But lo! thou lift’st thy shield o’er yonder tide, 
The gray clouds flee before the conquering Sun, 
Thou, like a monarch, up the heavens dost ride, 
And joy! thou beam’st on me, celestial one! 
On me, thy worshiper! thy poor Parsee! 
Whose brow adoring types thy face divine; 
God of my burning heart’s idolatry! 
Take root like me, or give me life like thine! 
M. E. Hewitt. 
SYRINGA. Lovely and Lovable. 
I thought, when first I saw thy face , 
“Her beauty is her chiefest grace”— 
And when thy words thy mind portrayed, 
“Nay! there ,” I said, “the charm is laid;” 
But years of friendship so endear thee, 
’Tis for thy heart I now revere thee. 
She comes! in light, aerial grace, 
O’er memory’s glass the vision flies; 
Her girlish form, her glowing face, 
Her soft, black hair, her beaming eyes. 
I think of all her generous love, 
Her trustful heart, so pure and meek, 
Her tears—an April shower,—that strove 
With sunshine on her changing cheek. 
She knows no worldly guide or art, 
But Love and Joy have made her fair; 
And so I keep her in my heart, 
And bless her in my silent prayer. 
