The Works of William Cowper: His Life and Letters, Volume 5

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Saunders & Otley, 1835
 

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Page 334 - there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance.
Page 385 - There stands the messenger of truth: there stands The legate of the skies! His theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear. By him the violated law speaks out Its thunders ; and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the gospel whispers peace.
Page 230 - Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary ! For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign ; Yet gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary!
Page 302 - Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss Ah, that maternal smile! it answers Yes.
Page 374 - Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods : And Time hath made thee what thou art a cave For owls to roost in.
Page 247 - No poet wept him ; but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson's tear : And tears by bards or heroes shed, Alike immortalize the dead. I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date : But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.
Page 386 - ... Its thunders ; and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. He stablishes the strong, restores the weak, Reclaims the...
Page 297 - Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.
Page 313 - Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, Forgery of fancy and a dream of woes ; Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, Each yielding harmony, disposed aright, The screws reversed, (a task which if he please God in a moment executes with ease,) Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose, Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use.
Page 246 - He lov'd them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again. Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay ; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away ; But wag'd with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.

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