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SAMUEL ROGERS was born at Newington Green, near London, July 30, 1763, and died December 18, 1855. In 1792, he published his "Pleasures of Memory," a poem which gave him an honorable and enduring place among the poets of his country. His subsequent productions, which are not very numerous, cannot be said to have added materially to his reputation. His poetry is marked by the careful finish and grace of patient elaboration.

The following extract is from "Italy," a poem published in 1822, consisting of sketches of Italian scenery, manners, and history. Modena is a town in the northern part of Italy. Here is kept an old worm-eaten bucket, said to have been taken from the Bolognese by the Modenese, in a fight in the thirteenth century. This trophy forms the subject of a mock-heroic poem, called “The Rape of the Bucket," by Tassoni, an Italian poet of the sixteenth century. Zampieri was a celebrated painter of Bologna, (Bọ-lōn'yä,) more generally known by his first name, Domenichino, (Do̟-mā-nē-kē'-nó,) or Domenico, (Do-mā 'ne-co).]

1 If ever you should come to Modena,*

(Where among other relics you may see

Tassoni's bucket-but 't is not the true one,)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you— but, before you go,
Enter the house, — forget it not, I pray you,
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family;

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 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

* Mō'de-nä.

Dzam pe-a're.



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 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 be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.


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She was an only child-her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent father;
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 lustre of her youth, she gave

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

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* Antonio da Trento, a celebrated wood engraver, was born at Trent, in the Venetian States, about 1508.

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Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting,
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"'T is 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, embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Donati lived and long might you 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.

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Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering 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 wedding-ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, -the name of both, -


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!

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[FISHER AMES was born in Dedham, Massachusetts, April 9, 1758, and died in the same place July 4, 1808. When the federal government went into operation, he was elected the first representative of his district in Congress, and retained his seat through the whole of the administration of Washington, of whose policy and measures he was an ardent supporter. He was a very eloquent man, remarkable alike for his readiness in debate and the finished beauty of his prepared speeches. He was a copious writer upon political subjects, and his essays are remarkable for vigor of thought and brilliant and animated style. In private life Mr. Ames was one of the most amiable and delightful of men, and possessed of rare conversational powers.

The speech from which the following extract is taken was delivered in the House of Representatives, April 28, 1796, in support of a resolution in favor of passing the laws necessary for carrying into effect a treaty recently negotiated with Great Britain by Mr. Jay. By this treaty, Great Britain agreed to surrender certain posts on the western frontier, which she still held. Mr. Ames argued that the possession of these posts was essential for the preservation of the western settlers against the Indians.]

Ir any, against all these proofs, should maintain, that the peace with the Indians will be stable without the posts, to them I will urge another reply. From arguments calculated to produce conviction, I will appeal directly to the 5 hearts of those who hear me, and ask whether it is not already planted there? I resort especially to the convictions of the western gentlemen, whether, supposing no posts and no treaty, the settlers will remain in security? Can they take it upon them to say, that an Indian peace, 10 under these circumstances, will prove firm? No, sir, it will not be peace, but a sword; it will be no better than a lure to draw victims within the reach of the tomahawk.

On this theme my emotions are unutterable. If I could

find words for them, if my powers bore any proportion to my zeal, I would swell my voice to such a note of remonstrance it should reach every log-house beyond the mountains. I would say to the inhabitants, wake from your false 5 security; your cruel dangers, your more cruel apprehensions are soon to be renewed; the wounds, yet unhealed, are to be torn open again; in the daytime, your path through the woods will be ambushed; the darkness of midnight will glitter with the blaze of your dwellings. You are a 10 father—the blood of your sons shall fatten your cornfield. You are a mother— the war-whoop shall wake the sleep of the cradle.

On this subject you need not suspect any deception on your feelings; it is a spectacle of horror which cannot be 15 overdrawn. If you have nature in your hearts, they will speak a language, compared with which all I have said or can say will be poor and frigid.

Will it be whispered that the treaty has made me a new champion for the protection of the frontiers? It is known 20 that my voice, as well as vote, has been uniformly given in conformity with the ideas I have expressed. Protection is the right of the frontiers; it is our duty to give it.

Who will accuse me of wandering out of the subject? Who will say that I exaggerate the tendencies of our meas25 ures? Will any one answer by a sneer that this is all idle preaching? Will any one deny that we are bound, and I would hope to good purpose, by the most solemn sanctions of duty, for the vote we give? Are despots alone to be reproached for unfeeling indifference to the tears and blood 30 of their subjects? Are republicans irresponsible? Have the principles on which you ground the reproach upon cabinets and kings, no practical influence, no binding force? Are they merely themes of idle declamation, introduced to decorate the morality of a newspaper essay, or 35 to furnish pretty topics of harangue from the windows of that State House? I trust it is neither too presumptuous

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