C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Rogers

A guardian angel o’er his life presiding,

Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.

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 dividing!

And the Sabbath bell,

That over wood and wild and mountain dell

Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy

With sounds most musical, most melancholy.

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.

Feeling hearts—touch them but lightly—pour

A thousand melodies unheard before.

For who, alas! has lived,

Nor in the watches of the night recalled

Words he has wished unsaid and deeds undone.

Generous as brave,

Affection, kindness, and the sweet offices

Of love and duty, were to him as needful

As his daily bread.

Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine

From age to age unnumber’d treasures shine!

Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,

And Place and Time are subject to thy sway!

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!

Kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire,

As summer clouds flash forth electric fire.

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!

Man to the last is but a froward child;

So eager for the future, come what may,

And to the present so insensible.

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.

Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure

That fills my bosom when I sigh,

You would not rob me of a treasure

Monarchs are too, poor to buy.

Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say,

When the rich casket shone in bright array,

“These are my Jewels!” Well of such as he,

When Jesus spake, well might the language be,

“Suffer these little ones to come to me!”

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light;

In thee the rays of Virtue shine;

More calmly clear, more mildly bright,

Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Sweet memory, wafted by the gentle gale,

Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail,

To view the fancy haunts of long-lost hours,

Blest with far greener shades, far lovelier flowers.

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.

The Good are better made by Ill,

As odors crushed are sweeter still.

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.

The soul of music slumbers in the shell,

Till wak’d and kindled by the master’s spell,

And feeling hearts—touch them but lightly—pour

A thousand melodies unheard before.

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.

Then gathering ’round his bed, they climb to share

His kisses, and with gentle violence there,

Break in upon a dream not half so fair.

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.

A man who attempts to read all the new productions must do as the flea does,—skip.

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.

As pure in thought as angels are, to know her was to love her.

Day glimmered in the east, and the white moon hung like a vapor in the cloudless sky.

Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.

Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.

Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine from age to age unnumbered treasures shine.

Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal.

Her tears her only eloquence.

Long on the wave reflected lustres play.

Looks that asked, yet dared not hope relief.

Not dead, but gone before.

That mute eloquence which passeth speech.

The good are better made by ill, as odors crushed are sweeter still!

The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing.

The soul of music slumbers in the shell, till waked and kindled by the master’s spell.

Then never less alone than when alone.

Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, and place and time are subject to thy sway.

Through the wide world he only is alone who lives not for another.

Twilight’s soft dews steal o’er the village green, with magic tints to harmonize the scene.

Vast and deep the mountain shadow grew.

What remains when hope is fled? She answered, “Endless weeping.”

When a new book comes out, I read an old one.

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.

Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.

Wouldst thou behold his monument? Look around!

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