Quote

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.

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
Heart
Ears
Chords
Mind
Touch
Pitch
Brisk
Air
Pleased
Replies
Hear
Grave
Airs
Within
Sympathy
Unison
Sound
Graves
Chord
Soul
Sounds
Martial
Music
Souls
Melting

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Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
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Restraining prayer, we cease to fight Prayer keeps the Christian's armor bright And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees.
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Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.
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If hindrances obstruct the way, Thy magnanimity display. And let thy strength be seen: But O, if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in.
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No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
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The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
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[My kitten] is dressed in a tortoise-shell suit, and I know you will delight in her.
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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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Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.
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England with all thy faults, I love thee still-- My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.
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When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of mis'ry far away.
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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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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Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa around, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in
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Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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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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Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse, Not more distinct from harmony divine The constant creaking of a country sign.
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They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.
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