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When I forget that the stars shine in air,
Bailey. What right have you, madam, gazing in your shining
mirror daily, Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others
must adore; While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers,
to vow gaily, You will wed no man that's only good to God—and nothing more.
When through a chink a darkened room
Admits the solar beam,
Millions of atoms stream.
Alternate dies they bear;
Or any sight, but there.
To human search or skill;
Let us not like fools despise
Earth, which is a seat of beauty,
Turns unto it as a duty.
When it guides us to death's portal,
Of a beauty all immortal.
E. H. B.
Men say gold Does all, engages all, works through all dangers; But I say beauty can do more. The king's exchequer, Nor all his wealthy Indies, could not draw me Through half these miseries, this piece of pleasure Might make me leap into. We're all like sea-cards, All our endeavours and our motions, (As they do to the north) still point at beauty.
Beaumont and Fletcher.
If but our watchful eyes
Mrs. Hemans. Beautiful, yes! but the blush will fade,
The light grow dim which the blue eyes wear; The gloss will vanish from curl and braid,
And the sunbeam die in the waving hair. Turn from the mirror, and strive to win
Treasures of loveliness still to last; Gather earth's glory and bloom within, That the soul may be bright when youth is past.
Mrs. Osgood. Thy glorious beauty was the gift of heavenAs such thou should'st have priz'd it, and have died Ere thou did’st yield it up to mortal touch, Unless thy heart went with it, to make pure And sanctify the offering.
Mrs. Osgood. The spirit of beauty unfurls her light, And wheels her course in a joyous flight; I know her track through the balmy air, By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there; She leaves the tops of the mountains green, And gems the valley with crystal sheen.
* * * * * * She mellows the landscape, and crowds the stream, With shadows that flit like a fairy dream; Still wheeling her flight through the gladsome air, The spirit of beauty is everywhere.
101 Though loveliness will pass away From individual beings, and is oft More mortal than the human heirs of death, Yet abstract beauty since at first the will Of heaven-designed Creation, through the lapse Of past eternity, has ever been A living essence, an immortal thing. Each generation views it fresh and fair, As that which went before; and though the hand Of death will grasp the sweetest flowers on earth, Others become their likeness; and when sounds The trumpet through the systems, all shall rise With deathless being and regenerate form; And through the future shall undying love Perfect the soul of beauteousness, and shake Decay from those she dwells with, to adorn Through endless years the palaces of heaven.
Dilnot Sladden. Only the beautiful is real: All things whereof our life is full,
All mysteries that life enwreathe,
Birth, life, and death,
Alone is real.
* * * * * * Love, truth, and beauty—all are one:
If life may expiate
But as the mighty ever-living gate
W. J. Linton. Is beauty vain because it will fade?
Then are earth's green robe and heaven's light vain; For this shall be lost in evening's shade,
And that in winter's sleety rain. John Pierpont. Beauty was lent to nature as the type Of heaven's unspeakable and holy joy, Where all perfection makes the sum of bliss.
Oh! thou gentle scene
In bed we laugh, in bed we cry,
How sweet when labours close,
The curtain of repose,
To the head with a wakeful trouble:
BEGGAR. WHILE I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich: And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. Shakspere. The_country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, Strike in their numbed and mortified bare arms, Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary, And with this horrible object from low farmš, Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, Sometimes with lunatic bans, sometimes with prayers, Enforce their charity.
Art thou a man? And sham'st not thou to beg?
Heywood. He makes a beggar first that first relieves him; Not us’rers make more beggars where they live, Than charitable men that use to give.
Beggars! the only free men of our commonwealth;
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
Goldsmith. The beggar, as he stretched his shrivelled hand, Raised not his eyes, and those who dropped the mite Passed on unnoticed.
J. R. Lowell.