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Man In Society Is Like A Flow'r, Blown In Its Native Bed. 'tis There Alone His Faculties Expanded In Full Bloom Shine Out, There Only Reach Their Proper Use.

-William Cowper

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Man In Society Is

William Cowper

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Man In Society Is Like A Flow'r, Blown In Its Native Bed. 'tis There Alone His Faculties Expanded In Full Bloom Shine Out, There Only Reach Their Proper Use.

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They Best Can Judge A Poet's Worth, Who Oft Themselves Have Known The Pangs Of A Poetic Birth By Labours Of Their Own.

Fanaticism, The False Fire Of An Overheated Mind.

They Whom Truth And Wisdom Lead, Can Gather Honey From A Weed.

The Statesman, Lawyer, Merchant, Man Of Trade Pants For The Refuge Of Some Rural Shade, Where All His Long Anxieties Forgot Amid The Charms Of A Sequester'd Spot, Or Recollected Only To Gild O'er And Add A Smile To What Was Sweet Before, He May Possess The Joys He Thinks He Sees, Lay His Old Age Upon The Lap Of Ease, Improve The Remnant Of His Wasted Span. And Having Lived A Trifler, Die A Man.

The Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flower.

Skins May Differ, But Affection Dwells In White And Black The Same.

The Earth Was Made So Various, That The Mind Of Desultory Man, Studious Of Change, And Pleased With Novelty, Might Be Indulged.

The Art Of Poetry Is To Touch The Passions, And Its Duty To Lead Them On The Side Of Virtue.

Learning Itself, Received Into A Mind By Nature Weak, Or Viciously Inclined, Serves But To Lead Philosophers Astray, Where Children Would With Ease Discern The Way.

A Life Of Ease Is A Difficult Pursuit.

Where Thou Art Gone, Adieus And Farewells Are A Sound Unknown.

But Still Remember, If You Mean To Please, To Press Your Point With Modesty And Ease.

Great Contest Follows, And Much Learned Dust Involves The Combatants; Each Claiming Truth, And Truth Disclaiming Both.

Would I Describe A Preacher, I Would Express Him Simple, Grave, Sincere; In Doctrine Uncorrupt; In Language Plain, And Plain In Manner; Decent, Solemn, Chaste, And Natural In Gesture; Much Impress'd Himself, As Conscious Of His Awful Charge, And Anxious Mainly That The Flock He Feeds May Feel It Too; Affectionate In Look, And Tender In Address, As Well Becomes A Messenger Of Grace To Guilty Men.

Spring Hangs Her Infant Blossoms On The Trees, Rock'd In The Cradle Of The Western Breeze.

As Creeping Ivy Clings To Wood Or Stone, And Hides The Ruin That It Feeds Upon, So Sophistry, Cleaves Close To, And Protects Sin's Rotten Trunk, Concealing Its Defects.

Perhaps Thou Gav'st Me, Though Unseen, A Kiss; Perhaps A Tear, If Souls Can Weep In Bliss.

Could He With Reason Murmur At His Case, Himself Sole Author Of His Own Disgrace?

The Path Of Sorrow, And That Path Alone, Leads To The Land Where Sorrow Is Unknown.

The Parable Of The Prodigal Son, The Most Beautiful Fiction That Ever Was Invented; Our Saviour's Speech To His Disciples, With Which He Closed His Earthly Ministrations, Full Of The Sublimest Dignity And Tenderest Affection, Surpass Everything That I Ever Read; And Like The Spirit By Which They Were Dictated, Fly Directly To The Heart.

If A Great Man Struggling With Misfortunes Is A Noble Object, A Little Man That Despises Them Is No Contemptible One.

Fashion, Leader Of A Chatt'ring Train, Whom Man For His Own Hurt Permits To Reign Who Shifts And Changes All Things But His Shape, And Would Degrade Her Vot'ry To An Ape, The Fruitful Parent Of Abuse And Wrong, Holds A Usurp'd Dominion O'er His Tongue, There Sits And Prompts Him With His Own Disgrace, Prescribes The Theme, The Tone, And The Grimace, And When Accomplish'd In Her Wayward School, Calls Gentleman Whom She Has Made A Fool.

