SAMUEL ROGERS was born in London, July 80, 1763. After receiving a careful education, he was placed in his father's bank, where he became familiar with the business and followed it for many years. He travelled extensively on the Continent, and made a large collection of pictures and art curiosities. After retiring from business, he lived in elegant leisure in St. James Place, and gave breakfasts which are said to have been more celebrated than his poems. In 1786 he published "An Ode to Superstition, and other Poems;" which was followed in 1792 by "The Pleasures of Memory," his best poem, and the one on which chiefly his fame must In 1812 he published "Columbus," a poem in fragments, some passages of which are fine; in 1814 "Jacqueline" in a volume with

rest.

Byron's "Lara;" in 1819 "Human Life," a didactic poem of moderate merit, and in 1822 "Italy." The last named consists of short, unconnected passages, some in prose and the others in blank verse, descriptive, narrative, or meditative, for the most part rather tame. In 1836 he issued an illustrated edition of it, the plates for which are said to have cost £10,000.

Rogers was small in person, with a very unattractive face, and never married. Though all his life possessed of an ample fortune, he is not known to have exercised any generosity which cost money-in fact, some of his dealings with artists and authors were simply contemptible. He died on December 18, 1855, the oldest of British poets. His "Table-Talk was published after his death.

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

PART I.

TWILIGHT'S Soft dews steal o'er the village green,
With magic tints to harmonize the scene.
Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke,
When round the ruins of their ancient oak
The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play,
And games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more
With treasured tales, and legendary lore.
All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.
All, all are fled; yet still I linger here!
What secret charms this silent spot endear!
Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.
That casement arch'd with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd.
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown

court,

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 reveal'd, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest: Long may the ruin spare its hollow'd guest! As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! O haste, unfold the hospitable hall! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly bung,

Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;

VOL. II.-1

When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweeten'd every meal with social glee.
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest,
And all was sunshine in each little breast.
'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound;
And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round.
'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring;
And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing.
Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear;
And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear.
Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood,
Or view'd the forest feats of Robin Hood:
Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower;
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep,
Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its
sleep.

Ye household deities! whose guardian eve
Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high;
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,
And breathe the soul of inspiration round.
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feeling of a friend.
The storied arras, source of fond delight,
With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight;
And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest,
On the dim window glows the pictured crest.
The screen unfolds its many-color'd chart,
The clock still points its moral to the heart.
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear,
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near;
And has its sober hand, its simple chime,
Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of time?
That massive beam, with curious carvings
wrought,

Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought;