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Where thou art gone, adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

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
Farewells
Farewell
Unknown
Thou
Gone
Sound
Art

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If hindrances obstruct the way, Thy magnanimity display. And let thy strength be seen: But O, if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in.
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God never meant that man should scale the Heavens By strides of human wisdom. In his works, Though wondrous, he commands us in his word To seek him rather where his mercy shines.
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Though peace be made, yet it's interest that keep peace.
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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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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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Restraining prayer, we cease to fight Prayer keeps the Christian's armor bright And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees.
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Tea - the cups that cheer but not inebriate.
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Defend me, therefore, common sense, say From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up.
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Absence of occupation is not rest A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.
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To trace in Nature's most minute design The signature and stamp of power divine. ... The Invisible in things scarce seen revealed, To whom an atom is an ample field.
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When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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Slaves cannot breathe in England if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
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To see the Law by Christ fulfilled, And hear His pardoning voice Changes a slave into a child, And duty into choice.
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The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of mis'ry far away.
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The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.
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But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.
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What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
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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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Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.
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No one was ever scolded out of their sins.
William Cowper