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There is a poetry of taste as well as of the passions, which can only be relished by the intellectual classes, but is capable of imparting exquisite pleasure to those who have the key to its hidden mysteries. It is somewhat akin to that delicate appreciation of the fine arts, or of music, which in some men amounts to almost a new sense. MR SAMUEL Rogers, author of the Pleasures of Memory, may be considered a votary of this school of refinement. We have everywhere in his works a classic and graceful beauty; no slovenly or obscure lines; fine cabinet pictures of soft and mellow lustre; and occasionally trains of thought and association that awaken or recall tender and heroic feelings. His diction is clear and polished—finished with great care and scrupulous nicety. On the other hand, it

must be admitted that he has no forcible or otiginal

invention, no deep pathos that thrills the soul, and no kindling energy that fires the imagination. In his shadowy poem of Columbus, he seems often to verge on the sublime, but does not attain it. His late works are his best. Parts of Human Life possess deeper feeling than are to be found in the “Pleasures of Memory;' and in the easy half conversational sketches of his Italy, there are delightful glimpses of Italian life, and scenery, and old traditions. The poet was an accomplished traveller, a lover of the fair and good, and a worshipper of the classic glories of the past. The life of Mr Rogers has been as calm and felicitous as his poetry: he has for more than half a century maintained his lace in our national literature. He was born at ewington Green, a village now included in the growing vastness of London, in the year 1762. His father (well-known and respected among the dissenters) was a banker by profession; and the poet, after a careful private education, was introduced into the banking establishment, of which he is still a partner. He was fixed in his determination of becoming a poet by the perusal of Beattie's Minstrel, when he was only nine years of age. His boyish enthusiasm led him also to sigh for an interview with Dr Johnson, and to attain this, he twice presented himself at the door of Johnson's well-known house in Bolt Court, Fleet Street. On the first occasion the great moralist was not at home; and the second time, after he had rung the bell, the heart of the young aspirant misgave him, and he retreated without waiting for the servant. Rogers

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In 1819 appeared “Human Life,' and in 1822 “Italy,’ | a descriptive poem in blank verse. The collected

works of Mr Rogers have been published in various | forms—one of them containing vignette engravings || from designs by Stothard, and forming no inconsiderable trophy of British art. The poet has been enabled to cultivate his favourite tastes, to enrich his house in St James's Place with some of the

House of Mr Rogers in St James's Place.

finest and rarest pictures, busts, books, and gems, and to entertain his friends with a generous and unostentatious hospitality. His conversation is rich and various, abounding in wit, eloquence, shrewd observation, and interesting personal anecdote. He has been familiar with almost every distinguished author, orator, and artist for the last forty years. Perhaps no single individual has had so many works dedicated to him as memorials of friendship or admiration. It is gratifying to mention, that his benevolence is equal to his taste: his bounty soothed and relieved the deathbed of Sheridan, and is now exerted to a large extent, annually, in behalf of suffering or unfriended talent.

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Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractured pediment revealed,
Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield,
The martin's old hereditary nest.
Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest!

+

+ + Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades and life forgets to charm; Thee would the Muse invoke!—to thee belong The sage's precept and the poet's song. What softened views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Long on the wave reflected lustres play; Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned, Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant feet across the lawn: Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished here;

And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems

With golden visions and romantic dreams.

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The gipsy's fagot—there we stood and gazed; Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, Her tattered mantle and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her cauldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps in the barn with mousing owlets bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest

shade,

When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed:

| And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call,

Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall.
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And traced the line of life with searching view,
How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears,
To learn the colour of my future years!
Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast;
This truth once known—to bless is to be blest!
We led the bending beggar on his way
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray),
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt:
As in his scrip we dropt our little store,
And sighed to think that little was no more,
He breathed his prayer, “Long may such goodness live!”
'Twas all he gave—'twas all he had to give.

Survey the globe, each ruder realin explore; From Reason's faintest ray to Newton soar.

