Quote

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.

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
Care
Treasure
Find
Structure
Foundation
Perishing
Raised
Frailty
Materials
Frail
Lasts
Imaginary
Happiness
Laid
Last
Sand

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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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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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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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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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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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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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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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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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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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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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Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
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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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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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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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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.
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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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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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