# Sentimental reciter/Ginevra

GINEVRA.
If ever you should come to Modena, (Where, among other relics, you may see Tassoni’s bucket—but ’tis 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 numerous fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you; but, before you go,
​Enter the house—forget it not, I pray you— And look a while upon a picture there: 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family. He who observes it, ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up 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, Broider’d with flowers, and clasp’d from head to foot, 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, tho’ many a year has fled, Like some wild melody!
Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heir-loom; its companion An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Anthony 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 false or true— But don’t forget the picture; and you will not, When you hear the tale they told me there. 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 youth, 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; 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 nuptial feast,
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting; Nor was she to be found!—Her father cried, “’Tis but to make a trial of our love! ” And fill’d his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
​’Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, but flying still; Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas! she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could any thing be guess’d, 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 after you might 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 a while Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers. 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.’Twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, “Why not remove it from its lurking-place?” ’Twas 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 perish’d, save a wedding-ring And a small seal, her mother’s legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both— “Ginevra.”
There 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.