In lonely loveliness she grew,

A shape all music, light, and love, With startling looks, so eloquent of The spirit coming into view.

At childhood she could seldom play

With merry heart, whose flashes rise
Like splendour-winged butterflies
From honey'd hearts of flowers in May.
The fields in blossom flamed and flush'd,
The roses into crimson yearn'd,

With cloudy fire the wall-flowers burn'd,
And blood-red sunsets bloom'd and blush'd;
And still her cheek was pale as pearl,—
It took no tint of summer's wealth
Of colour, warmth, and wine of health :
Death's hand so whitely press'd the girl!
No blush grew ripe to sun or kiss

Where violet-veins ran purple light,
So tenderly thro' Parian white,
They touch'd you into tenderness.
A spirit look was in her face,

That shadow'd a miraculous range
Of meanings ever rich and strange,

Or lighten'd glory in the place.

Gerald Massey.

Content in lowly Sphere.

Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,

Pillow and bobbins, all her little store,

Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit;
Receives no praise, but though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent), she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true-—-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

Cowper.

A Contradiction.

And yet believe me, good as well as ill,
Woman's at best a contradiction still.
Heaven, when it strives to polish all it can
Its last best works, forms but a softer man.

Pope.

Her Coquetry.

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair,

And I might have gone near to love thee;

Had I not found the slightest prayer

That lips could speak had power to move thee:

But I can let thee now alone,

As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind,

That kisses everything it meets,

And since thou canst with more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.

The morning rose, that untouch'd stands,

Arm'd with her briers, how sweetly smells!
But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands,
Her sweets no longer with her dwells;
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like sere flowers to be thrown aside;

And I will sigh, while some will smile.

To see thy love for more than one

Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

Sir R. Ayton.

My dear mistress has a heart

Soft as those kind looks she gave me,

When with love's resistless art,

And her eyes, she did enslave me;

But her constancy's so weak,

She's so wild and apt to wander,

That my jealous heart would break,
Should we live one day asunder.

Rochester.

Women can less easily surmount their coquetry than

their passions.

La Rochefoucauld

Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair;

Her brow shades frown, although her eyes are sunny; Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; And her disdains are gall, her favours honey.

Daniel.

O! they love least who let men know their love.

Shakespeare.

Coquetry in Dress Allowable.

Men born to labour, all with pains provide,
Women have time to sacrifice to pride;

They want the care of man: their want they know,

And dress to please with heart-alluring show.

For a time seem to rove;

At first she may frown in a pet;

But leave her awhile,

Parnell.

She shortly will smile,

And then you may win your coquette.

Byron.

I know a maiden, fair to see ;
Take care!

She can both false and friendly be ;
Beware!

Trust her not, she is fooling thee.

She has two eyes, so soft and brown;
Take care!

She gives a side-glance, and looks down ;
Beware!

Trust her not, she is fooling thee.

She gives thee a garland woven fair;
Take care!

It is a fool's cap, for thee to wear;
Beware!

Trust her not, she is fooling thee.

Longfellow.

Friendly Counsel to.

The counsels of a friend, Belinda, hear,
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatteries of a lover's pen,

Such truths as women seldom learn from men.
Nor think I praise you ill when thus I show
What female vanity might fear to know:
Some merit 's mine to dare to be sincere ;
But greater yours sincerity to bear.
Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women, like princes, find few real friends: