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

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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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Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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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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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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When a new book is published, read an old one.
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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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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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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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Then never less alone than when alone.
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Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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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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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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Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
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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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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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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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