Thy warm and generous faith, thy patience meek,
That plants a smile where pain despoils the cheek;
The balm that virtue mingles here below

To mitigate thy cup of earthly woe

These shall remain, when sorrow's self is dead,
When sex decays, and passion's stain is fled.

In her Moods of Anger.

Beresford.

A noisy crowd,

Dryden.

Like woman's anger, impotent and loud.

O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd ;
She was a vixen when she went to school,
And though she be but little--she is fierce.
Shakespeare.

Fie, fie! unknit that threat'ning unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor :
It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads;
Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds ;
And in no sense is meet, or amiable.

An Anxious One.

Shakespeare.

The hue of her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness; its expression had lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed, and there was an anxious haggard look

about the gentle face which it had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush, and a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud, and she was once more deadly pale.

Dickens.

How Apostrophized.

It is no pilgrimage to travel to your lips.

Lady, you can enchain me with a smile.

Your name, like some celestial fire, quickens my spirit.

Report could never have a sweeter air to fly in than your breath.

Would I were secretary to your thoughts!

Edward Philips, nephew of Milton.

Though fate forbids such things to be,
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd !
I cannot lose a world for thee,
But would not lose thee for a world!

Her Sweet Attractions.

Sweet are the charms of her I love,
More fragrant than the damask rose,

Byron.

Soft as the down of turtle dove,
Gentle as air when zephyr blows,
Refreshing as descending rains

To sun-burnt climes and thirsty plains.

Booth.

Her Varied Attractions.

She did make defect, perfection,

And, breathless, power breathe forth

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety.

Too late, alas! I must confess,

You need not arts to move me;
Such charms by nature you possess,
"Twere madness not to love ye.
Then spare a heart you may surprise,
And give my tongue the glory
To boast, though my unfaithful eyes
Betray a tender story.

Shakespeare.

Rochester.

Attributes of.

Faithful-as dog, the lonely shepherd's pride;
True-as the helm, the bark's protecting guide;
Firm-as the shaft that props the towering dome;
Sweet-as to shipwreck'd seamen land and home;
Lovely-as a child, the parents' sole delight;
Radiant as morn, that breaks a stormy night;

Grateful-as streams, that, in some deep recess,
With crystal rills the panting traveller bless.

Yonge.

Fear, and niceness,

The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,

Woman its pretty self.

Shakespeare.

Honour to women! entwining and braiding

Life's garland with roses for ever unfading,

In the veil of the Graces all modestly kneeling,

Love's band with sweet spells have they wreathed, have they bless'd,

And, tending with hands ever pure, have caress'd
The flame of each holy, each beautiful feeling.

The glances of women, enchantingly glowing,
Their light wooes the fugitive back, ever throwing
A link round the present, that binds as a spell.
In the meek cottage home of the mother presiding,
All
graces, all gentleness, round them abiding,
As Nature's true daughters, how sweetly they dwell!

Women, to sweet silent praises resigning

Such hopes as affection is ever enshrining,

Pluck the moment's brief flowers as they wander along,

More free in their limited range, richer ever

Than man, proudly soaring with fruitless endeavour

Through the infinite circles of science and song.

Awoke like a harp, and as gently resembling

Its murmuring chords to the night-breezes trembling,
Breathes woman's fond soul, and as feelingly too :
Touch'd lightly, touch'd deeply, oh! ever she borrows
Grief itself, from the image of grief, and her sorrows
Ever gem her soft eyes with heaven's holiest dew.

And gently entreating, and sweetly beguiling,
Woman reigns while the Graces around her are smiling,
Calming down the fierce discord of hatred and pride ;
Teaching all whom the strife of wild passions would sever,
To unite in one bond, and with her, and for ever,
All hopes and emotions they else had denied.

From the German of Schiller.

O, what makes woman lovely? Virtue, faith,
And gentleness in suffering; an endurance
Through scorn or trial: these call beauty forth,
Give it the stamp celestial, and admit it
To sisterhood with angels!

Brent.

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters, sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacks can report. This cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

Shakespeare.

C