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

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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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Come, evening, once again, season of peace Return, sweet evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step, slow moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.
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Scenes must be beautiful which daily view'd Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
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The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.
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Transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.
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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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Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, The positive pronounce without dismay.
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[My kitten's] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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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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They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.
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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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When all within is peace How nature seems to smile Delights that never cease The live-long day beguile
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Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa around, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in
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Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age.
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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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The darkest day, if you live till tomorrow, will have passed away.
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No wisdom that she may gain by experience and reflection hereafter, will compensate the loss of her present hilarity.
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The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again, pronounce a text, Cry hem and reading what they never wrote Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene!
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What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
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