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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.

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
Buried
Ground
Fleshly
Tomb
Tombs

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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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Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.
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Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace.
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Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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All truth is precious, if not all divine and what dilates the powers must needs refine.
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Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.
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He that has seen both sides of fifty has lived to little purpose if he has no other views of the world than he had when he was much younger.
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When all within is peace How nature seems to smile Delights that never cease The live-long day beguile
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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. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hourThe bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. 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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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.
William Cowper
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Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
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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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Scenes must be beautiful which daily view'd Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
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We sacrifice to dress till household joys and comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, and keeps our larder lean.
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Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth. While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.
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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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O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, . . . I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know.
William Cowper
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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's Ark.
William Cowper