Quote

England with all thy faults, I love thee still-- My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.

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
May
English
Country
Minds
Mind
England
Love
Shall
Nook
Left
Constrained
Found
Manners
Stills
Faults
Still
Thee

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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
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Acquaint thyself with God, if thou would'st taste His works. Admitted once to his embrace, Thou shalt perceive that thou was blind before: Thine eye shall be instructed and thine heart Made pure shall relish with divine delight Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought.
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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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Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of paradise that has surviv'd the fall!
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Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
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Misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.
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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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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust Him for His grace Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
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Hast thou not learnd what thou art often told, A truth still sacred, and believed of old, That no success attends on spears and swords Unblest, and that the battle is the Lords?
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Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!
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We bear our shades about us self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.
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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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The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
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He that runs may read.
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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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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart he does not feel for man.
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Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.
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A moral, sensible, and well-bred manWill not affront me, and no other can.
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Nature is a good name for an effect whose cause is God.
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