What different spheres to human bliss assigned!
What slow gradations in the scale of mind!
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought;
Oh mark the sleepless energies of thought !
The adventurous boy that asks his little share,
And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer,
Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see
The dear abode of peace and privacy;
And as he turns, the thatch among the trees,
The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze,
The village-common spotted white with sheep,
The churchyard yews round which his fathers sleep;
All rouse Reflection's sadly pleasing train,
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again.
So, when the mild Tupia dared explore
Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before,
And, with the sons of Science, wooed the gale
That, rising, swelled their strange expanse of sail;
So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu,
Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe,
And all his soul best loved—such tears he shed,
While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled.
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast,
Long watched the streaming signal from the mast;
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye,
And fairy forests fringed the evening sky.
So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawned the day,
Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away.
Her eyes had blessed the beacon's glimmering height,
That faintly tipped the feathery surge with light;
But now the morn with orient hues portrayed
Each castled cliff and brown monastic shade:
All touched the talisman's resistless spring,
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing!
Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire,
As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire.
And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth,
Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth.
Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the patriot's
sigh;
This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate
Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate,
When exile wore his blooming years away,
To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey,
When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause,
For this he roused her sanguinary laws;
Glad to return, though Hope could grant no more,
And chains and torture hailed him to the shore.
And hence the charm historic scenes impart;
Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart.
Aérial forms in Tempe's classic vale
Glance through the gloom and whisper in the gale;
In wild Waucluse with love and Laura dwell,
And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell.
'Twas ever thus. Young Ammon, when he sought
Where Ilium stood, and where Pelides fought,
Sat at the helm himself. No meaner hand
Steered through the waves, and when he struck the
land,
Such in his soul the ardour to explore,
Pelides-like, he leaped the first ashore.
'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb
We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom:
So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of Time,
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime;
When at his feet in honoured dust disclosed,
The immortal sage of Syracuse reposed.
And as he long in sweet delusion hung
Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung;
Who now but meets him musing, when he roves
His ruined Tusculan's romantic groves
In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll
His moral thunders o'er the subject soul?
And hence that calm delight the portrait gives:
We gaze on every feature till it lives!

Still the fond lover sees the absent maid; And the lost friend still lingers in his shade 1 Say why the pensive widow loves to weep, When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep: Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace The father's features in his infant face. The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away, Won by the raptures of a game at play; He bends to meet each artless burst of joy, Forgets his age, and acts again the boy. What though the iron school of war erase Each milder virtue, and each softer grace; What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast; Still shall this active principle preside, And wake the tear to Pity's self denied. The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, Condemned to climb his mountain-cliffs no more, If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled, Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs. Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm: Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm? Why great Navarre, when France and freedom bled, Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed? When Dioclesian's self-corrected mind The imperial fasces of a world resigned, Say why we trace the labours of his spade In calm Salona's philosophic shade? Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne, To muse with monks unlettered and unknown, What from his soul the parting tribute drew : What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu? The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppressed. Undamped by time, the generous Instinct glows Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows; Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest, On every form of varied life impressed. The social tribes its choicest influence hail : And when the drum beats briskly in the gale, The war-worn courser charges at the sound, And with young vigour wheels the pasture round. Oft has the aged tenant of the vale | Leaned on his staff to lengthen out the tale; Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed, From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, And on the scathed oak warred the winter-wind; When not a distant taper's twinkling ray Gleamed o'er the furze to light him on his way; When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear, And the big rain-drops told the tempest near; Then did his horse the homeward track descry, The track that shunned his sad inquiring eye; And win each wavering purpose to relent, With warmth so mild, so gently violent, That his charmed hand the careless rein resigned, And doubts and terrors vanished from his mind. Recall the traveller, whose altered form Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm; And who will first his fond impatience meet His faithful dog's already at his feet! Yes, though the porter spurn him from the door, Though all that knew him know his face no more, His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each, With that mute eloquence which passes speech. And see, the master but returns to die Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly? The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of earth, The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth, These, when to guard Misfortune's sacred grave, Will firm Fidelity exult to brave. Led by what chart, transports the timid dove The wreaths of conquest or the vows of love?

Say, through the clouds what compass points her

flight? Monarchs have gazed, and nations blessed the sight. Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise, Eclipse her native shades, her native skies: 'Tis vain! through ether's pathless wild she goes, . And lights at last where all her cares repose.

Sweet bird! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attest,

And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. -
When, with the silent energy of grief,
With looks that asked, yet dared not hope relief,
Want with her babes round generous Waiour clung, |
To wring the slow surrender from his tongue,
'Twas thine to animate her closing eye;
Alas! 'twas thine perchance the first to die, |
Crushed by her meagre hand when welcomed from the

sky.

Hä the bee winds her small but mellow horn, Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course, And many a stream allures her to its source. 'Tis noon—'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind; Its orb so full, its vision so confined : Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell? With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue | Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she flew | Hail, Memory, hail! thy universal reign Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. * + +

As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower t Awes us less deeply in its morning-hour, Than when the shades of Time serenely fall On every broken arch and ivied wall; The tender images we love to trace Steal from each year a melancholy grace! And as the sparks of social love expand, As the heart opens in a foreign land; And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, The stranger greets each native of his isle; So scenes of life, when present and confest, Stamp but their bolder features on the breast; Yet not an image, when remotely viewed, However trivial, and however rude, But wins the heart, and wakes the social sig With every claim of close affinity

