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
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.
Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.
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!
Feeling hearts--touch them but lightly--pour A thousand melodies unheard before.
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.
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.