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.