* + +

Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine From age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And Place and Time are subject to thy sway ! Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone; The only pleasures we can call our own. Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; If but a beam of sober Reason play, Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, Pour round her path a stream of living light; And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, , Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest

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The lark has sung his carol in the sky,
The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby;
Still in the vale the village bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn hall the jests resound;
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ;
The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine;
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
"Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
‘’Twas on her knees he sat so oft and smiled.”
And soon again shall music swell the breeze;
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Westures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,
And violets scattered round; and old and young,
In every cottage-porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene,
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side,
Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride.
And once, alas! nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weeping heard where only joy has been ;
When, by his children borne, and from his door,
Slowly departing to return no more,
He rests in holy earth with them that went before.
And such is human life; so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone !
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full, methinks, of wild and wonderous change,
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretched in the desert round their evening fire;
As any sung of old, in hall or bower,
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour !
* * *

The day arrives, the moment wished and feared; The child is born, by many a pang endeared, And now the mother's ear has caught his cry; Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye! He comes—she clasps him. To her bosom pressed,

He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.

Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows! How soon by his the glad discovery shows! As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy! He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard. And ever, ever to her lap he flies, When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung

t name most dear for ever on his tongue),

As with soft accents round her neck he clings, And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings, How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart; Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!

But soon a nobler task demands her care. Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, Telling of Him who sees in secret there ! And now the volume on her knee has caught His wandering eye—now many a written thought Never to die, with many a lisping sweet, His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.

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(Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray
Enters the soul and makes the darkness day!)
‘Pedro ! Rodrigo! there methought it shone
There—in the west and now, alas! 'tis gone —
'Twas all a dream we gaze and gaze in vain
But mark and speak not, there it comes again!
It moves l—what form unseen, what being there
With torch-like lustre fires the murky air?
His instincts, passions, say, how like our own
Oh! when will day reveal a world unknown o'
Long on the deep the mists of morning lay,
Then rose, revealing as they rolled away
Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods
Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods:
And say, when all, to holy transport given,
Embraced and wept as at the gates of Heaven,
When one and all of us, repentant, ran,
And, on our faces, blessed the wondrous man;
Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies
Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies?
“Glory to God!” unnumbered voices sung,
“Glory to God!’ the vales and mountains rung,
Voices that hailed creation's primal morn,
And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born.
Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore
The sacred cross, and, kneeling, kissed the shore.
But what a scene was there ! Nymphs of romance,
Youths graceful as the fawn, with eager glance,
Spring from the glades, and down the alleys peep,
Then headlong rush, bounding from steep to steep,
And clap their hands, exclaiming as they run,
* Come and behold the Children of the Sun ''
When hark, a signal shot | The voice, it came
Over the sea in darkness and in flame !
They saw, they heard; and up the highest hill,
As in a picture, all at once were still !
Creatures so fair, in garments strangely wrought,
From citadels, with Heaven's own thunder fraught,
Checked their light footsteps—statue-like they
stood
As worshipped forms, the Genii of the Wood |
At length the spell dissolves | The warrior's lance
Rings on the tortoise with wild dissonance!
And see, the regal plumes, the couch of states
Still where it moves the wise in council wait!
See now borne forth the monstrous mask of gold,
And ebon chair of many a serpent-fold;
These now exchanged for gifts that thrice surpass
The wondrous ring, and lamp, and horse of brass.
What long-drawn tube transports the gazer home,
Kindling with stars at noon the ethereal dome!
'Tis here: and here circles of solid light
Charm with another self the cheated sight;
As man to man another self disclose,
That now with terror starts, with triumph glows
Then Cora came, the youngest of her race,
And in her hands she hid her lovely face;
Yet oft by stealth a timid glance she cast,
And now with playful step the mirror passed,
Each bright reflection brighter than the last !
And oft behind it flew, and oft before;
The more she searched, pleased and perplexed the
more l
And looked and laughed, and blushed with quick
surprise!
Her lips all mirth, all ecstacy her eyes!
But soon the telescope attracts her view;
And lo, her lover in his light canoe
Rocking, at noontide, on the silent sea,
Before her lies It cannot, cannot be.
Late as he left the shore, she lingered there,
Till, less and less, he melted into airl
Sigh after sigh steals from her gentle frame,
And say—that murmur—was it not his name 1
She turns, and thinks, and, lost in wild amaze,
Gazes again, and could for ever gazel

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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 arched 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 spring-time, as alone they sat,
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.
'Tis 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 mouldering heir-loom, 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 ancestor.

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.
She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever 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 gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite 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 lustre 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 sat 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.
'Twas 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 mightst thou have 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 awhile
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 mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
‘Why not remove it from its lurking place?
‘Twas 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,
'astened her down for ever!

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