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!

Samuel Rogers

Samuel Rogers

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I lived to write, and wrote to live

— Samuel Rogers

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?"

— Samuel Rogers

To know her was to love her.

— Samuel Rogers

The Good are better made by Ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.

— Samuel Rogers

Haste is slow. [Lat., Festinatio tarda est.]

— Samuel Rogers