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; Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly; But not for me: I prize the soul That slumbers in a quiet eye.
There â€™s something in its placid shade That tells of calm, unworldly thought; Hope may be crownâ€™d, or joy delayâ€™dâ€” No dimness steals, no ray is caught. Its pensive language seems to say, â€œI know that I must close and die;â€ And death itself, come when it may, Can hardly change the quiet eye.
There â€™s meaning in its steady glance, Of gentle blame or praising love, That makes me tremble to advance A word, that meaning might reprove. The haughty threat, the fiery look, My spirit proudly can defy, But never yet could meet and brook The upbraiding of a quiet eye.
There â€™s firmness in its even light, 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, But that which sears the quiet eye Hath its deep fountain in the heart.