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, HEREAFTER.

(AIR.-HAYDN.)

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,
When the Spirit leaves this sphere,
Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her
To those she long hath mourn'd for here?

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.

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 staja,

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
Breaks, like a thunder-cloud, over thy brow!
War, war, war against Babylon!

Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,

Set the standard of God on high; Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields, "Zion" our watchword, and "vengeance" our

cry!

Wo! wo!-the time of thy visitation
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.

7 "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,.... thine end is come."-Jer. li. 13.

TO

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,

Sloperton Cottage, November, 1831.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE SUMMER FÊTE.

"WHERE are ye now, ye summer days, "That once inspired the poet's lays? "Bless'd time! ere England's nymphs and swains, "For lack of sunbeams, took to coals"Summers of light, undimm'd by rains, "Whose only mocking trace remains "In watering-pots and parasols."

Thus spoke a young Patrician maid, As, on the morning of that Fête

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 beanties, wits, Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites.

Faint were her hopes; for June had now
Set in with all his usual rigor !
Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how
To nurse a bud, or fan a bough,
But Eurus in perpetual vigor;
And, such the biting summer air,
That she, the nymph now nestling there-
Snug as her own bright gems recline,
At night, within their cotton shrine-
Had, more than once, been caught of late
Kneeling before her blazing grate,
Like a young worshipper of fire,
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,
That now illumed this morning's heaven!
Up sprung Iänthe at the sight,
Though-hark!-the clocks but strike eleven,
And rarely did the nymph surprise
Mankind so early with her eyes.

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

*Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor Square-
What must it be where Thames is seen
Gliding between his banks of green,
While rival villas, on each side,

Peep from their bowers to woo his tide,
And, like a Turk between two rows
Of Harem beauties, on he goes-
A lover, loved for ev'n the grace
With which he slides from their embrace.

In one of those enchanted domes,

One, the most flow'ry, cool, and bright Of all by which that river roams,

The Fête is to be held to-nightThat Fête already link'd to fame, 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
(Like May-flies, in and out of flowers,)
The countless menials swarming run,
To furnish forth, ere set of sun,
The banquet-table richly laid
Beneath yon awning's lengthen'd shade,
Where fruits shall tempt, and wines entice,
And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call,
Breathe from her summer-throne of ice
A spirit of coolness over all.

And now th' important hour drew nigh,
When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky,
The west end "world" for mirth let loose,
And moved, as he of Syracuse1
Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force

Of four-horse power, had all combined
Through Grosvenor Gate to speed their course,
Leaving that portion of mankind,
Whom they call "Nobody," behind ;-

No star for London's feasts to-day,
No moon of beauty, new this May,
To lend the night her crescent ray ;-
Nothing, in short, for ear or eye,
But veteran belles, and wits gone by,
The relics of a past beau-monde,
A world, like Cuvier's, long dethroned!
Ev'n Parliament this evening nods
Beneath th' harangues of minor gods,

On half its usual opiate's share;
The great dispensers of repose,
The first-rate furnishers of prose

Being all call'd to-prose elsewhere.

Soon as through Grosvenor's lordly square-
That last impregnable redoubt,
Where, guarded with Patrician care
Primeval Error still holds out-
Where never gleam of gas must dare
'Gainst ancient Darkness to revolt,
Nor smooth Macadam hope to spare
The dowagers one single jolt;
Where, far too stately and sublime
To profit by the lights of time,
Let Intellect march how it will,
They stick to oil and watchmen still :-
Soon as through that illustrious square

The first epistolary bell,
Sounding by fits upon the air,

Of parting pennies rung the knell ;
Warn'd by that telltale of the hours,
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 ministry-
A routing-up of Loves and Graces,
But to plant others in their places.

Meanwhile-what strain is that which floats
Through the small boudoir near-like notes
Of some young bird, its task repeating
For the next linnet music-meeting?
A voice it was, whose gentle sounds
Still kept a modest octave's bounds,
Nor yet had ventured to exalt
Its rash ambition to B alt,

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,
The wise man takes his hat and flies.
Tones of a harp, too, gently play'd,

Came with this youthful voice communing, Tones true, for once, without the aid

Of that inflictive process, tuningA process which must oft have given Poor Milton's ears a deadly wound; So pleased, among the joys of Heav'n,

He specifies " harps ever tuned."
She who now sung this gentle strain
Was our young nymph's still younger sister-
Scarce ready yet for Fashion's train
In their light legions to enlist her,
But counted on, as sure to bring
Her force into the field next spring.

