Quote

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.

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
Cherubs
Life
Wish
Ears
Infancy
Born
Asking
Grant
Pang
Fear
Drink
Grants
Balm
Comes
Rest
Presses
Bosom
Mother
Child
Press
Arrives
Cherub
Moments
Hours
Hour
Drinks
Endear
Many
Eye
Cry
Bosoms
Clasps
Children
Moment
Caught
Drops

More quotes by Samuel Rogers

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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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A man who attempts to read all the new productions must do as the flea does,--skip.
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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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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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Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.
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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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Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
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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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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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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
Samuel Rogers
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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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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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.
Samuel Rogers
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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.
Samuel Rogers
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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.
Samuel Rogers