Samuel Rogers (1763 – 1855)
English poet.
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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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!
The good are better made by ill,
As odours crushed are sweeter still.
Then never less alone than when alone.
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.
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall, shall linger near.
Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it:
He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.
Those that he loved so long and sees no more,
Loved and still loves,—not dead, but gone before,—
He gathers round him.
A guardian angel o'er his life presiding,
Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
Fireside happiness, to hours of ease
Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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.
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.
Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
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