Poems [the poetical works of S.Rogers].

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Page 232 - I began thus far to assent both to them and divers of my friends here at home ; and not less to an inward prompting which now grew daily upon me, that by labour and intent study, which I take to be my portion in- this life, joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after-times, as they should not willingly let it die.
Page 231 - I wis all their sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleasure that I find in Plato. Alas, good folk, they never felt what true pleasure meant.
Page 225 - O eloquent, just, and mighty Death ! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded ; what none hath dared, thou hast done ; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised ; thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hie jacet...
Page 224 - Cabrieres which till then he neglected it is therefore Death alone that can suddenly make man to know himself he tells the proud and insolent that they are but abjects and humbles them at the instant makes them cry complain and repent yea even to hate their...
Page 230 - Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honour the face of the old man, and fear thy God : I am the LORD.
Page 27 - SWEET MEMORY, wafted by thy 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. Ages and climes remote to Thee impart What charms in Genius, and refines in Art ; Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell, The pensive portress of her holy cell ; Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp.
Page 258 - The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower' that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue. The village-church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.
Page 276 - 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.
Page 233 - 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...
Page 129 - Twas the hour of day When setting suns o'er summer seas display A path of glory opening in the west To golden climes and islands of the blest; And human voices, on the silent air, Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there...

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