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And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

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
Addresses
Smile
Tears
Follow
Perhaps
Littles
Wiped
May
Tear
Little
Address

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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule.
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I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause.
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But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
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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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As if the world and they were hand and glove.
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Nature is a good name for an effect whose cause is God.
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Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
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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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To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
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Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, An Nature, in her cultivated trim Dress'ed to his taste, inviting him abroad - Can he want occupation who has these?
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Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound.
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A moral, sensible, and well-bred manWill not affront me, and no other can.
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Spare feast! a radish and an egg.
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Sacred interpreter of human thought, How few respect or use thee as they ought! But all shall give account of every wrong, Who dare dishonor or defile the tongue Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, Or sell their glory at a market-price!
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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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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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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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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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Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. The nations hunt all mock thee for a prey They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay.
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