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

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When scandal has new-minted an old lie, Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply, 'Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears Gathering around it with erected ears A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd, Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud, Just as the sapience of an author's brain, Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain.
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A story, in which native humour reigns, Is often useful, always entertains A graver fact, enlisted on your side, May furnish illustration, well applied But sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
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Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.
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Religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word!
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Stamps God's own name upon a lie just made, To turn a penny in the way of trade.
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Slaves cannot breathe in England if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
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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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...So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
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If hindrances obstruct the way, Thy magnanimity display. And let thy strength be seen: But O, if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in.
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Call'd to the temple of impure delight He that abstains, and he alone, does right. If a wish wander that way, call it home He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam.
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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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A moral, sensible, and well-bred manWill not affront me, and no other can.
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Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
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Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.
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The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of mis'ry far away.
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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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His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
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But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!
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