Quote

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.

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
Pleasant
Feel
Peep
Feels
Babel
Great
Loopholes
World
Stir
Retreat
Crowd
Crowds

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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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Spare feast! a radish and an egg.
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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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But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
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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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No traveler e'er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.
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Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.
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Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
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The mind, relaxing into needful sport, Should turn to writers of an abler sort, Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.
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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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Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
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Meditation here may think down hours to moments. Here the heart may give a useful lesson to the head and learning wiser grow without his books.
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Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
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I seem forsaken and alone, / I hear the lion roar / And every door is shut but one, / And that is Mercy's door.
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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.
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What we admire we praise and when we praise, Advance it into notice, that its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too.
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The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
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God made the country, and man made the town.
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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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But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre he that runs may read.
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