To Eva.

A beam upon the myrtle fell From dewy evening's purest sky, 'Twas like the glance I love so well, Dear Eva, from thy moonlight eye. I looked around the summer grove, On every tree its lustre shone; For all had felt that look of love The silly myrtle deemed its own. Eva! behold thine image there, As fair, as false thy glances fall; But who the worthless smile would share That sheds its light alike on all.