GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT. (AIR. STEVENSON.) Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home,1 And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come! From that time, when the moon upon Ajalon's vale, Looking motionless down,' saw the kings of the earth, In the presence of God's mighty Champion, grow pale Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth! Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home, And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come! Bring myrtle and palm-bring the boughs of each tree That's worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.* From that day, when the footsteps of Israel shone, With a light not their own, through the Jordan's deep tide, Whose waters shrunk back as the Ark glided on* Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride! Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home, And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come! IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HERE- Is it not sweet to think, hereafter, Hearts, from which 'twas death to sever, Eyes, this world can ne'er restore, There, as warm, as bright as ever, Shall meet us and be lost no more. 1 "And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches," &c., &c.-Neh. viii. 15. 2 "For since the days of Jeshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the children of Israel done so: and there was very great gladness."-Neh. viii. 17. 3 "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon."-Josh. x. 12. 4" Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtlebranches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths."-Neh. viii. 15. "And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the When wearily we wander, asking Of earth and heav'n where are they, Beneath whose smile we once lay basking, Bless'd, and thinking bliss would stay? Hope still lifts her radiant finger Pointing to th' eternal Home, Upon whose portal yet they linger, Looking back for us to come. Alas, alas-doth Hope deceive us? Shall friendship-love-shall all those ties That bind a moment, and then leave us, Be found again where nothing dies? Oh, if no other boon were given, To keep our hearts from wrong and stain, Who would not try to win a Heaven Where all we love shall live again? WAR AGAINST BABYLON. (AIR.-NOVELLO.) "WAR against Babylon !" shout we around," Be our banners through earth unfurl'd; Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound"— "War against Babylon!" shout through the world! Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters," Thy day of pride is ended now; And the dark curse of Israel's daughters Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,' Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields, "Zion" our watchword, and "vengeance" our cry! Wo! wo!--the time of thy visitation10 Is come, proud Land, thy doom is cast And the black surge of desolation Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last! War, war, war against Babylon! LORD stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground."-Josh. iii. 17. "Shout against her round about."-Jer. 1. 15. "Set ye up a standard in the land, blow the trumpet among the nations, prepare the nations against her, call together against her the kingdoms," &c., &c.—Jer. li. 27. 8"Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters, . . . . end is come."-Jer. li. 13. thine "Make bright the arrows; gather the shields. ... set up the standard upon the walls of Babylon."—Jer. li 11, 12. 10" Wo unto them for their day is come, the time of their visitation !"-Jer. 1. 27. THE SUMMER FÊTE ΤΟ THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON. For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fête, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening-of which the lady to whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most distinguished ornaments-I was induced at the time to write some verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering that the same task had been undertaken by a noble poet, whose playful and happy jeu-d'esprit on the subject has since been published. It was but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary Fête as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music. Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father's warmly attached friend, Which bards unborn shall celebrate, She backward drew her curtain's shade, And, closing one half-dazzled eye, Peep'd with the other at the skyTh' important sky, whose light or gloom Was to decide, this day, the doom Of some few hundred beauties, wits, Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites. Faint were her hopes; for June had now But Eurus in perpetual vigor; With hands uplifted to the flame, Whose glow, as if to woo them nigher, Through the white fingers flushing came But oh the light, th' unhoped-for light, Though-hark!