Her Dignity of Mien.

In peasant life he might have known
As fair a face, as sweet a tone:

But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody;

And ne'er in cottage maid was seen
The easy dignity of mien,

Claiming respect, yet waiving state,

That marks the daughters of the great.

Scott.

Quick Discernment.

She knew

For quickly comes such knowledge—that his heart

Was darken'd with her shadow.

Her Disdain.

When, cruel fair

one, I am slain

Byron.

By thy disdain,

And, as a trophy of thy scorn,

To some old tomb am borne,
Thy fetters must their powers bequeath
To those of Death;

Nor can thy flame immortal burn,
Like monumental fires within an urn:

Thus freed from thy proud empire I shall prove

There is more liberty in Death than Love.

And when forsaken lovers come
To see my tomb,

Take heed thou mix not with the crowd,
And, (as a victor) proud

To view the spoils thy beauty made,
Press near my shade;

Lest thy too cruel breath or name
Should fan my ashes back into a flame,
And thou, devour'd by this revengful fire,
His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire.

But if cold earth, or marble must
Conceal my dust,

Whilst, hid in some dark ruins, I

Dumb and forgotten lie,

The pride of all thy victory

Will sleep with me;

And they who should attest thy glory, Will or forget or not believe this story. Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest,

Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast.

Thomas Stanley.

I loved thee long and dearly,

Florence Vane;

My life's bright dream and early
Hath come again;

I renew, in my fond vision,

My heart's dear pain

My hopes, and thy derision,

Florence Vane.

The ruin, lone and hoary,

The ruin old

Where thou didst hark my story,

At even told—

That spot-the hues Elysian

Of sky and plain—

I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;
Thy voice excell'd the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane.

But, fairest, coldest wonder!

Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under—

Alas, the day!

And it boots not to remember

Thy disdain,

To quicken love's pale ember,
Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep ;

The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep.

May their bloom, in beauty vying,
Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane !

Philip P. Cooke.

Her Gentle Disposition.

Her sweet humour,

That was as easy as a calm, and peaceful,

All her affections, like the dews on roses,

Fair as the flowers themselves, as sweet and gentle.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

Disposition the Touchstone of her Character.

Happy the man on whose marriage hearth temper smiles kind from the eyes of woman! "No deity present," saith the heathen proverb, "where absent-prudence "-no joy long a guest where peace is not a dweller. Peace so like faith that they may be taken for each other, and poets have clad them with the same veil. But in childhood, in early youth, expect not the changeless green of the cedar. Wouldst thou distinguish fine temper from spiritless dulness, from cold simulation, ask less what the temper than what the disposition. Is the nature sweet and trustful? is it free from the morbid self-love which calls itself "sensitive feeling," and frets at imaginary offences? is the tendency to be grateful for kindness—yet take kindness meekly, and accept as a benefit what the vain call a due? From dispositions thus

blessed, sweet temper will come forth to gladden thee, spontaneous and free. Quick with some, with some slow, word and look emerge out of the heart. Be thy first question, "Is the heart itself generous and tender?" If it be so, self-control comes with deepening affection. Call not that a good heart which, hastening to sting if a fibre be ruffled, cries, "I am no hypocrite." Accept that excuse, and revenge becomes virtue. But where the heart, if it give the offence, pines till it win back the pardon, if offended itself, bounds forth to forgive, ever longing to soothe, ever grieved if it wound, then be sure that its nobleness will need but few trials of pain in each outbreak to refine and chastise its expression. Fear not, then; be but noble thyself, thou art safe!

Bulwer.

Her Life Dress.

Would my good lady love me best,
And work after my will,

I should a garment goodliest
Gar make her body till.

Of high honoúr should be her hood,
Upon her head to wear,
Garnish'd with governance, so good

Na deeming should her deir.

Her sark should be her body next,

Of chastity so white ;

With shame and dread together mix't,

The same should be perfyte.