Some Men Make Gain A Fountain, Whence Proceeds A Stream Of Liberal And Heroic Deeds; The Swell Of Pity, Not To Be Confined Within The Scanty Limits Of The Mind.

Ye Therefore Who Love Mercy, Teach Your Sons To Love It, Too.

Without One Friend, Above All Foes, Britannia Gives The World Repose.

The Dogs Did Bark, The Children Screamed, Up Flew The Windows All; And Every Soul Bawled Out, Well Done! As Loud As He Could Bawl.

Mansions Once Knew Their Own Masters, And Laborious Hinds, That Had Surviv'd The Father, Serv'd The Son. Now The Legitimate And Rightful Lord Is But A Transient Guest, Newly Arrived, And Soon To Be Supplanted. He That Saw His Patrimonial Timber Cast Its Leaf, Sells The Last Scantling, And Transfers The Price To Some Shrewd Sharper Ere It Buds Again. Estates Are Landscapes, Gazed Upon Awhile, Then Advertised And Auctioneer'd Away.

But Slaves That Once Conceive The Glowing Thought Of Freedom, In That Hope Itself Possess All That The Contest Calls For; Spirit, Strength, The Scorn Of Danger, And United Hearts, The Surest Presage Of The Good They Seek.

All Affectation; 'tis My Perfect Scorn; Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

To Impute Our Recovery To Medicine, And To Carry Our View No Further, Is To Rob God Of His Honor, And Is Saying In Effect That He Has Parted With The Keys Of Life And Death, And, By Giving To A Drug The Power To Heal Us, Has Placed Our Lives Out Of His Own Reach.

What We Admire We Praise; And When We Praise, Advance It Into Notice, That Its Worth Acknowledged, Others May Admire It Too.

Some Write A Narrative Of Wars And Feats, Of Heroes Little Known, And Call The Rant A History.

Accomplishments Have Taken Virtue's Place, And Wisdom Falls Before Exterior Grace.

But Animated Nature Sweeter Still, To Soothe And Satisfy The Human Ear.

No Wild Enthusiast Could Rest, Till Half The World Like Him Was Possessed.

There Is Mercy In Every Place. And Mercy, Encouraging Thought Gives Even Affliction A Grace And Reconciles Man To His Lot.

No, Freedom Has A Thousand Charms To Show That Slaves, Howe'er Contented, Never Know.

There Is In Souls A Sympathy With Sounds.

Blest Be The Art That Can Immortalize,--the Art That Baffles Time's Tyrannic Claim To Quench It.

The Parson Knows Enough Who Knows A Duke.

How Fleet Is A Glance Of The Mind! Compared With The Speed Of Its Flight, The Tempest Itself Lags Behind, And The Swift-winged Arrows Of Light.

He That Negotiates Between God And Man, As God's Ambassador, The Grand Concerns Of Judgment And Of Mercy, Should Beware Of Lightness In His Speech.

Friends, Books, A Garden, And Perhaps His Pen, Delightful Industry Enjoy'd At Home, An Nature, In Her Cultivated Trim Dress'ed To His Taste, Inviting Him Abroad - Can He Want Occupation Who Has These?

How Readily We Wish Time Spent Revoked, That We Might Try The Ground Again Where Once--through Inexperience, As We Now Perceive--we Missed That Happiness We Might Have Found!

Defend Me, Therefore, Common Sense, Say From Reveries So Airy, From The Toil Of Dropping Buckets Into Empty Wells, And Growing Old In Drawing Nothing Up.

Poor England! Thou Art A Devoted Deer, Beset With Every Ill But That Of Fear. The Nations Hunt; All Mock Thee For A Prey; They Swarm Around Thee, And Thou Stand'st At Bay.

And, Of All Lies (be That One Poet's Boast) / The Lie That Flatters I Abhor The Most.

With Spots Quadrangular Of Diamond Form, Ensanguined Hearts, Clubs Typical Of Strife, And Spades, The Emblems Of Untimely Graves.

Time, As He Passes Us, Has A Dove's Wing, Unsoil'd, And Swift, And Of A Silken Sound.

The Cares Of Today Are Seldom Those Of Tomorrow.

There Is A Mixture Of Evil In Everything We Do; Indulgence Encourages Us To Encroach, While We Crabbe Exercise The Rights Of Children, We Become Childish.

Heaven's Harmony Is Universal Love.

The Beggarly Last Doit.

As If The World And They Were Hand And Glove.

But Conversation, Choose What Theme We May, And Chiefly When Religion Leads The Way, Should Flow, Like Waters After Summer Show'rs, Not As If Raised By Mere Mechanic Powers.

The Frenchman, Easy, Debonair, And Brisk, Give Him His Lass, His Fiddle, And His Frisk, Is Always Happy, Reign Whoever May, And Laughs The Sense Of Mis'ry Far Away.

No One Was Ever Scolded Out Of Their Sins.

A Fool Must Now And Then Be Right, By Chance

This Cabin, Mary, In My Sight Appears, Built As It Has Been In Our Waning Years, A Rest Afforded To Our Weary Feet, Preliminary To - The Last Retreat.

The Kindest And The Happiest Pair Will Find Occasion To Forbear; And Something, Every Day They Live, To Pity, And Perhaps Forgive.

Detested Sport, That Owes Its Pleasures To Another's Pain.

The Solemn Fop; Significant And Budge; A Fool With Judges, Amongst Fools A Judge

How Happy It Is To Believe, With A Steadfast Assurance, That Our Petitions Are Heard Even While We Are Making Them; And How Delightful To Meet With A Proof Of It In The Effectual And Actual Grant Of Them.

Some People Are More Nice Than Wise.

E'er Since, By Faith, I Saw The Stream Thy Flowing Wounds Supply, Redeeming Love Has Been My Theme, And Shall Be Till I Die.

Be It A Weakness, It Deserves Some Praise, We Love The Play-place Of Our Early Days; The Scene Is Touching, And The Heart Is Stone, That Feels Not At That Sight, And Feels At None.

What Peaceful Hours I Once Enjoy'd! How Sweet Their Memory Still! But They Have Left An Aching Void The World Can Never Fill.

Scenes Must Be Beautiful Which Daily View'd Please Daily, And Whose Novelty Survives Long Knowledge And The Scrutiny Of Years.

Mercy To Him That Shows It, Is The Rule.

No Man Can Be A Patriot On An Empty Stomach.

Unless A Love Of Virtue Light The Flame, Satire Is, More Than Those He Brands, To Blame; He Hides Behind A Magisterial Air He Own Offences, And Strips Others' Bare.

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.

Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream.

Nature Is A Good Name For An Effect Whose Cause Is God.

Reasoning At Every Step He Treads, Man Yet Mistakes His Way, Whilst Meaner Things, Whom Instinct Leads, Are Rarely Known To Stray.

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.

A Glory Gilds The Sacred Page, Majestic Like The Sun, It Gives A Light To Every Age, It Gives, But Borrows None.

Oh, Popular Applause! What Heart Of Man Is Proof Against Thy Sweet Seducing Charms? The Wisest And The Best Feel Urgent Need Of All Their Caution In Thy Gentlest Gales; But Swell'd Into A Gust--who Then, Alas! With All His Canvas Set, And Inexpert, And Therefore, Heedless, Can Withstand Thy Power?

Call'd To The Temple Of Impure Delight He That Abstains, And He Alone, Does Right. If A Wish Wander That Way, Call It Home; He Cannot Long Be Safe Whose Wishes Roam.

Lived In His Saddle, Loved The Chase, The Course, And Always, Ere He Mounted, Kiss'd His Horse.

Nature, Exerting An Unwearied Power, Forms, Opens, And Gives Scent To Every Flower; Spreads The Fresh Verdure Of The Field, And Leads The Dancing Naiads Through The Dewy Meads.

