Quote

Man to the last is but a froward child So eager for the future, come what may, And to the present so insensible.

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
Come
Eager
Children
Childhood
Men
Present
Child
Lasts
Last
Future
May
Insensible

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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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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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Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
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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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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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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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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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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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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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Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
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Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
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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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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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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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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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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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Then never less alone than when alone.
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