Samuel Rogers Quotes

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?

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.

Sweet memory, wafted by the gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail,
To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours,
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.

I lived to write, and wrote to live.

Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.

Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.

Feeling hearts
touch them but lightly
pour
A thousand melodies unheard before.

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!

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.

Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.

By many a temple half as old as Time.

Man to the last is but a froward child;
So eager for the future, come what may,
And to the present so insensible.

Think nothing done while aught remains to do.

Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.

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.

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!

But the day is spent;
And stars are kindling in the firmament,
To us how silent
though like ours, perchance,
Busy and full of life and circumstance.

Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.

Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.

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.

Paris strikes the vulgar part of us infinitely the most, but to a thinking mind London is incomparably the most delightful subject for contemplation.

The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.