2*

BEAUTY.

B

17

BEAUTY.

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever.

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart.

Keats.

Rogers.

eyes,

Heart on her lips and soul within her
Soft as her clime and sunny as her skies.

An angel face; its sunny wealth of hair

Byron.

In radiant ripples bathed the graceful throat
And dimpled shoulders; round the rosy curve
Of the sweet mouth a smile seemed wandering ever;
While in the depths of azure fire that gleamed
Beneath the drooping lashes, slept a world
Of eloquent meaning, passionate but pure,
Dreamy, subdued, but oh, how beautiful!

Mrs. Osgood.

The best part of beauty is that which no picture can express.

That loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth, as it flies
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes.

Moore.

Beauty has little to do with engaging the love of woman. The air, manner, tone, the conversation, the something that interests, the something to be proud of,these are the attributes of the man made to be loved.

Bulwer.

What's a fine person or a beauteous face,
Unless deportment gives them decent grace?
Blessed with all other requisites to please,
Some want the striking elegance of ease;
The curious eye their awkward movement tires;
They seem like puppets led about by wires.

Men gaze on beauty for a while,
Allured by artificial smile,

But Love shall never twang his dart
From any string that's formed by art.

When Beauty triumphs, ah, beware!
Her smile is hope, her frown despair.

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A nymph, a naiad, or a grace,
Of finer form or lovelier face.

Churchill.

Paulding.

Weeks.

Scott.

If spirits pure as those who kneel
Around the throne of light above,
The power of beauty's spell could feel,
And lose a heaven for woman's love,
What marvel that a heart like mine
Enraptured by thy charms should be,
Forget to bend at glory's shrine,

And lose itself—ay, heaven-for thee?

Beauty and love-their emblems are flowers,
Their date of existence is numbered by hours.

Beauty is a doubtful good, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour;
And beauty, blemished once, for ever's lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.
Shakspeare.

Beauty, thou dear plaything, dear deceit !
That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulse unknown before.

Blair.

The fair sex should be always fair, and no man
Till thirty should perceive there's a plain woman.

What is beauty? Not the show

Of shapely limbs and features. No!

Byron.

These are but flowers, that have their dated hours To breathe their momentary sweets, then go. 'Tis the stainless soul within,

That outshines the fairest skin.

Hunt.