She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire;
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, forever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gayety,
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum: 
And, in the luster of her youth, she gave Her hand,
with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sate down, the bride was wanting there. 
Nor was she to be found!  Her father cried,
" ’Tis but to make a trial of our love!”
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
’T was but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not!—­Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
Orsini lived; and long was to be seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find—­he knew not what. 
When he was gone, the house remained a while
Silent and tenantless—­then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
’Mid the old lumber in the gallery,
That moldering chest was noticed; and ’t was said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
“Why not remove it from its lurking place?”
’T was done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo! a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
All else had perished, save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother’s legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
“Ginevra.”—–­There then had she found a grave! 
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down forever!

Notes.—­The above selection is part of the poem, “Italy.”  Of the story Rogers says, “This story is, I believe, founded on fact; though the time and place are uncertain.  Many old houses in England lay claim to it.”

Modena is the capital of a province of the same name in northern Italy.

Bologna’s bucket.  This is affirmed to be the very bucket which Tassoni, an Italian poet, has celebrated in his mock heroics as the cause of a war between Bologna and Modena.