Alas!  I know not what I did! 
  But now my tears are vain: 
  Where shall my trembling soul be hid? 
  For I the Lord have slain! 
  A second look He gave, which said,
  ’I freely all forgive;
  The blood is for thy ransom paid;
  I die, that thou may’st live.’

  Thus, while His death my sin displays
  In all its blackest hue,
  Such is the mystery of grace,
  It seals my pardon too. 
  With pleasing grief and mournful joy,
  My spirit now is filled
  That I should such a life destroy,—­
  Yet live by Him I killed.

  WILLIAM COWPER

  From TABLE TALK

  [THE POET AND RELIGION]

  Pity Religion has so seldom found
  A skilful guide into poetic ground! 
  The flowers would spring where’er she deigned to stray,
  And every muse attend her in her way. 
  Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend,
  And many a compliment politely penned,
  But unattired in that becoming vest
  Religion weaves for her, and half undressed,
  Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn,
  A wintry figure, like a withered thorn.

  The shelves are full, all other themes are sped,
  Hackneyed and worn to the last flimsy thread;
  Satire has long since done his best, and curst
  And loathsome Ribaldry has done his worst;
  Fancy has sported all her powers away
  In tales, in trifles, and in children’s play;
  And ’tis the sad complaint, and almost true,
  Whate’er we write, we bring forth nothing new. 
  ’Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire,
  Touched with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre,
  And tell the world, still kindling as he sung,
  With more than mortal music on his tongue,
  That He who died below, and reigns above,
  Inspires the song, and that his name is Love.

  From CONVERSATION

  [THE DUBIOUS AND THE POSITIVE]

  Dubious is such a scrupulous good man,—­
  Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can. 
  He would not with a peremptory tone
  Assert the nose upon his face his own;
  With hesitation admirably slow,
  He humbly hopes—­presumes—­it may be so. 
  His evidence, if he were called by law
  To swear to some enormity he saw,
  For want of prominence and just relief,
  Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. 
  Through constant dread of giving truth offence,
  He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
  Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not;
  What he remembers seems to have forgot;
  His sole opinion, whatsoe’er befall,
  Centering at last in having none at all. 
  Yet though he tease and baulk your listening ear,
  He makes one useful point exceeding clear;
  Howe’er ingenious on his darling theme
  A sceptic in philosophy may seem,
  Reduced to practice, his beloved rule
  Would only prove him a consummate fool;
  Useless in him alike both brain and speech,
  Fate having placed all truth above his reach;
  His ambiguities his total sum,
  He might as well be blind and deaf and dumb.