Pure courtesy, composure, ease, Declare affections nobly fixed, And impulse sprung from due degrees Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed. Her modesty, her chiefest grace, The cestus clasping Venus' side, Is potent to deject the face Of him who would affront its pride. Wrong dares not in her presence speak, Outbragging Nature's boast, the rose. How (not to call true instinct's bent How amiable and innocent Her pleasure in her power to charm! How humbly careful to attract, Though crowned with all the soul desires, Connubial aptitude exact, Diversity that never tires! SONG. COVENTRY PATMORE. THE shape alone let others prize, I look for spirit in her eyes, A damask cheek, an ivory arm, That speaks a mind within. A face where awful honor shines, Where sense and sweetness move, And angel innocence refines The tenderness of love. These are the soul of beauty's frame; But ah! where both their charms unite, With graces ever new : Of power to charm the greatest woe, Their power but faintly to express MARK AKENSIDE. SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW. SHE is not fair to outward view, As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me : O, then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light. But now her looks are coy and cold; The love-light in her eye: HARTLEY COLERIDGE. A HEALTH. I FILL this cup to one made up A woman, of her gentle sex And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Affections are as thoughts to her, The freshness of young flowers ; Of her bright face one glance will trace And of her voice in echoing hearts A GOLDEN GIRL. Lucy is a golden girl; But a man, a mun, should woo her! They who seek her shrink aback, When they should, like storms, pursue her. All her smiles are hid in light; All her hair is lost in splendor; But she hath the eyes of Night And a heart that 's over-tender. Yet the foolish suitors fly (Is 't excess of dread or duty ?) From the starlight of her eye, Leaving to neglect her beauty! Men by fifty seasons taught Leave her to a young beginner, Who, without a second thought, Whispers, wooes, and straight must win her. Lucy is a golden girl ! Toast her in a goblet brimming! On his heart the Rose of Women! THE MILKING-MAID. THE year stood at its equinox, And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, Where milky kine were lowing. She wore a kerchief on her neck, Too pointless for the city. She kept in time without a beat, As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet, Or squeezed it with her fingers; Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet As many a practised singer's. I stood a minute out of sight, To eye the pail, and creamy white To eye the comely milking-maid, And all the while she milked and milked But not a sweeter, fresher maid Whose pleasant face and silky braid I have not yet forgotten. Seven springs have passed since then, as I Count with a sober sorrow; Seven springs have come and passed me by, I've half a mind to shake myself And leave it done or undone ; To run down by the early train, Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, And butt their patient mothers. Alas! one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to: Seven years have passed for maid and man, Seven years have passed for her too. Perhaps my rose is over-blown, Not rosy, or too rosy; Some husband keeps her cosy, CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROS AT THE CHURCH GATE. ALTHOUGH I enter not, |