With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline !
Nature herself her shape admires ;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light :
Heigh-ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,

Since for a fair there 's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!

Heigh-ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

BELINDA.

THOMAS Lodge.

FROM THE "RAPE OF THE LOCK."

ON her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore,
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those :
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends:
Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide;
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all.

ALEXANDer Pope.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty ;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

TO A LADY, WITH SOME PAINTED
FLOWERS.

FLOWERS to the fair: to you these flowers I bring,
And strive to greet you with an earlier spring.
Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like you;
Emblems of innocence, and beauty too.
With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair,
And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear.
Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew,
In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew.
To loftier forms are rougher tasks assigned;
The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind,
The tougher yew repels invading foes,
And the tall pine for future navies grows :
But this soft family to cares unknown,
Were born for pleasure and delight alone.
Gay without toil, and lovely without art,
They spring to cheer the sense and glad the heart.
Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these;
Your best, your sweetest empire is — to please.

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

THE ROSE OF THE WORLD.

Lo, when the Lord made north and south,
And sun and moon ordainèd, he,
Forth bringing each by word of mouth
In order of its dignity,
Did man from the crude clay express

By sequence, and, all else decreed,
He formed the woman; nor might less
Than Sabbath such a work succeed.

And still with favor singled out,

Marred less than man by mortal fall, Her disposition is devout,

Her countenance angelical.

No faithless thought her instinct shrouds,
But fancy checkers settled sense,
Like alteration of the clouds

On noonday's azure permanence.

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,
Nor spotted thought its taint disclose
Under the protest of a cheek

Outbragging Nature's boast, the rose.
In mind and manners how discreet !

How artless in her very art!
How candid in discourse! how sweet
The concord of her lips and heart!

How (not to call true instinct's bent
And woman's very nature harm),
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,
The features of the fair:

I look for spirit in her eyes,
And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, an ivory arm,
Shall ne'er my wishes win:
Give me an animated form,

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;
Without whose vital aid
Unfinished all her features seem,
And all her roses dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite,
How perfect is the view,
With every image of delight,
With graces ever new :

Of power to charm the greatest woe,
The wildest rage control,
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,
And rapture through the soul.

Their power but faintly to express

All language must despair; But go, behold Arpasia's face, And read it perfect there.

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;
To mine they ne'er reply;
And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye:
Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are!

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

A HEALTH.

I FILL this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements

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,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows,
As one may see the burdened bee
Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy,

The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns, The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain ;

A GOLDEN GIRL.

LUCY is a golden girl;

But a man, a man, 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!

May the man that wins her wear

On his heart the Rose of Women!
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (Barry Cornwall).

THE MILKING-MAID.

THE year stood at its equinox,

And bluff the North was blowing,

A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
Green hardy things were growing;

I met a maid with shining locks
Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck,
Her bare arm showed its dimple,
Her apron spread without a speck,
Her air was frank and simple.
She milked into a wooden pail,
And sang a country ditty,
An innocent fond lovers' tale,
That was not wise nor witty,
Pathetically rustical,

Too pointless for the city.

To eye the comely milking-maid,
'Herself so fresh and creamy.
"Good day to you!" at last I said;
She turned her head to see me.
"Good day!" she said, with lifted head;
Her eyes looked soft and dreamy.

And all the while she milked and milked
The grave cow heavy-laden :
I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked,
But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid
Than this in homely cotton,

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,
And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
Free, just for once, from London,
To set my work upon the shelf,

And leave it done or undone ;

To run down by the early train,

Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And feel the bluff north blow again,

And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
Its green and tender bristle;

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
Crisp primrose-leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks,
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; Perhaps in farm-house of her own

Some husband keeps her cosy, Where I should show a face unknown, Good-by, my wayside posy!

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI,

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.