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

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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame,--all these belong to virtue, and all prove that virtue has a title to your love.
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But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.
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To see the Law by Christ fulfilled, And hear His pardoning voice Changes a slave into a child, And duty into choice.
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All flesh is grass. and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him, ignoble graves.
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We bear our shades about us self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.
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Existence is a strange bargain. Life owes us little we owe it everything. The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose.
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Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
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All affectation 'tis my perfect scorn Object of my implacable disgust.
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The still small voice is wanted.
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Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.
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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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Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of paradise that has surviv'd the fall!
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How shall I speak thee, or thy power address Thou God of our idolatry, the Press. . . . . Like Eden's dead probationary tree, Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.
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But conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs, Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers.
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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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