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A glory gilds the sacred page, Majestic like the sun, It gives a light to every age, It gives, but borrows none.

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
Sun
Gilds
Glory
Borrows
Gives
Majestic
Age
Scripture
Light
Page
Giving
Sacred
Every
Pages
Like
None

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Great offices will have great talents, and God gives to every man the virtue, temper, understanding, taste, that lifts him into life, and lets him fall just in the niche he was ordained to fill.
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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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Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.
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This fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.
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Most satirists are indeed a public scourge Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse.
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
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Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule.
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Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.
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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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As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, And hides the ruin that it feeds upon, So sophistry, cleaves close to, and protects Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects.
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No wild enthusiast could rest, till half the world like him was possessed.
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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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What is there in the vale of lifeHalf so delightful as a wifeWhen friendship, love and peace combineTo stamp the marriage-bond divine?
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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! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.
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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.
William Cowper
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Oh, popular applause! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales But swell'd into a gust--who then, alas! With all his canvas set, and inexpert, And therefore, heedless, can withstand thy power?
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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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