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

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And in that hour, The seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'd To such gigantic and enormous growth, Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. Hence date the persecution and the pain That man inflicts on all inferior kinds, Regardless of their plaints.
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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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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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A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
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Remorse begets reform.
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Laugh at all you trembled at before.
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I am out of humanity's reach.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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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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How! leap into the pit our life to save? To save our life leap all into the grave.
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Meditation here may think down hours to moments. Here the heart may give a useful lesson to the head and learning wiser grow without his books.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow, and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more.
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Not to understand a treasure's worth till time has stole away the slighted good, is cause of half the poverty we feel, and makes the world the wilderness it is.
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Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
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Where thou art gone, adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
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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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And, of all lies (be that one poet's boast) / The lie that flatters I abhor the most.
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But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!
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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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