Part 3 — THE REAL AND THE IDEAL.

Alas, the romances! the beautiful fancies! We fling round our thoughts of a poet; How can we believe 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.