EVEN IN SHADOWS YOU ARE FAIR.

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air;
Even in shadows you are fair.
Shut-up beauty is like fire,

That breaks out clearer still and higher.
Though your beauty be confined,

And soft Love a prisoner bound,
Yet the beauty of your mind

Neither check nor chain hath found.
Look out nobly, then, and dare
Ev'n the fetters that you wear!

Beaumont and Fletcher.

HOW TO GAIN MEN'S AFFECTIONS.

Modesty in dress is a powerful attractive to honourable love. The male heart is a study, in which your sex are supposed to be a good deal conversant. Yet in this study, you must give me leave to say, many of them seem to me but indifferent proficients. To gain men's affections, women in general are naturally desirous. They need not deny, they cannot conceal it. The sexes were made for each other. We wish for a place in your hearts why should you not wish for one in ours? But how much are you deceived, my fair friends, if you dream of taking that fort by storm! When you show a sweet solicitude to please by every decent, gentle, unaffected attraction, we are soothed, we are subdued, we yield ourselves your willing captives. But if at any time by a forward appearance you betray a confidence in your charms, and by throwing them out upon us all at once you seem resolved, as it were, to force our admiration, that moment we are on our guard, and your assaults are vain, provided at least we have any spirit or sentiment. In reality, they who have very little of either, I might have said they who have none, even the silliest, even the loosest men shall in a sober mood be taken with the bashful air and reserved dress of an amiable young woman, infinitely more than they ever were with all the open blaze of laboured beauty and arrogant claims of undisguised allurement; the human heart, in its better sensations, being still formed to the love of virtue.

Let me add, that the human imagination hates to be confined. We are never highly delighted where something is not left us to fancy. This last observation holds true throughout all nature, and all art. But when I speak of these, I must subjoin, that art being agreeable no farther than as it is conformed to nature, the

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one will not be wanted in the case before us if the other be allowed its full influence. What I mean is this; that supposing a young lady to be deeply possessed with a regard for whatsoever things are pure, venerable, and of a good report,” it will lead to decorum spontaneously, and flow with unstudied propriety through every part of her attire and demeanour. Let it be likewise added, that simplicity, the inseparable companion both of genuine grace and of real modesty, if it do not always strike at first (of which it seldom fails) is sure, however, when it does strike, to produce the deepest and most permanent impressions. Fordyce.

IN HER CHEEK THE FLUSHING
MORNING LIES.

On tiptoe, laughing like the blue-eyed May, And looking aslant, where a spoil'd urchin strives

(In vain) to reach the flowers she holds on high,

Stands a young girl, fresh as the dawn, with all

Her bright hair given to the golden sun!
There standeth she whom Midnight never saw,
Nor Fashion stared on with its arrogant eye,
Nor gallant tempted ;-beautiful as youth:
Waisted like Hebe; and with Dian's step,
As she, with sandals newly laced, would rise
To hunt the fawn through woods of Thessaly.
From all the garden of her beauty nought
Has flown: no rose is thwarted by pale hours;
But on her living lip bright crimson hangs,
And in her cheek the flushing morning lies,
And in her breath the odorous hyacinth.

GENTLE DEAUTY.

Anon.

Her face was sweet, and with a pensive life
That would dispel the birth or germ of strife.
Hers was a mind as pure as happy spring,
Smooth as the dove's unruffled gentle wing;
Fill'd with much knowledge, yet her simple
ways

Deeming all worthy but herself of praise;
She, better yet than most-to her unknown-
She saw the good of others, not her own.
E. Millen.

And gentle smiles that never fail'd to please.

Harte.

"Tis Strephon on the mountain's brow
Has won my right good will;
To him I give my plighted vow,
With him I'll climb the hill."

Struck with her charms and gentle truth,
I clasp'd the constant fair;
To her alone I give my youth,

And vow my future care.

And when this vow shall faithless prove, Or I these charms forego,

The stream that saw our tender love, That stream shall cease to flow. Shenstone.

GIVE ME BUT THY LOVE.
Give me but thy love, and I
Envy none beneath the sky!
Pains and perils I defy

If thy presence cheer me.
Give me but thy love, my sweet,
Joy shall bless us when we meet ;
Pleasures come, and cares retreat,
When thou smilest near me.

Happy 'twere, beloved one,
When the toils of day are done,
Ever with the set of sun

To thy fond arms retiring;-
There to feel and there to know
A balm that baffles every woe,
While hearts that beat and eyes that glow
Are sweetest thoughts inspiring.

What are all the joys of earth? What are revelry and mirth? Vacant blessings-nothing worth

To hearts that ever knew love. What is all the pomp of state? What the grandeur of the great? To the raptures that await

On the path of true love.

Should joy our days and years illume,
How sweet with thee to share such doom!
Nor, oh! less sweet, should sorrows come,
To cherish and caress thee.
Then while I live, then till I die,
Oh! be thou only smiling by ;
And while I breathe, I'll fondly try

With all my heart to bless thee.
D. M. Moir.

TOO HAPPY FOR MORTALITY.

Arabian fiction never fill'd the world With half the wonders that were wrought for him.

Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring;

Life turn'd the meanest of her implements
Before his eyes to price above all gold;
The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine;
Her chamber-window did surpass in glory
The portal of the dawn; all Paradise
Could, by the simple opening of a door,
Let itself in upon him ;-pathways, walks,
Swarm'd with enchantment, but his spirit
sank,

Surcharged within him-overblest to move
Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world
To its dull round of ordinary cares ;-
A man too happy for mortality.

FOND WOE.

Wordsworth.

Up! God has formed thee with a wiser view,

Not to be led in chains, but to subdue ;
Calls thee to cope with enemies, and first
Points out a conflict with thyself, the worst.
Woman, indeed, a gift he would bestow
When he design'd a Paradise below,
The richest earthly boon His hands afford,
Deserves to be beloved, but not adored.
Post away swiftly to more active scenes,
Collect the scatter'd truths that study gleans,
Mix with the world, but with its wiser
part,

No longer give an image all thine heart;
Its empire is not hers, nor is it thine,
'Tis God's just claim, prerogative divine.

Cowper.

I'LL DO HER HOMAGE, MY QUEEN,
MY QUEEN!

Many a girl I have loved for a minute,
Worshipp'd many a face I have seen,
Ever and aye there was something in it,
Something that could not be hers, my
queen!

I will not say she is tall and stately-
She that I love may be fairy light:

I will not say she must move sedately-
Whatever she does to me is right.
She may seem humble or proud, my lady,

Or that sweet calm which is just between ; And whenever she comes, she finds me ready

To do her homage, my queen, my queen! Praed.

A SMILE OF THINE IS LIKE AN ACT
OF GRACE.

Thou art a girl of noble nature's crowning,
A smile of thine is like an act of grace;
Thou hast no noisome looks, no preity
frowning,

Like daily beauties of a vulgar race;
When thou dost smile, a light is on thy face,
A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam
Of peaceful radiance, silvering o'er the stream
Of human thought with beauteous glory,
Not quite a waking truth, nor quite a dream,
A visitation-bright though transitory.
Hartley Coleridge.

Byron,

A. Smith.

THE WORLD IS DARK SINCE THOU ART GONE.

I know not of the sunshine waste,

The world is dark since thou art gone!
The hours are, oh! so leaden-paced !

The birds sing, and the stars float on,
But sing not well, and look not fair ;
A weight is in the summer air,

And sadness in the light of flowers;
And if I go where others smile

Their love but makes me think of ours, And Heaven gets my heart the while; Like one upon a desert isle,

I languish of the dreary hours; I never thought that a life could be

So flung upon one hope as mine, dear love, on thee.

I sit and watch the summer sky,

There comes a cloud through heaven alone; A thousand stars are shining nigh,

It feels no light, but darkles on! Yet now it nears the lonelier moon,

And, flashing through its fringe of snow, There steals a rosier dye, and soon Its bosom is one fiery glow! The queen of life within it lies;

Yet mark how lovers meet to part! The cloud already onward flies,

And shadows sink within its heart; And (dost thou see them where thou art ?) Fade, fast fade those glorious dyes! Its light, like mine, is seen no more, And like my own, its heart seems darker than before.

Where press, this hour, those fairy feet?

Where look, this hour, those eyes of blue? What music in thine ear is sweet?

What odour breathes thy lattice through?
What word is on thy lip? what tone,
What look, replying to thine own?
Thy steps along the Danube stray.

Alas, it seeks an orient sea!
Thou wouldst not seem so far away,
Flow'd but its waters back to me!
I bless the slowly coming moon,

Because its eye look'd late in thine;
I envy the west wind of June,

Whose wings will bear it up in Rhine; The flower I press upon my brow Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber N. P. Willis.

now.

SUCH IS MY LOVE, A PHANTOM BRIGHT.

What is my love like? She is fair-
Fair as a tender autumn star,
Twinkling through the woodiand air.
A cloven cherry is her mouth,

Her breath a breeze that wanders far Through camphire hills in the sweet South. And fine, and delicate, and slim

Is her rich, purple-bodiced waist,
Set round with fringes, quaint and prim :
O'er her cool neck, a rosary

Of fragrant pearls, white-serried and chaste, In one close-linkèd measure lie.

O wondrous, wondrous is her hair-
A twisted wealth of golden brown,
That droops above her temples bare.
A milky shoulder, gleaming shy,

Peeps coy and blanch'd above her gown, As from a pleasant nunnery.

Her hand so oft doth kiss her lips,

That half the cherry blood has flown In ruby to her finger-tips.

I will not swear me for her eyes,

For, when we meet, my lids are proneSupine before their witcheries.

She hath a voice, like a low brook

That crystals through a bed of gold,
By saddest lilies sun-forsook.
And her sweet laugh is soft and slow,

And wise in meanings manifold—
A viol that the spring gusts blow.

Such is my love-a phantom bright,
The vision of a summer brain
Seen half between the dark and light.
She lives within a palace fine,

And sees the moons of fancy wane-
The image and the dream are mine.

Anon.

NATURE HAS NO ATTRACTIONS WHEN THOU ART ABSENT.

Sweet are the whispers of the waving trees, And murm'ring waters curling to the breeze; Sweet are soft slumbers in the shady bowers When glowing suns infest the sultry hours: But not the whispers of the waving trees, Nor murm'ring waters curling to the breeze, Nor sweet soft slumbers in the shady bowers, When thou art absent whom my soul adores. Broome.