Quote

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, / Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost.

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
Wide
Sails
Compassion
Tempest
Lost
Ripped
Blast
Blasts
Compass
Seams
Sail
Devious
Opening
Howling
Drive
Tossed

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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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How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
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God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
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But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
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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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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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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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But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess All that the contest calls for spirit, strength, The scorn of danger, and united hearts, The surest presage of the good they seek.
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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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Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention.
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Heaven's harmony is universal love.
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If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.
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The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.
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Dejection of spirits, which may have prevented many a man from becoming an author, made me one. I find constant employment necessary, and therefore take care to be constantly employed. . . . When I can find no other occupation, I think and when I think, I am very apt to do it in rhyme.
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Religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word!
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid, In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.
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Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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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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