William Cowper Quotes
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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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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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All flesh is grass. and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind; Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream; The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him, ignoble graves.
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The only amarantine flower on earth Is virtue.
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We are never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure than when we seem to be most in danger.
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...So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
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The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.
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In indolent vacuity of thought.
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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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Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age.
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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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Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder shape, and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine And sensibilities so fine! Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell Forever in my native shell, Ordained to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease; But toss'd and buffeted about, Now in the water and now out.
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But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
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Man on the dubious waves of error toss'd.
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No one was ever scolded out of their sins.
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O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, . . . I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know.
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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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Anticipated rents, and bills unpaid, Force many a shining youth into the shade, Not to redeem his time, but his estate, And play the fool, but at the cheaper rate.
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Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
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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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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow.