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Then never less alone than when alone.

Samuel Rogers

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Samuel Rogers
Age: 92 †
Born: 1763
Born: July 30
Died: 1855
Died: December 18
Banker
Poet
Writer
Author of an Ode to superstition
S Rogers
Saml Rogers
Solitude
Alone
Less
Never

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Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.
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Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day.
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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.
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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
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Go! you may call it madness, folly You shall not chase my gloom away! There 's such a charm in melancholy I would not if I could be gay.
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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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The soul of music slumbers in the shell Till waked and kindled by the master's spell And feeling hearts, touch them but rightly, pour A thousand melodies unheard before!
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When a new book is published, read an old one.
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A man who attempts to read all the new productions must do as the flea does,--skip.
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I am in Rome! Oft as the morning ray Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me? And from within a thrilling voice replies, Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts Rush on my mind, a thousand images And I spring up as girt to run a race!
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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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Man to the last is but a froward child So eager for the future, come what may, And to the present so insensible.
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It doesn't much signify whom one marries, for one is sure to find next morning that it was someone else.
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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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Mine be a cot beside the hill A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.
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