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It chills my blood to hear the blest Supreme Rudely appealed to on each trifling theme.

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
Profanity
Trifling
Chill
Rude
Theme
Rudely
Supreme
Chills
Blood
Blest
Hear
Appealed

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All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence.
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God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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Hast thou not learnd what thou art often told, A truth still sacred, and believed of old, That no success attends on spears and swords Unblest, and that the battle is the Lords?
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Unless a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others' bare.
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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize,--the art that baffles time's tyrannic claim to quench it.
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England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
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Sin let loose speaks punishment at hand.
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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.
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The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue the only lasting treasure, truth.
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How much a dunce that has been sent to roam, excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
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I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
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God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
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The man that hails you Tom or Jack, and proves by thumps upon your back how he esteems your merit, is such a friend, that one had need be very much his friend indeed to pardon or to bear it.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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Thieves at home must hang but he that puts Into his overgorged and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
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What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
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The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in everything that lives a tongue Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease, After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
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