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Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.

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
Memory
Sweet
Memories
Wafted
Turn
Gale
Turns
Stream
Time
Sail
Streams
Gentle

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Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.
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Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
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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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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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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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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd, The child is born by many a pang endear'd And now the mother's ear has caught his cry O grant the cherub to her asking eye! He comes--she clasps him. To her bosom press'd He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.
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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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When with care we have raised an imaginary treasure of happiness, we find at last that the materials of the structure are frail and perishing, and the foundation itself is laid in the sand.
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Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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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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Then never less alone than when alone.
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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies!
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When a new book is published, read an old one.
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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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