Thou monarch sun, whose light unfurls Thy banners through unnumbered skies, Seest thou amid thy subject worlds The flaming portals rise? All, all are mute! and still am I O’erburthened with an earthly weight, A palmer through the world and sky Seeking the celestial gate. No answer wheresoe’er I roam— From skies afar no guiding ray; But, hark! the voice of Christ says “Come! Arise! I am the way!” * * * * * TO LIZZIE. BY MRS. M. N. M’DONALD. And all hearts do pray, “God love her!” Ay, in certes, in good sooth, We may all be sure He doth. Miss Barrett. There’s a charm about thee, Lizzie, That I cannot well define, And I sometimes think it lieth In that soft blue eye of thine; And yet, though pleasant is thine eye, And beautiful thy lip— As a rose-leaf bathed in honey dews, A bee might love to sip— Yet I think it is nor lip nor eye Which binds me with its spell, But a something dearer far than these, Though undefinable. When I meet thee, dearest Lizzie, When I hear thy gentle tone; When my hand is pressed so tenderly, So warmly in thine own— Why then I think it is thy voice, Whose music, like a bird’s, Can soothe me with the melody Of sweetly spoken words: Perchance the pressure of thy hand This hidden charm may be— Or the magic, Lizzie, of a sigh That lures my heart to thee. Perchance it is thy gentleness, Perchance thy winning smile, Which lurketh in such dimples As might _easily_ beguile; Or perchance the music of thy laugh Hath a bewildering flow— Yet I cannot tell, my Lizzie, If it be thy laugh or no; For mirth as musical as thine Hath met mine ear before, But its memory faded from my heart When once the strain was o’er. Oh! for the wand of fairy To dissolve the witching spell, And teach me, dearest Lizzie, What it is I love so well. Thy simple truth and earnestness, Perchance it may be this, Or the gentle kindness breathing In thy morn or evening kiss— Thy care for others’ weal or wo, Thy quickly springing tears— Or, at times, a quiet thoughtfulness, Unmeet for thy brief years. Well, be it either look or tone, Or smile, or soft caress, I know not, Lizzie, yet I feel I could not love thee less. And something, haply, there may be, “Like light within a vase,” Which, from the soul-depths gleaming forth, Flings o’er thee such a grace. Perchance, the hidden charm I seek, That words may not impart, Is but the warm affections Of a kind and loving heart.