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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.

William Cowper

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William Cowper
Age: 68 †
Born: 1731
Born: November 26
Died: 1800
Died: April 25
Hymnwriter
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Translator
Writer
Berkhamsted
Hertfordshire
Compassion
May
Heart
Never
Men
Dismiss
God

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When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings.
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Anticipated rents, and bills unpaid, Force many a shining youth into the shade, Not to redeem his time, but his estate, And play the fool, but at the cheaper rate.
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Habits are soon assumed but when we strive to strip them off, 'tis being flayed alive.
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Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hourThe bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.
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But poverty, with most who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe The effect of laziness, or sottish write.
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Necessity invented stools, Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, And luxury the accomplish'd Sofa last.
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Spare feast! a radish and an egg.
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All we behold is miracle.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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O, popular applause! what heart of man is proof against thy sweet, seducing charms?
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His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, / Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost.
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Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's Ark.
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The mind, relaxing into needful sport, Should turn to writers of an abler sort, Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.
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Sin let loose speaks punishment at hand.
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Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
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When I thinkof my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow.
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