With aught of change, as the eyes may seem
Of the restless, who walk in a troubled dream;

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight.

Byron.

Her Beauty elevated by thoughtful Expression.

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow :
And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes-but oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow ;
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy gentleness

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

Byron.

Beauty unimpressive without Expression.

No woman can be handsome by the force of features alone, any more than she can be witty only by the help

of speech.

D

Hughes.

Her Beauty compared to Flowers.

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,

Or like the silver-crimson shroud

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace.

Her lips are like two budded roses,

Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm incloses
Apt to entice a deity.

Her neck is like a stately tower,
Where Love itself imprison'd lies,

To watch for glances every hour

From her divine and sacred eyes.

Hodge.

Her Recollection of Faded Beauty.

When cheeks are faded and eyes are dim, is it sad or pleasant, I wonder, for the woman who is a beauty no more, to recall the period of her bloom? When the heart is withered, do the old love to remember how it once was fresh, and beat with warm emotions? When the spirits are languid and weary, do we like to think how bright they were in other days; the hope how buoyant, the sympathies how ready, the enjoyment of life how keen and eager? So they fall-the buds of prime, the roses of beauty, the florid harvests of summer-fall and wither, and the naked branches shiver in the winter.

W. M. Thackeray.

Her Gentle Beauty.

This passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day,
Till it fel oones in a morne of May,

That Emilie, that fairer was to seene

Than is the lilie on hire stalkes grene,

And frescher than the May with floures newe;
For with the rose colour strof hire hewe,

I wot which was the fyner of hem two.
Er it was day, as sche was wont to do,
Sche was arisen, and alredy dight,—
For May wole have no sloggardye a night.
The sesun priketh every gentil herte,
And maketh him out of his sleepe sterte,
And seith," Arys, and do thin observance."
This maked Emilye have remembrance
To do honour to May, and for to ryse.
I-clothed was sche fressh for to devyse.
Hire yowle heer was browdid in a tresse
Byhynde hir bak, a yerde long I gesse.
And in the gardyn, as the sonne upriste,
Sche walketh up and doun wher as hire liste.
Sche gadereth floures, partye whyte and reede,
To make a certeyn garland for hire heede,

And as aungel hevenly sche song.

Glorious in her Beauty.

Can you paint a thought? or number

Every fancy in a slumber?

Chaucer.