Samuel Rogers Quotes

I lived to write, and wrote to live.

Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.

Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.

Kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, As summer clouds flash forth electric fire.

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!

Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.

Almost all men are over anxious. No sooner do they enter the world than they lose that taste for natural and simple pleasures so remarkable in early life. Every hour do they ask themselves what progress they have made in the pursuit of wealth or honor and on they go as their fathers went before them till weary and sick at heart they look back with a sigh of regret to the golden time of their childhood.

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

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.

And the Sabbath bell, That over wood and wild and mountain dell Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy With sounds most musical, most melancholy.

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?

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

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.

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.

Gentle to others, to himself severe.

To know her was to love her.

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

When a new book is published, read an old one.

Then never less alone than when alone.

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.

That very law which moulds a tear And bids it trickle from its source,- That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.

A man who attempts to read all the new productions must do as the flea does,--skip.

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

Oh! she was good as she was fair. None-none on earth above her! As pure in thought as angels are, To know her was to love her.

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

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.

To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.

A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.

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

Think nothing done while aught remains to do.

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.

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

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.

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!

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!

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

It doesn't much signify whom one marries, for one is sure to find next morning that it was someone else.

Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.

By many a temple half as old as Time.

Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.