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
A man who attempts to read all the new productions must do as the flea does,--skip.
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.
Man to the last is but a froward child; So eager for the future, come what may, And to the present so insensible.
Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
Kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, As summer clouds flash forth electric fire.
Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.
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 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.
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.