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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die

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
Good
Sick
Sepulchre
Prove
Proves
Grow
Sanctuary
Grows
Seeming
Quality
Grave
Dies
Qualities
Lying
Graves
Living
Solitude

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Even in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
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Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds A stream of liberal and heroic deeds The swell of pity, not to be confined Within the scanty limits of the mind.
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Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of paradise that has surviv'd the fall!
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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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.
William Cowper
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But poverty, with most who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe The effect of laziness, or sottish write.
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Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.
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Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, The positive pronounce without dismay.
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The still small voice is wanted.
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The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.
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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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Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
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But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
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Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, Needs only to be seen to be admired.
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I am out of humanity's reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speechI start at the sound of my own.
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Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd, To furnish and accommodate a world, To give the Pole the produce of the sun, And knit the unsocial climates into one.
William Cowper
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Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's Ark.
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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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For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it comes to light, In every cranny but the right.
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