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
I lived to write, and wrote to live.
Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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.
The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.
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.
By many a temple half as old as Time.
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?
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!
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.
A man who attempts to read all the new productions must do as the flea does,--skip.
Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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.