THE NAMELESS CHARM.

Stella,‘ tis not your dainty head,

Your artless look, I own;

‘ Tis not your dear coquettish tread,

Or this, or that, alone;

Nor is it all your gifts combined;

‘ Tis something in your face,—

The untranslated, undefined,

Uncertainty of grace,

That taught the Boy on Ida's hill

To whom the meed was due;

All three have equal charms — but still

This one I give it to!