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To see the Law by Christ fulfilled, And hear His pardoning voice Changes a slave into a child, And duty into choice.

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
Children
Choice
Duty
Hear
Choices
Child
Pardoning
Law
Fulfilled
Voice
Slave
Christ
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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize,--the art that baffles time's tyrannic claim to quench it.
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The man that hails you Tom or Jack, and proves by thumps upon your back how he esteems your merit, is such a friend, that one had need be very much his friend indeed to pardon or to bear it.
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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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Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace.
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Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.
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An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.
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Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
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Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder shape, and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine And sensibilities so fine! Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell Forever in my native shell, Ordained to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease But toss'd and buffeted about, Now in the water and now out.
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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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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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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Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world to see the stir Of the Great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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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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I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know.
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When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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