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No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.

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
Peculiar
Charm
Tree
Though
Hue
Grove
Charms

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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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How shall I speak thee, or thy power address Thou God of our idolatry, the Press. . . . . Like Eden's dead probationary tree, Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.
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Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.
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The Cross! There, and there only (though the deist rave, and the atheist, if Earth bears so base a slave) There and there only, is the power to save.
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In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers, And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn: Object of my implacable disgust.
William Cowper
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Fanaticism, the false fire of an overheated mind.
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A Christian's wit is offensive light, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth, 'Tis always active on the side of truth.
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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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Though peace be made, yet it's interest that keep peace.
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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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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.
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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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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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How various his employments whom the world Calls idle and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too!
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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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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
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The still small voice is wanted.
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When I thinkof my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.
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Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
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