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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.

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
Kindness
Born
Kind
Base
Slave

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Man on the dubious waves of error toss'd.
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Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
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In the vast, and the minute, we see The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.
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Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
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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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Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace.
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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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Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
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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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What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.
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Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
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But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
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God made the country, and man made the town.
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What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
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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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I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd.
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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.
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Heaven's harmony is universal love.
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