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When wearily we wander, asking
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
WAR AGAINST BABYLON.
(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!
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 !
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
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 :
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
No star for London's feasts to-day,
On half its usual opiate's share;
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 ;-
The first epistolary bell,
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
And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call,
A spirit of coolness over all.
And now th' important hour drew nigh,
Of four-horse power, had all combined Through Grosvenor Gate to speed their course,
Leaving that portion of mankind,
Meanwhile—what strain is that which floats
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.
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-
He specifies “ harps ever tuned.”?
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.
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.
Speaking of one of these new Lays,
“ 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
'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.
The golden eve its lustre pour'd,
Now group'd around that festal board;
A living mass of plumes and flowers,
Each sunset ray that mix'd by chanco
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,
In the bleak fog of England's skies,
As masqueraders, to disguise)
Was answer'd by the young and gay
That, in the toilet's task to-day,
Up to the heights of Epic clamber,
Be ransack'd by the femme de chambre.
But not in dark disguise to-night
His wedded bride, by holiest vow
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 ;
Her butterfly as gayly nods
At some great Concert of the Gods,
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,
Who, last night, voted for the Greeks; And Friars, stanch No-Popery men,
In close confab with Whig Caciques.
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