William Cowper

Freedom has a thousand charms to show, That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.

Thus happiness depends, as Nature shows, Less on exterior things than most suppose.

Admirals extolled for standing still, Or doing nothing with a deal of skill.

As if the world and they were hand and glove.

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

Glory, built On selfish principles, is shame and guilt.

Hark, my soul! it is the Lord; 'Tis thy (Saviour, hear his word; Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee: "Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou me?"

There is a fountain fill'd with blood Drawn from Emmanuel's veins; And sinners, plung'd beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains.

Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.

His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.

Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.

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

Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will.

God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.

And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees.

What peaceful hours I once enjoyed! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.

Oh! for a closer walk with God, A calm and heav'nly frame; A light to shine upon the road That leads me to the Lamb!

No voice divine the storm allay'd, No light propitious shone; When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, We perish'd, each alone; But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulphs than he.

Misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.

The son of parents pass'd into the skies.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Me howling winds drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost.

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum.

I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau, If birds confabulate or no.