XCV.  GINEVRA. (340)

Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855, was the son of a London banker, and, in company with his father, followed the banking business for some years.  He began to write at an early age, and published his “Pleasures of Memory,” perhaps his most famous work, in 1792.  The next year his father died, leaving him an ample fortune.  He now retired from business and established himself in an elegant house in St. James’s Place.  This house was a place of resort for literary men during fifty years.  In 1822 he published his longest poem, “Italy,” after which he wrote but little.  He wrote with care, spending, as he said, nine years on the “Pleasures of Memory,” and sixteen on “Italy.”  “His writings are remarkable for elegance of diction, purity of taste, and beauty of sentiment.”  It is said that he was very agreeable in conversation and manners, and benevolent in his disposition; but he was addicted to ill-nature and satire in some of his criticisms. ###

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Modena,—­where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies, is preserved
Bologna’s bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),—­
Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their arche’d walks,
Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames such as in old romance,
And lovers such as in heroic song,—­
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the springtime, as alone they sate,
Venturing together on a tale of love. 
Read only part that day.—­A summer sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house—­prithee, forget it not—­
And look awhile upon a picture there.

’T is of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri—­but by whom I care not. 
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,
As though she said, “Beware!” her vest of gold,
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.  But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart,—­
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs
Over a moldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With scripture stories from the life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestors—­
That, by the way, it may be true or false—­
But don’t forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.