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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, "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 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 '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 for ever!

ROGERS.

Sonnet.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask: But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need

"Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

"Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state

"Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

"And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

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They also serve who only stand and wait."

MILTON.

Thanatopsis.

To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-
Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around,
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,—
Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears;
Nor in the embrace of Ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock,

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet, the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.

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