William Cowper Quotes
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God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
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What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.
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Mansions once Knew their own masters, and laborious hinds, That had surviv'd the father, serv'd the son. Now the legitimate and rightful lord Is but a transient guest, newly arrived, And soon to be supplanted. He that saw His patrimonial timber cast its leaf, Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price To some shrewd sharper ere it buds again. Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile, Then advertised and auctioneer'd away.
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An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.
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Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth. While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.
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[My kitten] is dressed in a tortoise-shell suit, and I know you will delight in her.
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How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
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But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
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The solemn fop; significant and budge; A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge
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Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
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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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But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
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That good diffused may more abundant grow.
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With spots quadrangular of diamond form, ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, and spades, the emblems of untimely graves.
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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Ten thousand casks, Forever dribbling out their base contents, Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids!
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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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The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul bawled out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl.
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Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.
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Trials make the promise sweet, Trials give new life to prayer; Trials bring me to His feet, Lay me low, and keep me there.
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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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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.