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

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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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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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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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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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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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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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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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Then never less alone than when alone.
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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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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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Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
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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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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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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.
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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
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