William Cowper

“ Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;
'Tis free to all ─ 'tis ev'ry day renew'd;
Who scorns it starves deservedly at home.
He does not scorn it, who, imprison'd long
In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey
To sallow sickness, which the vapours, dank
And clammy, of his dark abode have bred,
Escapes at last to liberty and light: ⁠440
His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue,
His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires;
He walks, he leaps, he runs ─ is wing'd with joy,
And riots in the sweets of ev'ry breeze. ”

“ For man's revolt shall with a smile repair.
Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet
Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch:
Nor can the wonders it records be sung
To meaner music, and not suffer loss. ⁠750
But, when a poet, or when one like me,
Happy to rove among poetic flow'rs,
Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last
On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,
Such is the impulse and the spur he feels
To give it praise proportion'd to its worth,
That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems
The labour, were a task more arduous still. ”

“ All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine;
Thine unadulterate manners are less soft
And plausible than social life requires.
And thou hast need of discipline and art
To give thee what politer France receives
From Nature’s bounty—that humane address
And sweetness, without which no pleasure is
In converse, either starved by cold reserve,
Or flushed with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl;
Yet, being free, I love thee; for the sake
Of that one feature, can be well content,
Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art,
To seek no sublunary rest beside. ”

“ The glad excess of real love,
They never prove the smart.
Oh then, my life, at last relent,
Though cruel the reproach I sent,
My sorrow was unfeign'd:
Your passion, had I lov'd you not,
You might have scorn'd, renounc'd, forgot,
And I had ne'er complain'd.
While you indulge a groundless fear,
Th' imaginary woes you bear
Are real woes to me:
But thou art kind, and good thou art,
Nor wilt, by wronging thine own heart,
Unjustly punish me.
This work was published before January 1, 1928, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago. ”

“ It means thy praise, however poor, An angel's song can do no more.
LXVII. I WILL PRAISE THE LORD AT ALL TIMES WINTER has a joy for me, While the Saviour's charms I read, Lowly, meek, from blemish free, In the snowdrop's pensive head.
Spring returns, and brings along Life-invigorating suns: Hark! the turtle's plaintive song Seems to speak his dying groans!
Summer has a thousand charms, All expressive of his worth; 'Tis his sun that lights and warms, His the air that cools the earth.
What! has Autumn left to say Nothing of a Savior's grace? ”

“ Few self-supported flow'rs endure the wind
Uninjur'd, but expect th' upholding aid
Of the smooth-shaven prop, and, neatly tied,
Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, ⁠660
For int'rest sake, the living to the dead.
Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffus'd
And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair,
Like virtue, thriving most where little seen:
Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrub
With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch,
Else unadorn'd, with many a gay festoon
And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well
The strength they borrow with the grace they lend. ”

“ While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar.
"And thy loved consort on the dang'rous tide
Of life, long since, has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd—
Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'd,
Sails ripped, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force,
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. ”