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When wearily we wander, asking
GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT.

Of earth and heav'n where are they,

Beneath whose smilo we once lay basking, (AIR.-STEVENSON.)

Bless'd, and thinking bliss would stay? Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home,

Hope still lists her radiant finger And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is como ! Pointing to th' eternal Home, From that time, when the moon upon Ajalon's Upon whose portal yet they linger, vale,

Looking back for us to come. Looking motionless down,' saw the kings of the earth,

Alas, alas-doth Hope deceive us ? In the presence of God's mighty Champion, grow Shall friendship-love-shall all those ties palo

That bind a moment, and then leave us, Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth!

Be found again where nothing dies ? Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home,

Oh, if no other boon were given, And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

To keep our hearts from wrong and stan,

Who would not try to win a Heaven
Bring myrtle and palm-bring the boughs of each Where all we love shall live again?

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

WAR AGAINST BABYLON.
deep tide,

(Air.-Novello.) Whose waters shrunk back as the Ark glided on

“War against Babylon !" shout we around, Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride! Be our banners through earth unfurl'd; Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the soundhome,

“ War against Babylon!” shout througu tho And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

world!
Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,

Thy day of pride is ended now ;

And the dark curse of Israel's daughters IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HERE- Breaks, like a thunder-cloud, over thy brow! AFTER

War, war, war against Babylon !

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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.

3 "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. vili. 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.

6" And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the

LORD stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground."-- Josh. iii. 17.

6 "Shout against her round about."--Jer. I. 15.

9 "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, .... thino end is come."- Jer. li. 13.

• " Make bright the arrows; gather the shields . . . . set up the standard upon the walls of Babylon."— Jer. Ji 11, 12.

10" Wo unto them for their day is come, the time of their visitation !"-Jer. 1. 27.

THE SUMMER FÊTE

TO

THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON.

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.

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 conmemoration 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 jcu-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,

THOMAS MOORE. Sloperton Cottage, November, 1831.

Faint were her hopes; for Juno 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 thereSnug as her own bright gems recline, At night, within their cotton shrineHad, 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 hearen! Up sprung länthe at the sight,

Though—hark the clocks but strike eleven, And rarely did the nymph surprise Mankind so early with her eyes.

THE SUMMER FÊTE.

Who now will say that England's sun

(Liko England's self, these spendthrift days) His stock of wealth hath near outrun,

And must retrench his golden raysPay for the pride of sunbeams past, And to mere moonshine come at last ?

“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."

“Calumnious thought !" länthe 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.

Thus spoke a young Patrician maid,

As, on the morning of that Fête

1 Lord Francis Egerton.

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.

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 topmse elsewhere.

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 Fete 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 in, From 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 hurld, She, like another Epicurus,

Sets dancing thus, and calls “the World.”

Soon as through Grosvenor's lordly square

That last impregnable redoubt, Where, guarded with Patrician care

Primeval Error still holds outWhere 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 länthe, who, with flowers

Half-crown'd, had sat in idle dream Before her glass, scarce knowing where Her fingers roved through that bright hair,

Whilo, 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.

Behold how busy in those bowers
(Like May-fies, 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 of Syracuse'
No'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 ;-

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,

i Archimedes.

the time when the above lines were written, they still obsti: I am not certain whether the Dowagers of this Equare nately persevered in their old régime; and would not suffer have yet yielded to the innovations of Gas and Police, but at themselves to be either well guarded or well lighted.

SONG.

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, tuning-
A 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 sisterScarce 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.

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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 unfurld.

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Speaking of one of these new Lays,
The Morning Post thus sweetly says:
“Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre,

“ That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives, “ Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire,

“ This fine Cantata upon Sleeves. * The very notes themselves reveal

“ The cut of each new sleeve so well ; “ A flat betrays the Imbécilles,

Light fugues the flying lappets tell; « While rich cathedral chords awake * Our homago for the Manches d'Evêque."

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love,

Through Pleasure's circles hie thee, And hearts, where'er thy footsteps more,

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

66

'Twas the first op'ning song—the Lay

Of all least deep in toilet-lore, That the young nymph, to while away

The tiring hour, thus warbled o'er :

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, crepeStruggling 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;
The name given to those large sleeves that hang luose's.

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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 chanco
With the wine's sparkles, show'd

How sunbeams may be taught to dance

" 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 shawld in fog, Steals, as she thinks, through heaven incog, Though hid herself, some sidelong ray, At every step, detects her way.

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.

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 glittring 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 Phæbus, leader-Jove director
And half the audience drunk with nectar.

Accordingly, with gay Sultanas, Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxalanas Circassian 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- shades, And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain, As fortune-hunters form’d their train.

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, whilo, to his song, Replied in chorus the gay throng :

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.

SONG.

But where is sho—the nymph, whom late

We left beforo 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.

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 appearIf driv'n to the worst, I could manage, thank

Heaven,

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