Quote

Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.

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
Vast
Lodges
Solitude
Rumors
Anymore
Unsuccessful
Reach
Rumor
Successful
Deceit
War
Wilderness
May
Oppression
Never
Wars
Lodge

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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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He that attends to his interior self, That has a heart, and keeps it has a mind That hungers, and supplies it and who seeks A social, not a dissipated life, Has business.
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Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both.
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The solemn fop significant and budge A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge
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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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Go, mark the matchless working of the power That shuts within the seed the future flower Bids these in elegance of form excel. In color these, and those delight the smell Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies, To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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A glory gilds the sacred page, Majestic like the sun, It gives a light to every age, It gives, but borrows none.
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E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream thy flowing wounds supply, redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.
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Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes In grains as countless as the seaside sands, The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth Happy who walks with him!
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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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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.
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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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In the vast, and the minute, we see The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.
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Man on the dubious waves of error toss'd.
William Cowper
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Trials make the promise sweet, Trials give new life to prayer Trials bring me to His feet, Lay me low, and keep me there.
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Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
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To impute our recovery to medicine, and to carry our view no further, is to rob God of His honor, and is saying in effect that He has parted with the keys of life and death, and, by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our lives out of His own reach.
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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.
William Cowper
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Oh, popular applause! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales But swell'd into a gust--who then, alas! With all his canvas set, and inexpert, And therefore, heedless, can withstand thy power?
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The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
William Cowper