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.