Pity! Religion Has So Seldom Found A Skilful Guide Into Poetic Ground! The Flowers Would Spring Where'er She Deign'd To Stray And Every Muse Attend Her In Her Way.

Though Peace Be Made, Yet It's Interest That Keep Peace.

They Love The Country, And None Else, Who Seek For Their Own Sake Its Silence And Its Shade. Delights Which Who Would Leave, That Has A Heart Susceptible Of Pity, Or A Mind Cultured And Capable Of Sober Thought.

England With All Thy Faults, I Love Thee Still-- My Country! And, While Yet A Nook Is Left Where English Minds And Manners May Be Found, Shall Be Constrained To Love Thee.

The Still Small Voice Is Wanted.

Laugh At All You Trembled At Before.

I Would Not Have A Slave To Till My Ground, To Carry Me, To Fan Me While I Sleep, And Tremble When I Wake, For All The Wealth That Sinews Bought And Sold Have Ever Earn'd.

Knowledge And Wisdom, Far From Being One, Have Oft-times No Connection. Knowledge Dwells In Heads Replete With Thoughts Of Other Men; Wisdom In Minds Attentive To Their Own.

Me Howling Blasts Drive Devious, Tempest-tossed, / Sails Ripped, Seams Opening Wide, And Compass Lost.

Sin Let Loose Speaks Punishment At Hand.

And Hast Thou Sworn On Every Slight Pretence, Till Perjuries Are Common As Bad Pence, While Thousands, Careless Of The Damning Sin, Kiss The Book's Outside, Who Ne'er Look'd Within?

Built God A Church And Laughed His Word To Scorn.

Tis Pleasant, Through The Loopholes Of Retreat, To Peep At Such A World; To See The Stir Of The Great Babel, And Not Feel The Crowd.

Domestic Happiness, Thou Only Bliss Of Paradise That Has Surviv'd The Fall!

Some Drill And Bore The Solid Earth, And From The Strata There Extract A Register, By Which We Learn, That He Who Made It, And Reveal'd Its Date To Moses, Was Mistaken In Its Age.

Those Flimsy Webs That Break As Soon As Wrought, Attain Not To The Dignity Of Thought.

God Moves In A Mysterious Way, His Wonders To Perform. He Plants His Footsteps In The Sea, And Rides Upon The Storm.

True Modesty Is A Discerning Grace And Only Blushes In The Proper Place; But Counterfeit Is Blind, And Skulks Through Fear, Where 'tis A Shame To Be Asham'd T' Appear: Humility The Parent Of The First, The Last By Vanity Produc'd And Nurs'd.

Mountains Interposed Make Enemies Of Nations, Who Had Else Like Kindred Drops Been Mingled Into One.

When All Within Is Peace How Nature Seems To Smile Delights That Never Cease The Live-long Day Beguile

The Cares Of Today Are Seldom Those Of Tomorrow, And When We Lie Down At Night We May Safely Say To Most Of Our Troubles, "ye Have Done Your Worst, And We Shall See You No More."

Vice Stings Us Even In Our Pleasures, But Virtue Consoles Us Even In Our Pains.

The Man That Hails You Tom Or Jack, And Proves By Thumps Upon Your Back How He Esteems Your Merit, Is Such A Friend, That One Had Need Be Very Much His Friend Indeed To Pardon Or To Bear It.

The Spirit Breathes Upon The Word And Brings The Truth To Sight.

Heaven Speed The Canvas, Gallantly Unfurl'd, To Furnish And Accommodate A World, To Give The Pole The Produce Of The Sun, And Knit The Unsocial Climates Into One.

Admirals Extolled For Standing Still, Or Doing Nothing With A Deal Of Skill.

Knowledge Is Proud That It Knows So Much; Wisdom Is Humble That It Knows No More.

[my Kitten's] Gambols Are Not To Be Described, And Would Be Incredible, If They Could.

Hast Thou Not Learnd What Thou Art Often Told, A Truth Still Sacred, And Believed Of Old, That No Success Attends On Spears And Swords Unblest, And That The Battle Is The Lords?

To See The Law By Christ Fulfilled, And Hear His Pardoning Voice Changes A Slave Into A Child, And Duty Into Choice.

We Are Never More In Danger Than When We Think Ourselves Most Secure, Nor In Reality More Secure Than When We Seem To Be Most In Danger.

We Bear Our Shades About Us; Self-deprived Of Other Screen, The Thin Umbrella Spread, And Range An Indian Waste Without A Tree.

In Man Or Woman, But Far Most In Man, And Most Of All In Man That Ministers, And Serves The Altar, In My Soul I Loathe All Affectation. 'tis My Perfect Scorn: Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

Happy The Man Who Sees A God Employed In All The Good And Ills That Checker Life.

O Winter, Ruler Of The Inverted Year!

Absence Of Occupation Is Not Rest; A Mind Quite Vacant Is A Mind Distressed.

A Man Renowned For Repartee Will Seldom Scruple To Make Free With Friendship's Finest Feeling, Will Thrust A Dagger At Your Breast, And Say He Wounded You In Jest, By Way Of Balm For Healing.

The Things That Mount The Rostrum With A Skip, And Then Skip Down Again, Pronounce A Text, Cry Hem; And Reading What They Never Wrote Just Fifteen Minutes, Huddle Up Their Work, And With A Well-bred Whisper Close The Scene!

Satan Trembles When He Sees The Weakest Saint Upon Their Knees.

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face.

But, Oh, Thou Bounteous Giver Of All Good, Thou Art, Of All Thy Gifts, Thyself Thy Crown!

Give What Thou Canst, Without Thee We Are Poor; And With Thee Rich, Take What Thou Wilt Away.

Still Ending, And Beginning Still.

Forgot The Blush That Virgin Fears Impart To Modest Cheeks, And Borrowed One From Art.

Pleasure Admitted In Undue Degree, Enslaves The Will, Nor Leaves The Judgment Free.

What Is It But A Map Of Busy Life, Its Fluctuations, And Its Vast Concerns?

A Story, In Which Native Humour Reigns, Is Often Useful, Always Entertains; A Graver Fact, Enlisted On Your Side, May Furnish Illustration, Well Applied; But Sedentary Weavers Of Long Tales Give Me The Fidgets, And My Patience Fails.

The Spleen Is Seldom Felt Where Flora Reigns; The Low'ring Eye, The Petulance, The Frown, And Sullen Sadness, That O'ershade, Distort, And Mar The Face Of Beauty, When No Cause For Such Immeasurable Woe Appears; These Flora Banishes, And Gives The Fair Sweet Smiles, And Bloom Less Transient Than Her Own.

Ever Let The Fancy Roam, Pleasure Never Is At Home.

The Man That Dares Traduce, Because He Can With Safety To Himself, Is Not A Man.

The Slaves Of Custom And Established Mode, With Pack-horse Constancy We Keep The Road Crooked Or Straight, Through Quags Or Thorny Dells, True To The Jingling Of Our Leader's Bells.

God Made The Country, And Man Made The Town.

The Nurse Sleeps Sweetly, Hired To Watch The Sick, / Whom, Snoring, She Disturbs.

Oh To Have A Lodge In Some Vast Wilderness. Where Rumors Of Oppression And Deceit, Of Unsuccessful And Successful Wars May Never Reach Me Anymore.

All Zeal For A Reform, That Gives Offence To Peace And Charity, Is Mere Pretence.

Nor Rural Sights Alone, But Rural Sounds, Exhilirate The Spirit, And Restore The Tone Of Languid Nature.

We Turn To Dust, And All Our Mightiest Works Die Too.

There Is No Flesh In Man's Obdurate Heart; He Does Not Feel For Man.

Misses! The Tale That I Relate This Lesson Seems To Carry-- Choose Not Alone A Proper Mate, But Proper Time To Marry.

But What Is Truth? 'twas Pilate's Question Put To Truth Itself, That Deign'd Him No Reply.

