ve that the web which we weave
Has no solid basis below it?

Youth, beauty and grace--a soul-speaking face,
And eyes full of genius and fire;
The softest dark hair, with a curl here and there;
All this, without fail, we require.

A warm feeling heart, affectation or art
Unknown to its deepest recesses;
A brow fair and high, where her thoughts open lie
To him who admiringly gazes.

But let this bright thought, this idol, be brought
To nearer and closer inspection--
Alas! 'tis a dream! 'tis a straying sunbeam,
Of far more than human perfection.

Then turn for awhile from the heavenly smile
That haunts thy fond fancy, young dreamer;
Turn from the ideal to gaze on the real,
And see if she be what you deem her.

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--