Though the poem entitled _The Pleasures of Memory_ made his fame, a later descriptive poem, embodying the gleanings from a trip in Italy, is perhaps better known; and it enjoys the distinction of having been illustrated and printed at a cost of $70,000 of the banker's money. Fragments of that poem you must know; the story of Ginevra, perhaps, best of all; so daintily told that it is likely to live and be cherished as long as any of the bric-à-brac which the banker poet gathered in his travels. 'Tis a story of a picture that he saw--a "lady in her earliest youth." {308} "She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up As though she said--Beware! Her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp, And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls.... Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worms. * * * * * Just as she looks there in her bridal dress She was all gentleness and gaiety. * * * * * 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 "'Tis 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. 'Twas 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 mightest thou have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something-- Something he could not find--he knew not what {309} 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 '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 perished, save a nuptial ring And a small seal--her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name--the name of both-- "Ginevra." A pretty delicacy certainly goes to the telling of that story; but in the tale of Christabel and of the Ancient Mariner there is something more than delicacy--more of brain and passion and far-reaching poetic insight in the poet Coleridge, than in ten such men as Samuel Rogers.