Quote

I seem forsaken and alone, / I hear the lion roar / And every door is shut but one, / And that is Mercy's door.

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
Seems
Shut
Every
Loneliness
Mercy
Door
Doors
Forsaken
Seem
Roar
Hear
Lion
Alone
Lions

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God made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money, Pride made the devil, and the devil made sin So God made a cole-pit to put the devil in.
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No wild enthusiast could rest, till half the world like him was possessed.
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Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head
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And diff'ring judgments serve but to declare that truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow.
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The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in everything that lives a tongue Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease, After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
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It chills my blood to hear the blest Supreme Rudely appealed to on each trifling theme.
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A moral, sensible, and well-bred manWill not affront me, and no other can.
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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies... To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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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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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
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How! leap into the pit our life to save? To save our life leap all into the grave.
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Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.
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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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Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.
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There is a mixture of evil in everything we do indulgence encourages us to encroach, while we Crabbe exercise the rights of children, we become childish.
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