Quote

There is mercy in every place. And mercy, encouraging thought gives even affliction a grace and reconciles man to his lot.

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
Grace
Place
Thought
Reconciles
Reconcile
Giving
Affliction
Even
Encouraging
Every
Mercy
Men
Gives

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Forced from home, and all its pleasures, afric coast I left forlorn to increase a stranger's treasures, o the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, paid my price in paltry gold but, though theirs they have enroll'd me, minds are never to be sold.
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When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know.
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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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Admirals extolled for standing still, or doing nothing with a deal of skill.
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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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Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.
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Heaven's harmony is universal love.
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A heretic, my dear sir, is a fellow who disagrees with you regarding something neither of you knows anything about.
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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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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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An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.
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Some people are more nice than wise.
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Nature, exerting an unwearied power, Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads.
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But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
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When all within is peace How nature seems to smile Delights that never cease The live-long day beguile
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No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.
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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
William Cowper