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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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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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Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.
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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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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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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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Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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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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A man who attempts to read all the new productions must do as the flea does,--skip.
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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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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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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 lived to write, and wrote to live.
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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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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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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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