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Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appear'd, And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard: To carry nature lengths unknown before, To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more.

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
Carry
Swans
Birth
Milton
Heard
Lamp
Asks
Lamps
Age
Ages
Elapsed
Nature
Length
Lengths
Give
Unknown
Swan
Giving
Appear
Homer

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The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all And every soul bawled out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl.
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A Christian's wit is offensive light, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth, 'Tis always active on the side of truth.
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Even in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
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It chills my blood to hear the blest Supreme Rudely appealed to on each trifling theme.
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The beggarly last doit.
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Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
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As if the world and they were hand and glove.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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How happy it is to believe, with a steadfast assurance, that our petitions are heard even while we are making them and how delightful to meet with a proof of it in the effectual and actual grant of them.
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Still ending, and beginning still.
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
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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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Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
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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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But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
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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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How shall I speak thee, or thy power address Thou God of our idolatry, the Press. . . . . Like Eden's dead probationary tree, Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.
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Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
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But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
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