Quote

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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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
Hills
Brook
Near
Linger
Ears
Mill
Mines
Mills
Mine
Brooks
Shall
Hill
Hive
Turns
Beside
Soothe
Fall
Bees
Hives

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Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.
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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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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 lived to write, and wrote to live.
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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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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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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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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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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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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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Then never less alone than when alone.
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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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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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When a new book is published, read an old one.
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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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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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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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