And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chas'd the slipper by the sound; And turned the blindfold hero round and round. 'Twas here, at eve, we formed 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 wandered in the wood, Or view'd the forest-feats of Robin Hood: Oft, fancy led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scal'd 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 eye 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 feelings 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 pictur'd crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heav'n to hear! When soft it spoke a promis'd 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 sooth'd my pensive thought; Those muskets cas'd with venerable rust;

Those once-lov'd forms, still breathing thro' the dust, Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast,

Starting

to life-all whisper of the past!

As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,

We watched the linnet to her grainy rest;
Welcom'd the wild-bee home on weary wing,
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the Spring!
How oft inscrib'd, with friendship's votive rhyme,
The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time;
Soar'd in the swing, half pleas'd and half afraid,
Thro' sister elms that wav'd their summer-shade;
Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

Childhood's lov'd group revisits every scene, The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! Indulgent Memory wakes, and, lo! they live! Cloth'd with far softer hues than Light can give. Thou last, best friend that Heav'n 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 prccept, and the poet's song. What soften'd 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 temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd Glance on the darken'd mirror of the wind.

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 form'd, and cherish'd here! And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions and romantic dreams!

Here are a few of the many quotable couplets to be found, farther on, in "The Pleasures of Memory":

In Friendship's silent register ye live,
Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give.

He bends to meet the artless burst of joy,
Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.

Oft has the aged tenant of the vale
Lean'd on his staff to lengthen out his Tale.

His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each,
With that mute eloquence which passes speech.

To meet the changes Time and Chance present,
With modest dignity and calm content.

There are also many happy phrases in the poem, as, for example:

A vista's moonlight-checquered shade,

Where the bat circled and the rooks reposed.
The fairy-haunts of long-lost hours.

Hope's delusive meteors,

The coinage of the fever'd brain.

The poem formally concludes with:

Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine
From age to age unnumber'd 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,

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 wondrous 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!

As the poem moves gently on to its close, the moralist-in-verse leaves with us a number of quotable passages, such as these:

Through the wide world he only is alone
Who lives not for another. Come what will,
The generous man has his companion still.

But there are moments which he calls his own.
Then, never less alone than when alone,
Those that he loved so long and sees no more,
Loved and still loves-not dead-but gone before,
He gathers round him; and revives at will

Scenes in his life-that breathe enchantment still.

In 1822, there came to Rogers, then fifty-nine years old, a delightfully "soft second summer." The warmth of the South and the atmosphere of old associations quickened the pulsations of his heart, and the product of this rejuvenation is the first part of his "Italy," a poem in blank verse which, well begun, continued to occupy his mind during the remaining years of his long life.

The dominant note of the poem is one of joy. Catch the youthful enthusiasm of these lines: