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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
Choice
Children
Duty
Hear
Choices
Child
Pardoning
Fulfilled
Law
Slave
Voice
Changes
Christ

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E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream thy flowing wounds supply, redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.
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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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I will venture to assert, that a just translation of any ancient poet in rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity can be equal to the task of closing every couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing at the same time the full sense, and only the full sense of his original.
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The still small voice is wanted.
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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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The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.
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An idler is a watch that wants both hands As useless if it goes as when it stands.
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No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
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God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
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But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.
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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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Visits are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only for those who, if they did not that, would do nothing.
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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,- A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.
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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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They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought.
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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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Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies... To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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