It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France (Marie Antoinette), then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in-glittering like the morning star full of life, and splendour, and joy. Oh, what a revolution! and what a heart must I have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to that enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded, and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone! It is gone that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness. E. Burke.

Fair lady, when you see the grace
Of beauty in your looking-glass,-
A stately forehead, smooth and high,
And full of princely majesty ;
A sparkling eye no gem so fair,
Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star;
A glorious cheek, divinely sweet,
Wherein both roses kindly meet;
A cherry lip, that would entice
Even gods to kiss at any price ;
You think no beauty is so rare
That with your shadow might compare ;
That your reflection is alone

The thing that men most dote upon.
Madame, alas! your glass doth lie,
And you are much deceived; for I
A beauty know of richer grace-
Sweet, be not angry-'tis your face.
Hence, then, O learn more mild to be,
And leave to lay your blame on me:
If me your real substance move,
When you so much your shadow love,
Wise nature would not let your eye
Look on her own bright majesty;
Which, had you once but gazed upon,
You could, except yourself, love none :
What then you cannot love, let me,
That face I can, you cannot see.

T. Randolph.

Choice nymph! the crown of chaste Diana's train,
Thou beauty's lily, set in heavenly earth;
Thy fairs, unpattern'd, all perfection stain;
Sure Heaven, with curious pencil at thy birth
In thy rare face her own full picture drew:
It is a strong verse here to write, but true,
Hyperboles in others are but half thy due.
Upon her forehead Love his trophies fits,
A thousand spoils in silver arch displaying;
And in the midst himself full proudly sits,
Himself in awful majesty arraying:
Upon her brows lies his bent ebon bow,

And ready shafts; deadly those weapons show; Yet sweet the death appear'd, lovely that deadly blow.

Giles Fletcher.

Expressionless Beauty in.

He look'd on the face, and beheld its hue,
So deeply changed from what he knew:
Fair, but faint,-without the ray

Of mind, that made each feature play
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day.
And her motionless lips lay still as death,
And her words came forth without her breath;
And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell,
And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell.
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd,
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd

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.