She died in beauty!-like the snow
Of flowers dissolved away;

She died in beauty!-like a star
Lost on the brow of day.

She lives in glory!-like Night's gems

Set round the silver moon;

She lives in glory !—like the sun

Amid the blue of June!

Sillery.

Her Dream-like Beauty.

The cast of her beauty was so dream-like, and yet so varying; her temper was so little mingled with the common characteristics of woman; it had so little of caprice, so little of vanity, so utter an absence of all jealous, and all angry feeling; it was so made up of tenderness and devotion, and yet so imaginative and fairy-like in its fondness, that it was difficult to bear only the sentiments of earth for one who had so little of earth's clay. When I am alone with nature, methinks a sweet sound, or a new-born flower, has something of familiar power over those stored and deep impressions which do make her image, and brings her more vividly before my eyes, than any shape or face of her own sex, however beautiful it may be.

Bulwer.

Her Beauty beyond Description.

A brow so arch'd and clear,

Not Raphael's self had limn'd it;

A lip whose bloom would scarce appear,
Though fifty poets hymn'd it:

An eye, as if an angel's tear

Had gently dew'd, not dimm'd it.

W. Grant.

Ethereal Beauty and Grace of.

He gazed-he saw-he knew the face

Of beauty and the form of grace.

The rose was yet upon her cheek,

But mellow'd with a tenderer streak:
Where was the play of her soft lips fled?
Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red.
The ocean's calm within their view,
Beside her eye, had less of blue ;
But like that cold wave it stood still,
And its glance, though clear, was chill.
Around her form a thin robe twining,
Nought conceal'd her bosom shining;
Through the parting of her hair,

Floating darkly downward there,

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare:

And ere yet she made reply,

Once she raised her hand on high;

It was so wan, and transparent of hue,

You might have seen the moon shine through.

Byron.

Her Exceeding Beauty.

A bed of lilies flow'r upon her cheek,

And in the midst was set a circling rose;
Whose sweet aspéct would force Narcissus seek
New liveries, and fresher colours choose

To deck his beauteous head in snowy 'tire;
But all in vain-for who can hope t' aspire

To such a fair, which none attain, but all admire ?
Her ruby lips lock up from gazing sight

A troop of pearls, which march in goodly row; But when she deigns those precious bones undight, Soon heavenly notes from those divisions flow, And with rare music charm the ravish'd ears, Daunting bold thoughts, but cheering modest fears: The spheres so only sing, so only charm the spheres.

Yet all these stars which deck this beauteous sky By force of th' inward sun both shine and move; Throned in her heart sits love's high majesty,In highest majesty the highest love.

As when a taper shines in glassy frame,

The sparkling crystal burns in glittering flame,

So does that brightest love brighten this lovely dame.

Giles Fletcher.

Bright as the star of evening she appear'd
Amid the dusky scene. Eternal youth

O'er all her form its glowing honours breathed;
And smiles eternal from her candid eyes

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.