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| THE ORB I like is not the one | |
| That dazzles with its lightning gleam; | |
| That dares to look upon the sun, | |
| As though it challenged brighter beam. | |
| That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll; | 5 |
| Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly; | |
| But not for me: I prize the soul | |
| That slumbers in a quiet eye. | |
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| There ’s something in its placid shade | |
| That tells of calm, unworldly thought; | 10 |
| Hope may be crown’d, or joy delay’d— | |
| No dimness steals, no ray is caught. | |
| Its pensive language seems to say, | |
| “I know that I must close and die;” | |
| And death itself, come when it may, | 15 |
| Can hardly change the quiet eye. | |
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| There ’s meaning in its steady glance, | |
| Of gentle blame or praising love, | |
| That makes me tremble to advance | |
| A word, that meaning might reprove. | 20 |
| The haughty threat, the fiery look, | |
| My spirit proudly can defy, | |
| But never yet could meet and brook | |
| The upbraiding of a quiet eye. | |
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| There ’s firmness in its even light, | 25 |
| That augurs of a breast sincere: | |
| And, oh! take watch how ye excite | |
| That firmness till it yield a tear. | |
| Some bosoms give an easy sigh, | |
| Some drops of grief will freely start, | 30 |
| But that which sears the quiet eye | |
| Hath its deep fountain in the heart. | |
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