William Cowper Poems

  • 201.  
    Happy songster, perch'd above,
    On the summit of the grove, Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing
  • 202.  
    My former hopes are fled,
    My terror now begins; I feel, alas! that I am dead
  • 203.  
    In language warm as could be breathed or penned
    Thy picture speaks the original my friend, Not by those looks that indicate thy mind,
  • 204.  
    Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth you buy,
    A multifarious store! A mask at once would all supply
  • 205.  
    (Jeremiah, xxiii.6)
    My God, how perfect are Thy ways!
  • 206.  
    I thirst, but not as once I did,
    The vain delights of earth to share; Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid
  • 207.  
    Winter has a joy for me,
    While the Saviour's charms I read, Lowly, meek, from blemish free,
  • 208.  
    The pine-apples, in triple row,
    Were basking hot, and all in blow; A bee of most discerning taste
  • 209.  
    Almighty King! whose wondrous hand
    Supports the weight of sea and land; Whose grace is such a boundless store,
  • 210.  
    Farewell! endued with all that could engage
    All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age! In prime of life, for sprightliness enrolled
  • 211.  
    Eldest born of powers divine!
    Bless'd Hygeia! be it mine To enjoy what thou canst give,
  • 212.  
    My soul is sad, and much dismay'd;
    See, Lord, what legions of my foes, With fierce Apollyon at their head,
  • 213.  
    The Birds put off their every hue,
    To dress a room for Montagu. The peacock sends his heavenly dyes,
  • 214.  
    God of my life, to Thee I call,
    Afflicted at Thy feet I fall; When the great water-floods prevail,
  • 215.  
    Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach,
    So shalt thou live beyond the reach Of adverse fortune's power;
  • 216.  
    Cocoa-nut naught,
    Fish too dear, None must be bought,
  • 217.  
    My rose, Gravina, blooms anew;
    And steeped not now in rain, But in Castalian streams by you,
  • 218.  
    'Ere God had built the mountains,
    Or raised the fruitful hills; Before he fill'd the fountains
  • 219.  
    The noon was shady, and soft airs
    Swept Ouseâ??s silent tide, When, â??scaped from literary cares,
  • 220.  
    Grace, triumphant in the throne,
    Scorns a rival, reigns alone; Come and bow beneath her sway;
  • 221.  
    (Genesis, xxii.14)
    The saints should never be dismay'd,
  • 222.  
    Take to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain
    With much hard labor in thy service worn! He set the vines that clothe yon ample plain,
  • 223.  
    When a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold
    Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length, It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd
  • 224.  
    What virtue, or what mental grace
    But men unqualified and base Will boast it their possession?
  • 225.  
    O thou, by long experience tried,
    Near whom no grief can long abide; My love! how full of sweet content
  • 226.  
    Two neighbours furiously dispute;
    A field--the subject of the suit. Trivial the spot, yet such the rage
  • 227.  
    (Hebrews, iv.2)
    Israel in ancient days
  • 228.  
    Would my Delia know if I love, let her take
    My last thought at night, and the first when I wake; With my prayers and best wishes preferred for her sake.
  • 229.  
    Could Homer come himself, distressed and poor
    And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door, The rich old vixen would exclaim, (I fear,)
  • 230.  
    The nymph must lose her female friend
    If more admired than she, - But where will fierce contention end
  • 231.  
    This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
    Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet,
  • 232.  
    Gracious Lord, our children see,
    By Thy mercy we are free; But shall these, alas! remain
  • 233.  
    Apelles, hearing that his boy
    Had just expired--his only joy! Although the sight with anguish tore him,
  • 234.  
    Charon! receive a family on board
    Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl, Apollo and Diana, for a word
  • 235.  
    My mother! if thou love me, name no more
    My noble birth! Sounding at every breath My noble birth, thou kill'st me. Thither fly,
  • 236.  
    Peace has unveiled her smiling face,
    And wooes thy soul to her embrace, Enjoyed with ease, if thou refrain
  • 237.  
    All are indebted much to thee,
    But I far more than all, From many a deadly snare set free,
  • 238.  
    The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower
    Which Mary to Anna conveyed; The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,
  • 239.  
    Trust me the meed of praise, dealt thriftily
    From the nice scale of judgement, honours more Than does the lavish and o'erbearing tide
  • 240.  
    Israel in ancient days
    Not only had a view Of Sinai in a blaze,
  • 241.  
    A needle, small as small can be,
    In bulk and use surpasses me, Nor is my purchase dear;
  • 242.  
    The Saviour, what a noble flame
    Was kindled in his breast, When hasting to Jerusalem,
  • 243.  
    Oh how I love Thy holy Word,
    Thy gracious covenant, O Lord! It guides me in the peaceful way;
  • 244.  
    Wilds horrid and dark with o'er shadowing trees,
    Rocks that ivy and briers infold, Scenes nature with dread and astonishment sees,
  • 245.  
    Source of love, and light of day,
    Tear me from myself away; Every view and thought of mine
  • 246.  
    Man, on the dubious waves of error toss'd,
    His ship half founder'd, and his compass lost, Sees, far as human optics may command,
  • 247.  
    Poets attempt the noblest task they can,
    Praising the Author of all good in man, And, next, commemorating Worthies lost,
  • 248.  
    Miltiades! thy valor best
    (Although in every region known) The men of Persia can attest,
  • 249.  
    Farewell, false hearts! whose best affections fail,
    Like shallow brooks which summer suns exhale; Forgetful of the man whom once ye chose,
  • 250.  
    Too many, Lord, abuse Thy grace
    In this licentious day, And while they boast they see Thy face,
Total 532 poems written by William Cowper

Poem of the day

Charles Hamilton Sorley Poem
 by Charles Hamilton Sorley

There where the rusty iron lies,
The rooks are cawing all the day.
Perhaps no man, until he dies,
Will understand them, what they say.

The evening makes the sky like clay.
The slow wind waits for night to rise.
The world is half content. But they

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