Quote

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!

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
Masters
Spell
Slumbers
Thousand
Shells
Kindled
Feeling
Spells
Melodies
Feelings
Melody
Unheard
Soul
Till
Slumber
Music
Master
Pour
Heart
Touch
Shell
Hearts
Rightly
Waked

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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
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Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
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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 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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Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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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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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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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.
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