since since I fell into hell," she said in a low, hoarse tone, and printing a passionate kiss on Annie's hand, she blew out her light, and vanished in the darkness. It seemed to swallow her up and become a type of the mystery and fate that enshrouded the forlorn creature. Beyond the bare fact that she took the train the following morning with the man she called "Vight," Annie never heard of her again. Still there was hope for the wretched wanderer. However dark and hidden her paths, the eyes of a merciful God ever followed her, and to that God Annie prayed often in her behalf. SAMUEL ROGERS. ROGERS, SAMUEL, an English poet, born at Stoke Newington, July 30, 1763; died at London, December 18, 1855. His father was an eminent banker, who, dying in 1793, left an ample fortune to his son. Ten years afterward Rogers established his residence in London, and his "breakfasts were for half a century frequented by all men noted in literature and art who could obtain an invitation to them. Rogers commenced writing in the "Gentleman's Magazine" at the age of eighteen. His principal poems are "The Pleasures of Memory" (1792); "Jacqueline," published in the same volume with Byron's "Lara" (1814); “ Human Life" (1819); "Italy" (Part I., 1821; Part II., 1834). His last, longest, and most interesting work is "Italy." He also, from time to time, put forth small volumes of Poems. 66 GINEVRA. (From "Italy.") Ir 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), Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, Will long detain thee; through their arched walks, Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight Read only part that day. A summer sun Enter the house-prithee, forget it not- "Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The very last of an illustrious race, Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care not. She sits, inclining forward as to speak, As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, With Scripture stories from the life of Christ; That by the way, it may be true or false, – That precious gift, what else remained to him? Still as she grew, forever in his sight: Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. |