William Cowper Quotations | Page 4

The fall of waters and the song of birds, And hills that echo to the distant berds, Are luxuries excelling all the glare The world can boast, and her chief favorites share.

When scandal has new-minted an old lie, Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply, 'Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears Gathering around it with erected ears; A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd, Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud, Just as the sapience of an author's brain, Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain.

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own, and having pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.

God forbid that Judges upon their oath should make resolutions to enlarge jurisdiction.

If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.

My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.

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.

A Christian's wit is offensive light, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight; Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth, 'Tis always active on the side of truth.

Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace.

Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame,--all these belong to virtue, and all prove that virtue has a title to your love.

I was a poet too; but modern taste Is so refined and delicate and chaste, That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, Without a creamy smoothness has no charms. Thus, all success depending on an ear, And thinking I might purchase it too dear, If sentiment were sacrific'd to sound, And truth cut short to make a period round, I judg'd a man of sense could scarce do worse Than caper in the morris-dance of verse.

But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.

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.

Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.

The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.

How! leap into the pit our life to save? To save our life leap all into the grave.

The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, And mar the face of beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears; These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.

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.

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.

Religion, richest favor of the skies.

What we admire we praise; and when we praise, Advance it into notice, that its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too.

Come, evening, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step, slow moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.

The bird that flutters least is longest on the wing.

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.

The slaves of custom and established mode, With pack-horse constancy we keep the road Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, True to the jingling of our leader's bells.

In the vast, and the minute, we see The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.

They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought.

Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.

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.

Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.

Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.

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.

When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings.

All affectation; 'tis my perfect scorn; Object of my implacable disgust.

Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures, harmlessly pursued.

Acquaint thyself with God, if thou would'st tasteHis works. Admitted once to his embrace,Thou shalt perceive that thou was blind before:Thine eye shall be instructed; and thine heartMade pure shall relish with divine delightTill then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought.

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.

Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes In grains as countless as the seaside sands, The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth Happy who walks with him!

Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.

But poverty, with most who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe; The effect of laziness, or sottish write.

Oh, popular applause! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales; But swell'd into a gust--who then, alas! With all his canvas set, and inexpert, And therefore, heedless, can withstand thy power?

The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; he does not feel for man.

And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, While thousands, careless of the damning sin, Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within?

They fix attention, heedless of your pain, With oaths like rivets forced into the brain; And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt.

When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.

True modesty is a discerning grace And only blushes in the proper place; But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t' appear: Humility the parent of the first, The last by vanity produc'd and nurs'd.

Learning itself, received into a mind By nature weak, or viciously inclined, Serves but to lead philosophers astray, Where children would with ease discern the way.

A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair; Honesty shines with great advantage there.

Folly ends where genuine hope begins.

Necessity invented stools, Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, And luxury the accomplish'd Sofa last.

Alas! if my best Friend, who laid down His life for me, were to remember all the instances in which I have neglected Him, and to plead them against me in judgment, where should I hide my guilty head in the day of recompense? I will pray, therefore, for blessings on my friends, even though they cease to be so, and upon my enemies, though they continue such.

Defend me, therefore, common sense, say From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up.

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.

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.

In indolent vacuity of thought.

Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.

Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.

The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.

Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?

The man that hails you Tom or Jack, and proves by thumps upon your back how he esteems your merit, is such a friend, that one had need be very much his friend indeed to pardon or to bear it.

...So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.

Great offices will have great talents.

All we behold is miracle.

No traveler e'er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.

Lights of the world, and stars of human race.

As if the world and they were hand and glove.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour;The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.

Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys: Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.

The solemn fop; significant and budge; A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge

It is a terrible thought, that nothing is ever forgotten; that not an oath is ever uttered that does not continue to vibrate through all times, in the wide spreading current of sound; that not a prayer is lisped, that its record is not to be found st

Spare feast! a radish and an egg.

Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head

Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.

Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appear'd, And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard: To carry nature lengths unknown before, To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more.

Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,- A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.

Oh winter, king of fire side enjoyments, home born happiness.

E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream thy flowing wounds supply, redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.

To see the Law by Christ fulfilled, And hear His pardoning voice Changes a slave into a child, And duty into choice.

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.

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.

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.

Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.

If hindrances obstruct the way, Thy magnanimity display. And let thy strength be seen: But O, if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in.

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.

That good diffused may more abundant grow.

Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention.

An inadvertent step may crush the snail That crawls at evening in the public path. But he that has humanity, forewarned, Will turn aside and let the reptile live.

How various his employments whom the world Calls idle; and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too!

Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.

How shall I speak thee, or thy power address Thou God of our idolatry, the Press. . . . . Like Eden's dead probationary tree, Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.

Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry-- Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.

Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light.

Stamps God's own name upon a lie just made, To turn a penny in the way of trade.

All constraint, / Except what wisdom lays on evil men, / Is evil.

Man on the dubious waves of error toss'd.

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.

Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.