William Cowper

And differing judgments serve but to declare, That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.

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

Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.

The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves, by thumping on your back, His sense of your great merit, Is such a friend that one had need Be very much his friend indeed To pardon or to bear it.

Thousands, careless of the damning sin, Kiss the book's outside who ne'er look within.

Let Charity forgive me a mistake, That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make, And spare the poet for his subject’s sake.

True Charity, a plant divinely nurs'd.

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.

He found it inconvenient to be poor.

Grief is itself a med'cine.

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own.

Candid, and generous, and just, Boys care but little whom they trust, An error soon corrected— For who but learns in riper years That man, when smoothest he appears Is most to be suspected?

Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course;

Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you.

Regions Caesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.

'Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.

Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread, Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, While meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

Oh! I could thresh his old jacket till I made his pension jingle in his pockets.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.

Man disobeys, and deity disowns me.

Damned below Judas; more abhorred than he was.

Absence from whom we love is worse than death, And frustrate hope severer than despair.