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 The thing that men most dote upon. T. Randolph. Choice nymph! the crown of chaste Diana's train, 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, Of mind, that made each feature play 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, Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 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 Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace. Her lips are like two budded roses, Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, 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. |