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Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.

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
Scorn
Laughed
Built
Word
Church

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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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Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.
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Pity! Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray And every muse attend her in her way.
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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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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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A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
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Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.
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They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.
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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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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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England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
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Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
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O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.
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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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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry-- Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.
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