Samuel Rogers
Samuel Rogers
Samuel Rogerswas an English poet, during his lifetime one of the most celebrated, although his fame has long since been eclipsed by his Romantic colleagues and friends Wordsworth, Coleridge and Byron. His recollections of these and other friends such as Charles James Fox are key sources for information about London artistic and literary life, with which he was intimate, and which he used his wealth to support. He made his money as a banker and was also a discriminating art...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth30 July 1763
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.
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.
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.
It doesn't much signify whom one marries, for one is sure to find next morning that it was someone else.
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.
Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.
To know her was to love her.
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!
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.
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.