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!