Meditation Here May Think Down Hours To Moments. Here The Heart May Give A Useful Lesson To The Head And Learning Wiser Grow Without His Books.

Ages Elapsed Ere Homer's Lamp Appear'd, And Ages Ere The Mantuan Swan Was Heard: To Carry Nature Lengths Unknown Before, To Give A Milton Birth, Ask'd Ages More.

Religion Does Not Censure Or Exclude Unnumbered Pleasures, Harmlessly Pursued.

Pleasure Is Labour Too, And Tires As Much.

Ceremony Leads Her Bigots Forth, Prepared To Fight For Shadows Of No Worth. While Truths, On Which Eternal Things Depend, Can Hardly Find A Single Friend.

Acquaint Thyself With God, If Thou Would'st Taste His Works. Admitted Once To His Embrace, Thou Shalt Perceive That Thou Was Blind Before: Thine Eye Shall Be Instructed; And Thine Heart Made Pure Shall Relish With Divine Delight Till Then Unfelt, What Hands Divine Have Wrought.

Glory, Built On Selfish Principles, Is Shame And Guilt.

Variety's The Very Spice Of Life, That Gives It All Its Flavor.

Spare Feast! A Radish And An Egg.

Tis Providence Alone Secures In Every Change Both Mine And Yours.

And The Tear That Is Wiped With A Little Address, May Be Follow'd Perhaps By A Smile.

Remorse Begets Reform.

Forced From Home, And All Its Pleasures, Afric Coast I Left Forlorn; To Increase A Stranger's Treasures, O The Raging Billows Borne. Men From England Bought And Sold Me, Paid My Price In Paltry Gold; But, Though Theirs They Have Enroll'd Me, Minds Are Never To Be Sold.

Religion! What Treasure Untold Resides In That Heavenly Word!

The Few That Pray At All Pray Oft Amiss.

Man Disavows, And Deity Disowns Me: Hell Might Afford My Miseries A Shelter; Therefore Hell Keeps Her Ever-hungry Mouths All Bolted Against Me.

Solitude, Seeming A Sanctuary, Proves A Grave; A Sepulchre In Which The Living Lie, Where All Good Qualities Grow Sick And Die

That Good Diffused May More Abundant Grow.

I Seem Forsaken And Alone, / I Hear The Lion Roar; / And Every Door Is Shut But One, / And That Is Mercy's Door.

For 'tis A Truth Well Known To Most, That Whatsoever Thing Is Lost, We Seek It, Ere It Comes To Light, In Every Cranny But The Right.

Visits Are Insatiable Devourers Of Time, And Fit Only For Those Who, If They Did Not That, Would Do Nothing.

All Flesh Is Grass. And All Its Glory Fades Like The Fair Flower Dishevell'd In The Wind; Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream; The Man We Celebrate Must Find A Tomb, And We That Worship Him, Ignoble Graves.

Man May Dismiss Compassion From His Heart, But God Never Will.

A Tale Should Be Judicious, Clear, Succinct; The Language Plain, And Incidents Well Link'd; Tell Not As New What Ev'ry Body Knows; And, New Or Old, Still Hasten To A Close.

Stamps God's Own Name Upon A Lie Just Made, To Turn A Penny In The Way Of Trade.

O Winter! Ruler Of The Inverted Year, . . . I Crown Thee King Of Intimate Delights, Fireside Enjoyments, Home-born Happiness, And All The Comforts That The Lowly Roof Of Undisturbed Retirement, And The Hours Of Long Uninterrupted Evening, Know.

In Indolent Vacuity Of Thought.

Absence Of Proof Is Not Proof Of Absence.

If Hindrances Obstruct The Way, Thy Magnanimity Display. And Let Thy Strength Be Seen: But O, If Fortune Fill Thy Sail With More Than A Propitious Gale, Take Half Thy Canvas In.

I Venerate The Man Whose Heart Is Warm, Whose Hands Are Pure, Whose Doctrine And Whose Life, Coincident, Exhibit Lucid Proof That He Is Honest In The Sacred Cause.

