THE BIRTH OF PORTRAITURE by THOMAS MOORE

AS 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 charm, 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 lit the brook;
But what were these, or what were those,
To woman's blush, to woman's look?
"O, 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 thus 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 carnation learned to speak,
And lilies into 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 bright and fair below;
Song was cold and painting dim,
Till song and painting learned from him.

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