Quote

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!

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
Many
Links
Lulls
Hidden
Chambers
Chains
Countless
Awake
Link
Rise
Flies
Image
Stamps
Thoughts
Chamber
Myriads
Brain
Chain
Lull

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Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
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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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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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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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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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Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.
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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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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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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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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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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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Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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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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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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When a new book is published, read an old one.
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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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