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,
In all thy best array thee;
The sun's below the moon's above
And Night and Bliss obey thee.
Put on thee all that's bright and rare,
The zone, the wreath, the gem,
Not so much gracing charms so fair,
As borrowing grace from them.
Array thee, love, array thee, love,
In all that's bright array thee;
The sun's below the moon's above-
And Night and Bliss obey thee.

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

From thee derives such light, That Iris would give all her seven 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
The glory of thy way!

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 then

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, crept-
Struggling each other's light to dim,
And catch his last smile ere he slept.
How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames
The golden eve its lustre pour'd,
Shone out the high-born knights and dames
Now group'd around that festal board;

2 The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely. A living mass of plumes and flowers,

As though they'd robb'd both birds and bowers
A peopled rainbow, swarming through
With habitants of every hue;
While, as the sparkling juice of France
High in the crystal brimmers flow'd,

Each sunset ray that mix'd by chance
With the wine's sparkles, show'd

How sunbeams may be taught to dance

If not in written form express'd,
"Twas known, at least, to every guest,
That, though not bidden to parade
Their scenic powers in masquerade,
(A pastime little found to thrive

In the bleak fog of England's skies,
Where wit's the thing we best contrive,
As masqueraders, to disguise,)
It yet was hoped and well that hope
Was answer'd by the young and gay-
That, in the toilet's task to-day,
Fancy should take her wildest scope ;-
That the rapt milliner should be
Let loose through fields of poesy,
The tailor, in inventive trance,
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, Rebeccas, Sapphos, RoxalanasCircassian slaves whom Love would pay Half his maternal realms to ransom ;Young nuns, whose chief religion lay

In looking most profanely handsome ;Muses in muslin-pastoral maids With hats from the Arcade-ian shades, And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain, As fortune-hunters form'd their train.

With these, and more such female groups,
Were mix'd no less fantastic troops
Of male exhibiters-all willing
To look, ev'n more than usual, killing ;-
Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios,
And brigands, charmingly ferocious ;-
M. P.'s turn'd Turks, good Moslems then,
Who, last night, voted for the Greeks;
And Friars, stanch No-Popery men,

In close confab with Whig Caciques.

But where is she-the nymph, whom late
We left before her glass delaying,
Like Eve, when by the lake she sate,
In the clear wave her charms surveying,
And saw in that first glassy mirror
The first fair face that lured to error.

"Where is she," ask'st thou?-watch all looks

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.

Ev'n in disguise, oh never doubt
By her own light you'd track her out:
As when the moon, close shawl'd in fog,
Steals, as she thinks, through heaven incog,
Though hid herself, some sidelong ray,
At every step, detects her way.

But not in dark disguise to-night
Hath our young heroine veil'd her light ;-
For see, she walks the earth, Love's own,
His wedded bride, by holiest vow
Pledged in Olympus, and made anown
To mortals by the type which now
Hangs glitt'ring on her snowy brow,
That butterfly, mysterious trinket,
Which means the Soul, (tho' few would think it,)
And sparkling thus on brow so white,
Tells us we've Psyche here to-night!

But hark! some song hath caught her ears-
And, lo, how pleased, as though she'd ne'er
Heard the Grand Opera of the Spheres,

Her goddess-ship approves the air;
And to a mere terrestrial strain,
Inspired by naught but pink champagne,
Her butterfly as gayly nods
As though she sat with all her train
At some great Concert of the Gods,
With Phœbus, leader-Jove director
And half the audience drunk with nectar.

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;
And one, who, from his youth and lyre,
Seem'd grandson to the Teian sire,
Thus gayly sung, while, to his song,
Replied in chorus the gay throng:-

SONG.

SOME mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine,
As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see ;
But, as I'm not particular-wit, love, and wine,
Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me.
Nay-humble and strange as my tastes may appear-
If driv'n to the worst, I could manage, thank
Heaven,