-the clocks but strike eleven, Who now will say that England's sun (Like England's self, these spendthrift days) His stock of wealth hath near outrun, And must retrench his golden rays— Pay for the pride of sunbeams past, And to mere moonshine come at last? "Calumnious thought!" Iänthe cries, While coming mirth lit up each glance, And, prescient of the ball, her eyes Already had begun to dance: For brighter sun than that which now Sparkled o'er London's spires and towers, Had never bent from heaven his brow To kiss Firenze's City of Flowers. What must it be-if thus so fair Peep from their bowers to woo his tide, In one of those enchanted domes, The Fête is to be held to-night- Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight (When look'd for long, at last they came,) Seem'd circled with a fairy light ;That Fête to which the cull, the flower Of England's beauty, rank and power, From the young spinster, just come out, To the old Premier, too long inFrom legs of far descended gout, To the last new-moustachio'd chinAll were convoked by Fashion's spells To the small circle where she dwells, Collecting nightly, to allure us, Live atoms, which, together hurl'd, She, like another Epicurus, Sets dancing thus, and calls "the World." Behold how busy in those bowers And now th' important hour drew nigh, Of four-horse power, had all combined No star for London's feasts to-day, On half its usual opiate's share; Being all call'd to-prase elsewhere. Soon as through Grosvenor's lordly square- Of parting pennies rung the knell; And by the daylight's westering beam, The young Iänthe, who, with flowers Half-crown'd, had sat in idle dream Before her glass, scarce knowing where Her fingers roved through that bright hair, While, all capriciously, she now Dislodged some curl from her white brow, And now again replaced it there ;As though her task was meant to be One endless change of ministryA routing-up of Loves and Graces, But to plant others in their places. Meanwhile-what strain is that which floats 1 Archimedes. 2 I am not certain whether the Dowagers of this Square have yet yielded to the innovations of Gas and Police, but at the time when the above lines were written, they still obstinately persevered in their old régime; and would not suffer themselves to be either well guarded or well lighted. That point towards which when ladies rise, Came with this youthful voice communing, Tones true, for once, without the aid Of that inflictive process, tuning- In their light legions to enlist her, The song she thus, like Jubal's shell, Gave forth" so sweetly and so well," Was one in Morning Post much famed, From a divine collection, named, "Songs of the toilet❞—every Lay Taking for subject of its Muse, Some branch of feminine array, Some item, with full scope, to choose, From diamonds down to dancing shoes; From the last hat that Herbault's hands Bequeath'd to an admiring world, Down to the latest flounce that stands Like Jacob's Ladder-or expands Far forth, tempestuously unfurl'd. SONG. ARRAY thee, love, array thee, love, As borrowing grace from them. Put on the plumes thy lover gave, The plumes, that, proudly dancing, Proclaim to all, where'er they wave, Victorious eyes advancing. Bring forth the robe, whose hue of heaven To boast but one so bright. Array thee, love, array thee, love, &c. &c. &c. Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Through Pleasure's circles hie thee, And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, Will beat, when they come nigh thee. Thy every word shall be a spell, Thy every look a ray, And tracks of wond'ring eyes shall tell Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Through Pleasure's circles hie thee, And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, Shall beat when they come nigh thes Now in his Palace of the West, Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, Like a tired monarch fann'd to rest, Mid the cool airs of Evening lay; While round his couch's golden rim The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, creptStruggling each other's light to dim, And catch his last smile ere he slept. The golden eve its lustre pour'd, 2 The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely. "Where is she," ask'st thou?-watch all looks A living mass of plumes and flowers, Each sunset ray that mix'd by chance How sunbeams may be taught to dance If not in written form express'd, "Twas known, at least, to every guest, In the bleak fog of England's skies, Was answer'd by the young and gay- Up to the heights of Epic clamber, And all the regions of Romance Be ransack'd by the femme de chambre. Accordingly, with gay Sultanas, In looking most profanely handsome ;- With these, and more such female groups, In close confab with Whig Caciques. But where is she-the nymph, whom late In the clear wave her charms surveying, And saw in that first glassy mirror As cent'ring to one point they bear, Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks, Turn'd to the sun-and she is there. By her own light you'd track her out: But not in dark disguise to-night To mortals by the type which now But hark! some song hath caught her ears- And to a mere terrestrial strain, As though she sat with all her train At some great Concert of the Gods, From a male group the carol came A few gay youths, whom round the board The last-tried flask's superior fame Had lured to taste the tide it pour'd; SONG. SOME mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine, Heaven, |