Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848

She is young, it is true, her eyes dark and blue,
But sadly deficient in lustre,
While often is seen in one hand a pen,
In the other a mop or a duster.

Her hair, of a shade inclining to red,
Is tied up and carefully braided;
And the forehead below (not as white the snow)
By no drooping ringlet is shaded.

Her little hands write, but they're not always white,
With marks of good usage they're speckled,
While the face, once so fair, has been kissed by the air,
Until 'tis considerably freckled.

She has her full part of a true woman's art,
Her share of a woman's warm feeling!
She knows what to hide, with a true woman's pride,
When the world would but scorn the revealing.

This earth is no place fancy beauties to trace,
Or seek for perfection uncertain;
Then why mourn our fate, when sooner or late,
Reality peeps through the curtain.

But if we must cling to the form lingering
And cherished within us so dearly,
We must gaze from afar, as upon some bright star,
And never approach it more nearly.

THE HUMAN VOICE

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS

We all love the music of sky, earth and sea —
The chirp of the cricket – the hum of the bee —
The wind-harp that swings from the bough of the tree —
The reed of the rude shepherd boy:
All love the bird-carols when day has begun,
When rock-fountains gush into song as they run,
When the stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun,
And hills clap their hands in their joy.

All love the invisible lutes of the air —
The chords that vibrate to the hands of the fair —
Whose minstrelsy brightens the midnight of care,
And steals to the heart like a dove:
But even in melody there is a choice,
And, though we in all her sweet numbers rejoice,
There's none thrills the soul like the tones of the voice,
When breathed by the beings we love.

VENICE AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS

[WRITTEN IN 1826.]

BY PROFESSOR GOODRICH, YALE COLLEGE

Bright glancing in the sun's last rays,
The Fairy City rose to view:
It seemed to "swim in air" – a blaze
Of parting glory round she threw.

Midst silent halls and mouldering towers,
And trophies fallen from side to side,
Awe-struck, I saw a few brief hours,
The grave of Venice' ruined pride.

Light from her native surge she sprung,
The Venus of the Adrian wave;
And o'er the admiring nations flung
The spell of "Beautiful and Brave"

Her Winged Lion's terror shook
The Sultan's throne: – o'er prostrate piles,
"Breaker of Chains," she proudly spoke
Her mandate to a hundred isles.

Astonished Europe saw that hour
Her blind old chieftain guide her wars,
And twice, in one brief season, pour
Her fury on Byzantium's towers!

Saw when in Mark's proud porch,
Abased in dust the eastern crown was laid.
And when, with frantic pride, she placed
Her foot on Barbarosa's head!

Gone, like a dream! wealth, pomp and power!
And Learning's toils, so nobly urged!
Doomed 'neath a tyrant's lash to cower,
She gnaws the chain she once had forged.

And still that tyrant bids to stand,
In mockery of her former state,
Those emblems of her wide command,
The three tall Masts where glory sate:

And high upreared on column proud,