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

More quotes by Samuel Rogers

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Then never less alone than when alone.
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Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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I came to the place of my birth and cried: The friends of my youth, where are they?--and an echo answered, Where are they?
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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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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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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 lived to write, and wrote to live.
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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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