Samuel Rogers

Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,—not dead, but gone before,— He gathers round him.

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!

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

Across the threshold led, And every tear kissed off as soon as shed, His house she enters, there to be a light, Shining within, when all without is night; A guardian angel o’er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares …

The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.

True as the echo to the sound.

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.

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

Thou first, best friend that Heav'n assigns below To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know.

When nature pleas'd, for life itself was new, And the heart promis'd what the fancy drew.

Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears ! The red-cross squadrons madly rage, And mow thro' infancy and age

Hence, to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence! Thy chain of adamant can bind That little world, the human mind, And sink its noblest powers to impotence.

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

To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.

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.

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.

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.