William Cowper Quotes
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England with all thy faults, I love thee still-- My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.
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Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.
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Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.
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Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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And, of all lies (be that one poet's boast) / The lie that flatters I abhor the most.
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Sin let loose speaks punishment at hand.
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The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.
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The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
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Man in society is like a flow'r, Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone His faculties expanded in full bloom Shine out, there only reach their proper use.
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How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at interval upon the ear In cadence sweet; now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept.
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That good diffused may more abundant grow.
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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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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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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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Dejection of spirits, which may have prevented many a man from becoming an author, made me one. I find constant employment necessary, and therefore take care to be constantly employed. . . . When I can find no other occupation, I think; and when I think, I am very apt to do it in rhyme.
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We sacrifice to dress till household joys and comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, and keeps our larder lean.
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All we behold is miracle.
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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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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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Most satirists are indeed a public scourge; Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge; Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize.