William Cowper (Уильям Купер)

By Philemon

Oft we embrace our ills by discontent,
And give them bulk beyond what nature meant.
A parent, brother, friend deceased, to cry--
'He's dead indeed, but he was born to die'--
Such temperate grief is suited to the size
And burden of the loss; is just and wise.
But to exclaim, 'Ah! wherefore was I born,
Thus to be left forever thus forlorn?'
Who thus laments his loss invites distress,
And magnifies a woe that might be less,
Through dull despondence to his lot resign'd,
And leaving reason's remedy behind. 

1. To The Rev. Mr. Newton
2. I Will Praise the Lord at All Times
3. The New Convert
4. Welcome to the Table
5. The Cantab

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1958

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