Beauty gives The features perfectness, and to the form Its delicate proportions: she may stain The eye with a celestial blue--the cheek With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe Grace into every motion, like the play Of the least visible tissue of a cloud: She may give all that is within her own Bright cestus--and one glance of intellect, Like stronger magic, will outshine it all. _Willis._ ALTHEA.... _Consumed by Love_. The name and signification of the Althea is derived from the Grecian fable of Althea and her son, who lost his life in consequence of his love for the beautiful Atalanta. His consuming away as the fatal brand was burning, suggested the emblem of consumed by love. The Althea is a shrub from five to seven feet in height, and is a native of the East Indies. The flowers are about the size of the common rose, and either of a white or pink hue. * * * * * There is an all-consuming passion here; But ’tis a vestal flame, which worships thee! _Anon._ * * * * * Like Ixion, I look on Juno, feel my heart turn to cinders With an invisible fire; and yet should she Deign to appear clothed in a various cloud, The majesty of the substance is so sacred I durst not clasp the shadow. I behold her With adoration, feast my eye, while all My other senses starve; and oft, frequenting The place which she makes happy with her presence, I never yet had power, with tongue or pen, To move her to compassion, or make known What ’tis I languish for; yet I must gaze still, Though it increase my flame. _Massinger._ * * * * * With thee conversing, I forget all time; All seasons and their change, all please alike. _Milton._ * * * * * Love is a region full of fires, And burning with extreme desires; An object seeks, of which possest, The wheels are still, the motions rest, The flames in ashes lie opprest; The meteor, striving high to rise, The fuel spent, falls down and dies. _Beaumont._ * * * * * What scenes appear where’er I turn my view! The dear ideas, where’er I fly, pursue, Rise in the grave, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, Thy image steals between my God and me; Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear, With every bead I drop too soft a tear. When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, And swelling organs lift the rising soul, One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: In seas of flame my plunging soul is drowned, While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. _Pope._