Poem by William Cowper

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. Abuse of the Gospel
3. The Doves
4. The Glowworm
5. Contentment

Print

1450 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version