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

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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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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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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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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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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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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 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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A man who attempts to read all the new productions must do as the flea does,--skip.
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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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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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Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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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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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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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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When a new book is published, read an old one.
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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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Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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