AN OPEN BOOK.

How strange are the stories we sometimes read In faces we meet by the way, They unconsciously tell of motive or deed That the tongue would refuse to betray. Each lineament is a page set apart To be studied and understood By the shade that reflects the mind and heart, In their varied forms and mood. The eye oft reflects the secrets of soul That are occult to all beside, And form of the mouth defying control Betrays what the heart fain would hide. The quivering chin and tear-bedewed eye That respond to a kindred word That unconsciously fell from a tongue passing by, Oft betrays how th' heart has been stirred. There are fountains so deep in some human lives That from them no draught can be drawn, Save the perfect mirage the face ever gives Of the soul when reflections dawn. How varied the pages we daily read— Some are joyous and full of glee, While others may tell of brave hearts that bleed, And then break in deep misery. The facial page to me hath a charm That no printed book can impart, 'Tis no fancied tale, 'tis no false alarm, But stern truths from the human heart. Pencils write plainly each act, on the face, Each motive indulged is seen there, No after decision can fully erase The masks faces ever must wear. If the face would be fair and bright and young, Wear a charming, a joyous hue, To truth and to right heart-strings must be strung, Every thought, every act must be true. Let the pencil of truth inscribe on the face, Let honor illumine the eye, Let generous thoughts and acts ever grace The face-page the world shall descry.