ght upon her face,
That suited well the forehead high,
The eye-lash dark, and downcast eye;
The mild expression spoke a mind
In duty firm, composed, resign'd.

_Rokeby, Canto 4._

The rose, with faint and feeble streak
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek,
That you had said her hue was pale;
But if she faced the summer-gale,
Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved,
Or heard the praise of those she loved,
Or when of interest was express'd
Aught that waked feeling in her breast,
That mantling blood in ready play
Rivall'd the blush of rising day.

_Rokeby, Canto 4._

What woman knows not her own road to victory?--_The Talisman._

She had been beautiful, and was stately and majestic in her
appearance. Endowed by nature with strong powers and violent
passions, experience had taught her to employ the one, and to
conceal, if not to moderate, the other. She was a severe and strict
observer of the external forms, at least, of devotion; her
hospitality was splendid, even to ostentation; her address and
manners were grave, dignified, and severely regulated by the rules
of etiquette.... And yet, with all these qualities to excite
respect, she was seldom mentioned in the terms of love or
affection. Interest,--the interest of her family, if not her
own--seemed too obviously the motive of her actions: and when this
is the case, the sharp-judging and malignant public are not easily
imposed upon by outward show.--_The Bride of Lammermoor._

Reasoning--like a woman, to whom external appearance is scarcely in
any circumstance a matter of unimportance, and like a beauty who
has confidence in her own charms.--_Kenilworth._

Her affection and sympathy dictated at once the kindest course.
Without attempting to control the torrent of grief in its full
current, she gently sat her down beside the mourner.... She waited
a more composed moment to offer her little stock of consolation in
deep silence and stillness.--_The Betrothed._

Her kindness and her worth to spy
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,