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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
Base
Slave
Kindness
Born
Kind

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Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.
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Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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Unless a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others' bare.
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Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.
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Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.
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Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention.
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England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
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And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, While thousands, careless of the damning sin, Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within?
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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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But many a crime deemed innocent on earth Is registered in Heaven and these no doubt Have each their record, with a curse annex'd.
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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.
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Ten thousand casks, Forever dribbling out their base contents, Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad then 'tis your country bids!
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Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
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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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But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre he that runs may read.
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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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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This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet, Preliminary to - the last retreat.
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