Words Learn'd By Rote A Parrot May Rehearse, But Talking Is Not Always To Converse, Not More Distinct From Harmony Divine The Constant Creaking Of A Country Sign.

How Sweet, How Passing Sweet, Is Solitude! But Grant Me Still A Friend In My Retreat, Whom I May Whisper, Solitude Is Sweet.

Not A Flower But Shows Some Touch, In Freckle, Streak Or Stain, Of His Unrivall'd Pencil. He Inspires Their Balmy Odors, And Imparts Their Hues, And Bathes Their Eyes With Nectar, And Includes In Grains As Countless As The Seaside Sands, The Forms With Which He Sprinkles All The Earth Happy Who Walks With Him!

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 In Society Is Like A Flow'r, Blown In Its Native Bed. 'tis There Alone His Faculties Expanded In Full Bloom Shine Out, There Only Reach Their Proper Use.

I Am Out Of Humanity's Reach.i Must Finish My Journey Alone,never Hear The Sweet Music Of Speech;i Start At The Sound Of My Own.

God Moves In Mysterious Ways His Wonders To Performs

I Am Out Of Humanity's Reach.

Go, Mark The Matchless Working Of The Power That Shuts Within The Seed The Future Flower; Bids These In Elegance Of Form Excel. In Color These, And Those Delight The Smell; Sends Nature Forth, The Daughter Of The Skies, To Dance On Earth, And Charm All Human Eyes.

[my Kitten] Is Dressed In A Tortoise-shell Suit, And I Know You Will Delight In Her.

God Forbid That Judges Upon Their Oath Should Make Resolutions To Enlarge Jurisdiction.

She That Asks Her Dear Five Hundred Friends, Contemns Them All, And Hates Their Coming.

No Tree In All The Grove But Has Its Charms, Though Each Its Hue Peculiar.

What Is There In The Vale Of Lifehalf So Delightful As A Wife;when Friendship, Love And Peace Combineto Stamp The Marriage-bond Divine?

Friendship Love

A Heretic, My Dear Sir, Is A Fellow Who Disagrees With You Regarding Something Neither Of You Knows Anything About.

Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

When From Soft Love Proceeds The Deep Distress, Ah! Why Forbid The Willing Tears To Flow?

Greece, Sound, Thy Homer's, Rome Thy Virgil's Name, But England's Milton Equals Both In Fame.

Transforms Old Print To Zigzag Manuscript, And Cheats The Eyes Of Gallery Critics By A Thousand Arts.

God Never Meant That Man Should Scale The Heavens By Strides Of Human Wisdom. In His Works, Though Wondrous, He Commands Us In His Word To Seek Him Rather Where His Mercy Shines.

The Mind, Relaxing Into Needful Sport, Should Turn To Writers Of An Abler Sort, Whose Wit Well Managed, And Whose Classic Style, Give Truth A Lustre, And Make Wisdom Smile.

War's A Game, Which, Were Their Subjects Wise, Kings Would Not Play At.

Sacred Interpreter Of Human Thought, How Few Respect Or Use Thee As They Ought! But All Shall Give Account Of Every Wrong, Who Dare Dishonor Or Defile The Tongue; Who Prostitute It In The Cause Of Vice, Or Sell Their Glory At A Market-price!

Come, Evening, Once Again, Season Of Peace; Return, Sweet Evening, And Continue Long! Methinks I See Thee In The Streaky West, With Matron Step, Slow Moving, While The Night Treads On Thy Sweeping Train; One Hand Employ'd In Letting Fall The Curtain Of Repose On Bird And Beast, The Other Charged For Man With Sweet Oblivion Of The Cares Of Day.

The Only Amaranthine Flower On Earth Is Virtue; The Only Lasting Treasure, Truth.

A Life All Turbulence And Noise May Seem To Him That Leads It Wise And To Be Praised, But Wisdom Is A Pearl With Most Success Sought In Still Waters.

Grief Is Itself A Medicine.

And Diff'ring Judgments Serve But To Declare That Truth Lies Somewhere, If We Knew But Where.

All We Behold Is Miracle.

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