Flow'd, like the dewy lustre of the morn,
Effusive, trembling on the placid waves.

The spring of heaven had shed its blushing spoils
To bind her sable tresses: full diffused,

Her yellow mantle floated in the breeze;
And in her hand she waved a living branch,
Rich with immortal fruits, of power to calm
The wrathful heart, and from the brightening eyes
To chase the cloud of sadness. More sublime
The heavenly partner moved: the prime of age
Composed her steps. The presence of a god,
High on the circle of her brow enthroned,
From each majestic motion darted awe,-
Devoted awe! till, cherish'd by her looks
Benevolent and meek, confiding love

To filial rapture soften'd all the soul.

Free in her graceful hand she poised the sword
Of chaste dominion. An heroic crown
Display'd the old simplicity of pomp

Around her honour'd head. A matron's robe,

White as the sunshine streams thro' vernal clouds, Her stately form invested.

In the whole world there scarcely was

So delicate a wight.

There was no beauty so divine

That ever nymph did grace,
But it beyond itself did shine
In her more heavenly face:

Akenside.

What form she pleased each thing would take That e'er she did behold;

Of pebbles she could diamonds make,

Gross iron turn to gold.

Such power there with her presence came,

Stern tempests she allay'd;

The cruel tiger she could tame,—

The raging torrents stay'd.

She chid, she cherish'd, she gave life,

Again she made to die;

She raised a war, appeased a strife,

With turning of her eye.

Some said a god did her beget,

But much deceived were they :
Her father was a rivulet,

Her mother was a fay.

Her lineaments so fine that were,

She from the fairy took;

Her beauties and complexion clear,
By nature from the brook.

Drayton.

Oh! what a pure and sacred thing
Is beauty, curtain'd from the sight
Of the gross world, illumining
One only mansion with her light!
Unseen by man's disturbing eye-—
The flower that blooms beneath the sea,
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie

Hid in more chaste obscurity.

Moore.

It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France (Marie Antoinette), then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in-glittering like the morning star full of life, and splendour, and joy. Oh, what a revolution! and what a heart must I have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to that enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded, and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone! It is gone that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness. E. Burke.

Fair lady, when you see the grace
Of beauty in your looking-glass,—
A stately forehead, smooth and high,
And full of princely majesty ;
A sparkling eye no gem so fair,
Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star;
A glorious cheek, divinely sweet,
Wherein both roses kindly meet;
A cherry lip, that would entice
Even gods to kiss at any price;
You think no beauty is so rare

That with your shadow might compare;
That
your reflection is alone

The thing that men most dote upon.
Madame, alas! your glass doth lie,
And you are much deceived; for I
A beauty know of richer grace—
Sweet, be not angry-'tis your face.
Hence, then, O learn more mild to be,
And leave to lay your blame on me :
If me your real substance move,
When you so much your shadow love,
Wise nature would not let your eye
Look on her own bright majesty ;
Which, had you once but gazed upon,
You could, except yourself, love none:
What then you cannot love, let me,
That face I can, you cannot see.

T. Randolph.

Choice nymph! the crown of chaste Diana's train,
Thou beauty's lily, set in heavenly earth;
Thy fairs, unpattern'd, all perfection stain;
Sure Heaven, with curious pencil at thy birth
In thy rare face her own full picture drew:
It is a strong verse here to write, but true,
Hyperboles in others are but half thy due.
Upon her forehead Love his trophies fits,
A thousand spoils in silver arch displaying;
And in the midst himself full proudly sits,
Himself in awful majesty arraying :

Upon her brows lies his bent ebon bow,

And ready shafts; deadly those weapons show; Yet sweet the death appear'd, lovely that deadly blow.

Giles Fletcher.

Expressionless Beauty in.

He look'd on the face, and beheld its hue,
So deeply changed from what he knew:
Fair, but faint, without the ray

Of mind, that made each feature play
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day.
And her motionless lips lay still as death,
And her words came forth without her breath;
And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell,
And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell.
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd,
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd