for a moment, yet sink in despair. Look yonder !—behold your great oracle shrink ! And shudder with horror at dying Voltaire.” Hackney. James CREIGHTON. At Mr. Bullock's late Museum, in Piccadilly, was seen a striking model of the arch infidel in his dying moments, executed by a Frenchman, and said to be an exact representation of him in that last awful crisis, when he uttered blasphemy and cursed his physician, Dr. Tronchia, who fled af f righted out of the room. We are sorry to inform our readers, that the Rev. J. Creighton, writer of the preceding So liloquy, died on the 26th of December.] The statesman sinks under political toil. The merchant, while plodding, is filled off with fear. The farmer still anxiously ploughs up the soil, And seldom finds respite throughout the whole year. The orator, soaring and panting for fame, Expects to be honoured with some marble dust. Its greatest achievements are naught but a name. His tongue is soon silent, and lies in the dust. Then why all this bustle, this anxious pursuit. For what is so transient, uncertain, and vain? Or even, if tasted, affords bitter fruit. A something attended with anguish or pain , Is nothing substantial ?—can no solid bliss Be found or enjoyed in this earthly abode? 18 man to look forward to no state but this. Expecting no comfort, or nothing that's good? Is Life all a bubble,—a mere puff of air? A shadow just passing, and no trace behind? Is man naught but matter, (ye Goosticks declare) Devoid both of spirit, of thought, and of mind? Ye Gibbons, ye Folneys, ye Tumes of the day, Who boast of your knowledge, and much letter’d love. Must all this your knowledge soon vanish away. Your very existence, yourselves be no more? Ah!—pause and consider—he only is wise, Who looks to a permanent future abode, Who fully expects from the grave to arise, Whao lives for hereafter, and walks with his Gop, Yes! he shall surmount all the conflicts and strife, Thro’ which he had passed with his Captain and Head: He finally triumphs, to enter on life, A life that’s immortal, a life from the dead. When others are daunted, and hang down their hands, THE WELCOME EVENING. Feries tcitten by a Clergyman, and copied by a friend from a very old Magazine, Let those that know no other bliss Than this poor dieing life can give, Sigh, when they think how short it is. And how precariously we live. But thou, my soul, hast joys in store, May’st say at every setting sun, Courage, my heart! come, one day more of a vain vexing life is gone. Hail! ye sweet evening shades, all hail, Drive these intruding caves away. Hide with your kind relieving veil The sick’ning vanities of day, Wrapt in these gentle shades I rest, Hid from the world, the world from me; But oh! none knows how I am blest, In this divine obscurity. Throe groves of bliss I seem to stray. And in the thickest gloom of night, I shine in everlasting day, And blaze with intellectual light, While half the world dream, start, and sleep, And half cheat, fight, curse, rave, and groan; Then I my silent jubil keep, And hold my festival alone. Till morning’s melancholy dawn Lets in confusion and the day, And noise and tumult hurry on, And chase sweet Salem’s peace away How doleful all the world seems then, How dismal what we here call day, The earth seems one vast howling den, And men like ravenous beast of prey, Ohi! what is all that men call light, Life, music, pomp, delight, and mirth, But roving dreams, and hideous night, Howling and spectres, hell and death. When will the eternal morning dawn, Let io salvation and true day ; Restore sweet Salem’s joys again, And chase this hurrying time away.
Newspaper Details
Methodist Magazine
London, Middlesex, GB
Sat, Jan 01, 1820
Page 41
Full Page
Clipped by
Anonymous
GB 03 May 2026
Other Publications Near London, Middlesex
Bingleys Journal
Arminian Magazine
London Daily Mail
London Stars and Stripes
London Daily Universal Register
