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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.

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
Ease
Please
Hours
Happiness
Fireside
Blest
Charm
Certainty

More quotes by Samuel Rogers

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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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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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Then never less alone than when alone.
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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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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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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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When a new book is published, read an old one.
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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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A man who attempts to read all the new productions must do as the flea does,--skip.
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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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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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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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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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Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.
Samuel Rogers
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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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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
Samuel Rogers