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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
Ground
Fleshly
Tomb
Tombs
Buried

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All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence.
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Hast thou not learnd what thou art often told, A truth still sacred, and believed of old, That no success attends on spears and swords Unblest, and that the battle is the Lords?
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
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All flesh is grass. and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him, ignoble graves.
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Grief is itself a medicine.
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A heretic, my dear sir, is a fellow who disagrees with you regarding something neither of you knows anything about.
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It is a general rule of Judgment, that a mischief should rather be admitted than an inconvenience.
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For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it comes to light, In every cranny but the right.
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Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head
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I seem forsaken and alone, / I hear the lion roar / And every door is shut but one, / And that is Mercy's door.
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When scandal has new-minted an old lie, Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply, 'Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears Gathering around it with erected ears A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd, Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud, Just as the sapience of an author's brain, Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain.
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Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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Slaves cannot breathe in England if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
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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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Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
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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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Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
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Sacred interpreter of human thought, How few respect or use thee as they ought! But all shall give account of every wrong, Who dare dishonor or defile the tongue Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, Or sell their glory at a market-price!
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