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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

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
Break
Fresh
Bigs
Saint
Take
Clouds
Much
Mercy
Blessing
Saints
Courage
Dread
Shall
Fearful
Head
Blessings

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The Cross! There, and there only (though the deist rave, and the atheist, if Earth bears so base a slave) There and there only, is the power to save.
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Most satirists are indeed a public scourge Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse.
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Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound.
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Grief is itself a medicine.
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But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre he that runs may read.
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Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
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Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
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The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
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God never meant that man should scale the Heavens By strides of human wisdom. In his works, Though wondrous, he commands us in his word To seek him rather where his mercy shines.
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The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
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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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I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair Honesty shines with great advantage there.
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We bear our shades about us self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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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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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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