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,
And glancing to the wide-spread sea,
Her Winged Lion stands, aloud
To tell a nation's infamy!

Oh, how unlike the day, when round
Those Masts and 'neath that Lion's wings,
Exulting thousands thronged the ground,
And spoke the fate of distant kings.

When brightly in the morning beam
Her galleys, ranged in stern array,
Impatient stood, till PONTIFFS came
To bless the parting warrior's way.

They go beneath the drum's long roll,
The cymbal's clang, the trumpet's breath;
While Beauty's glances fire the soul,
An