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

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Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
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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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Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.
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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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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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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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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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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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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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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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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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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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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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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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When a new book is published, read an old one.
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Then never less alone than when alone.
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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
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