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University of Virginia Library

The poetical works of Samuel Rogers

with a memoir by Edward Bell

Rogers, Samuel (1763-1855)

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[Oh could my mind, unfolded in my page]

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THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

I.

II.

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AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

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THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS.

INSCRIBED ON THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.

I.

CANTO I. NIGHT—COLUMBUS ON THE ATLANTIC—THE VARIATION OF THE COMPASS, &C.

II.

CANTO II. THE VOYAGE CONTINUED.

III.

CANTO III. AN ASSEMBLY OF EVIL SPIRITS.

IV.

CANTO IV. THE VOYAGE CONTINUED.

V.

CANTO V. THE VOYAGE CONTINUED.

VI.

CANTO VI. THE FLIGHT OF AN ANGEL OF DARKNESS.

VII.

CANTO VII. A MUTINY EXCITED.

VIII.

CANTO VIII. LAND DISCOVERED.

IX.

CANTO IX. THE NEW WORLD.

X.

CANTO X. CORA—LUXURIANT VEGETATION—THE HUMMING-BIRD—THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.

XI.

CANTO XI. EVENING—A BANQUET—THE GHOST OF CAZZIVA.

XII.

CANTO XII. A VISION.

[Thy lonely watch-tower, Larenille]

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I.

II.

III.

ODE TO SUPERSTITION.

AN ITALIAN SONG.

THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK.

WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.

TO TWO SISTERS.

TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.

WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.

FROM EURIPIDES.

FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET.

FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

TO THE YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY ---

TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST.

TO THE BUTTERFLY.

TO THE FRAGMENT OF A STATUE OF HERCULES,

AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.

THE BOY OF EGREMOND.

WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND

AN INSCRIPTION IN THE CRIMEA.

AN INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE DEDICATED TO THE GRACES.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET.

WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

WRITTEN AT DROPMORE,

WRITTEN AT STRATHFIELD SAYE.

WRITTEN IN JULY, 1834.

WRITTEN IN 1834.

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THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

THE GREAT ST. BERNARD.

MARGUERITE DE TOURS.

ST. MARK'S PLACE.

THE BRIDES OF VENICE.

THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE.

THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME.

THE ROMAN PONTIFFS.

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WRITTEN AT DROPMORE,

July, 1831.

Grenville, to thee my gratitude is due
For many an hour of studious musing here,
For many a day-dream, such as hovered round
Hafiz or Sadi; thro' the golden East,
Search where we would, no fairer bowers than these,
Thine own creation; where, called forth by thee,
“Flowers worthy of Paradise, with rich inlay,
Broider the ground,” and every mountain-pine
Elsewhere unseen (his birth-place in the clouds,
His kindred sweeping with majestic march
From cliff to cliff along the snowy ridge
Of Caucasus, or nearer yet the Moon)
Breathes heavenly music.—Yet much more I owe
For what so few, alas, can hope to share,
Thy converse; when, among thy books reclined,
Or in thy garden-chair that wheels its course

183

Slowly and silently thro' sun and shade,
Thou speak'st, as ever thou art wont to do,
In the calm temper of philosophy;
—Still to delight, instruct, whate'er the theme.