A Wish.

Mine be a cot beside the hill,
A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were giv'n,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heav'n.

Samuel Rogers

Samuel Rogers was an English poet during the Romantic period. Born in 1763, he grew a reputation not for his volume of work but rather for the elegance and refinement of his poetry. His notable works include 'The Pleasures of Memory' which was well received. Rogers was also known for his role as a patron of the arts and his significant art collection. He passed away in 1855 and is often remembered more for his influence in literary circles than for his poetry itself.

Samuel Rogers

On A Tear.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

Preface to Poems By Samuel Rogers.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

An Italian Song.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

To The Butterfly.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

An Italian Song.

Dear is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my lov'd lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danc'd in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

Samuel Rogers

Wishing

Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose,
A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring!
The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The fern and moss to creep across,
And the Elm tree for our king!

Nay stay! I wish I were an Elm tree,
A great, lofty Elm tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing,
The sun and moonshine glance in,
The birds would house among the boughs,
And sweetly sing.

Oh no! I wish I were a Robin,
A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;
Through forest, field, or garden,
And ask no leave or pardon,
Till winter comes with icy thumbs
To ruffle up our wing!

Well tell! Where should I fly to,
Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?
Before a day was over,
Home comes ...

William Allingham

A Garden By The Sea.

I know a little garden-close,
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy morn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillared house is there,
And though the apple-boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God
Her feet upon the green grass trod,
And I beheld them as before.

There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the close two fair-streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar,
Drawn down unto the restless sea:
Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee,
Dark shore no ship has ever seen,
Tormented by the billows green
Whose murmur comes unceasingly
Unto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night,
For wh...

William Morris

A New Song To An Old Tune--From Victor Hugo

If a pleasant lawn there grow
    By the showers caressed,
Where in all the seasons blow
    Flowers gaily dressed,
Where by handfuls one may win
Lilies, woodbine, jessamine,
I will make a path therein
    For thy feet to rest.

If there live in honour's sway
    An all-loving breast
Whose devotion cannot stray,
    Never gloom-oppressed--
If this noble breast still wake
For a worthy motive's sake,
There a pillow I will make
    For thy head to rest.

If there be a dream of love,
    Dream that God has blest,
Yielding daily treasure-trove
    Of delightful zest,
With the scent of roses filled,
With the soul's communion thrilled,
There, oh! there a nest I'll build
    For thy heart to rest.

Robert Fuller Murray

A Wish.

Oh! that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays,
Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs,
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.
Or lie at sunset 'mid the purple heather,
Listening the silver music that rings out
From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.
Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,
While one by one the evening stars shine forth
Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens
Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!

Frances Anne Kemble

An Inscription.

Shepherd, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner,
Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst,
Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone,
Arch'd, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse,
This iron cup chain'd for the general use,
And these rude seats of earth within the grove,
Were giv'n by FATIMA. Borne hence a bride,
'Twas here she turn'd from her beloved sire,
To see his face no more. [1] Oh, if thou canst,
('Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flowers;
And may some pious hand with water fill
The two small cells scoop'd in the marble there,
That birds may come and drink upon his grave,
Making it holy! [2] ---------

Samuel Rogers