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This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet, Preliminary to - the last retreat.
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
Sight
Preliminary
Built
Cabin
Rest
Afforded
Feet
Cabins
Lasts
Retreat
Last
Weary
Home
Mary
Years
Appears
Waning
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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.
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But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess All that the contest calls for spirit, strength, The scorn of danger, and united hearts, The surest presage of the good they seek.
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I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, for how could we do without sugar and rum?
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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart he does not feel for man.
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Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
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When from soft love proceeds the deep distress, ah! why forbid the willing tears to flow?
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An idler is a watch that wants both hands As useless if it goes as when it stands.
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I will venture to assert, that a just translation of any ancient poet in rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity can be equal to the task of closing every couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing at the same time the full sense, and only the full sense of his original.
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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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A life of ease is a difficult pursuit.
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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
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Pity! Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray And every muse attend her in her way.
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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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A story, in which native humour reigns, Is often useful, always entertains A graver fact, enlisted on your side, May furnish illustration, well applied But sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
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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.
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Dejection of spirits, which may have prevented many a man from becoming an author, made me one. I find constant employment necessary, and therefore take care to be constantly employed. . . . When I can find no other occupation, I think and when I think, I am very apt to do it in rhyme.
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Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. The nations hunt all mock thee for a prey They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay.
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Transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow.
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