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an English poet, during his lifetime one of the most celebrated, although his fame has long since been eclipsed by his Romantic colleagues and friends Wordsworth, Coleridge and Byron. His recollections of these and other friends such as Charles James Fox are key sources for information about London artistic and literary life, with which he was intimate, and which he used his wealth to support. He made his money as a banker and was also a discriminating art collector. His literary production remained slow. An Epistle to a Friend (the above-mentioned Conversation Sharp), published in 1798, describes Rogers's ideal of a happy life. This was followed by The Voyage of Columbus (1810), and by Jacqueline (1814), a narrative poem, written in the four-accent measure of the newer writers, and published in the same volume with Byron's Lara. His reflective poem on Human Life (1819), on which he had been engaged for twelve years, is written in his earlier manner. In 1814 Rogers made a tour on the Continent with his sister Sarah. He travelled through Switzerland to Italy, keeping a full diary of events and impressions, and had made his way to Naples when the news of Napoleon's escape from Elba obliged him to hurry home. Seven years later he returned to Italy, paying a visit to Byron and Shelley at Pisa. Out of the earlier of these tours arose his last and longest work, Italy. The first part was published anonymously in 1822; the second, with his name attached, in 1828. It was at first a failure, but Rogers was determined to make it a success. He enlarged and revised the poem, and commissioned illustrations from J.M.W. Turner, Thomas Stothard and Samuel Prout. These were engraved on steel in the sumptuous edition of 1830. The book then proved a great success, and Rogers followed it up with an equally sumptuous edition of his Poems (1834). In 1850, on Wordsworth's death, Rogers was asked to succeed him as poet laureate, but declined the honour on account of his age. For the last five years of his life he was confined to his chair in consequence of a fall in the street. He died in London, and is buried in the family tomb in the churchyard of St Mary's Church, Hornsey High Street, Haringey .)
As thro' the hedge-row shade the violet steals, And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals; Her softer charms, but by their influence known, Surprise all hearts, and mould them to h…
Once more, enchanting girl, adieu! I must be gone while yet I may, Oft shall I weep to think of you; But here I will not, cannot stay.…
Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said, When piping winds are hushed around, A small note wakes from the underground, Where now his tiny bones are laid.…
Approach with reverence. There are those within, Whose dwelling-place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove, From them flow all the decencies of Life; Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's…
These are the groves a grateful people gave For noblest service; and from age to age, May they, to such as come with listening ear, Relate the story! Sacred is their shade;…
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…
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.…
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.…
While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, See, to the last, last verge her infant steals! O fly - yet stir not, speak not, lest it…
Love, under Friendship's vesture white, Laughs, his little limbs concealing; And oft in sport, and oft in spite, Like pity meets the dazzled sight,…
There is a streamlet issuing from a rock. The village-girls singing wild madrigals, Dip their white vestments in its waters clear, And hang them to the sun. There first I saw her;…
Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees; And all, who know it, come and come again. The small birds build there; and, at summer-noon, Oft have I heard a child, gay among the flow…
The lark has sung his carol in the sky; The bees have hummed their noon-tide lullaby; Still in the vale the village-bells ring round, Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound:…
I love to sail along the Larian Lake Under the shore -- though not to visit Pliny, To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk, Or fishing, as he might be, from his window:…
The song was one that I had heard before, But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness; And, turning round from the delicious fare My landlord's little daughter Barbara…
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