Samuel Rogers Quotes

I lived to write, and wrote to live.

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.

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

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

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

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.

Then never less alone than when alone.

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!

Gentle to others, to himself severe.

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

To know her was to love her.

Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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?

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!

By many a temple half as old as Time.

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.

To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.

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.