FOURTH EVENING.

Which is devoted to Selections from Moore, Burns, and other Scotch and Irish Poets; and no Bards of any Land have written Love-Verses of Choicer Savor.

THE BIRTH OF PORTRAITURE.

SONG FROM "EVENINGS IN GREECE," BY THOMAS MOORE.

A

S once a Grecian maiden wove

Her garland mid the summer bowers,
There stood a youth, with eyes of love,

To watch her while she wreathed the flowers.
The youth was skilled in Painting's art,

But ne'er had studied woman's brow,

Nor knew what magic hues the heart
Can shed o'er Nature's charms, till now.

Chorus.

Blest be Love, to whom we owe

All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose,

And sketched the rays that light the brook;

But what were these, or what were those,

To woman's blush, to woman's look?

"Oh, if such magic power there be,

This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer, To paint that living light I see,

And fix the soul that sparkles there."

His prayer, as soon as breathed, was heard ;
His pallet, touched by love, grew warm,
And Painting saw her hues transferred
From lifeless flowers to woman's form.
Still as from tint to tint he stole,

The fair design shone out the more,
And there was now a life, a soul,
Where only colors glowed before.

Then first carnations learned to speak,
And lilies unto life were brought;
While, mantling on the maiden's cheek,
Young roses kindled into thought.
Then hyacinths their darkest dyes

Upon the locks of Beauty threw ;
And violets, transformed to eyes,
Inshrined a soul within their blue.

Chorus.

Blest be Love, to whom we owe
All that's fair and bright below.
Song was cold and Painting dim

Till Song and Painting learned from him.

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

L

BY THOMAS MOORE.

ESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth;

I

Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth! Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid, that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one,

Like unexpected light, surprises!

O my Nora Creina, dear!
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina!
Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But love in yours, my Nora Creina!

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it,

Not a charm of beauty's mold

Presumes to stay where Nature placed it!

Oh! my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases!

Yes, my Nora Creina!

My simple, graceful Nora Creina!

Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina!

Lesbia hath a wit refined,

But when its points are gleaming round us,

Who can tell if they're designed

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?

Pillowed on my Nora's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposesBed of peace! whose roughest part