The Summer Fte.

TO THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON.     For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fte, 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,[1] 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 Fte 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 1881     [1] Lord Francis Egerton.     The Summer Fte     "Where are ye now, ye summer days,     "That once inspired the poet's lays?     "Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains,         "For lack of sunbeams, took to coals--     "Summers of light, undimmed by rains,     "Whose only mocking trace remains         "In watering-pots and parasols."     Thus spoke a young Patrician maid,         As, on the morning of that Fte         Which bards unborn shall celebrate,     She backward drew her curtain's shade,     And, closing one half-dazzled eye,     Peeped with the other at the sky--     The 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         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.         Thro' the white fingers flushing came.     But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light,         That now illumed this morning's heaven!     Up sprung Inthe at the sight,         Tho'--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!" Inthe 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 even the grace     With which he slides from their embrace.     In one of those enchanted domes,         One, the most flowery, cool, and bright     Of all by which that river roams,         The Fte is to be held to-night--     That Fte already linked to fame,         Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight     (When looked for long, at last they came,)         Seemed circled with a fairy light;--     That Fte 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-mustachioed chin--     All were convoked by Fashion's spells     To the small circle where she dwells,     Collecting nightly, to allure us,         Live atoms, which, together hurled,     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 lengthened 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 the 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 Syracuse[1]     Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force         Of four horse power, had all combined     Thro' 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!     Even Parliament this evening nods     Beneath the harangues of minor Gods,         On half its usual opiate's share;     The great dispensers of repose,     The first-rate furnishers of prose         Being all called to--prose elsewhere.     Soon as thro' 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 watchman still:--     Soon as thro' that illustrious square         The first epistolary bell.     Sounding by fits upon the air,         Of parting pennies rung the knell;     Warned by that tell-tale of the hours,         And by the day-light's westering beam,     The young Inthe, who, with flowers         Half crowned, had sat in idle dream     Before her glass, scarce knowing where     Her fingers roved thro' that bright hair,         While, all capriciously, she now         Dislodged some curl from her white brow,     And now again replaced it there:--     As tho' 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     Thro' 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,     That point towards which when ladies rise,     The wise man takes his hat and--flies.     Tones of a harp, too, gently played,         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 Heaven,         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         Bequeathed to an admiring world,     Down to the latest flounce that stands     Like Jacob's Ladder--or expands         Far forth, tempestuously unfurled.     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 Imbcilles,[2]         "Light fugues the flying lappets tell;     "While rich cathedral chords awake     'Our homage for the Manches d'vque."     'Twas the first opening song the Lay         Of all least deep in toilet-lore,     That the young nymph, to while away         The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:--     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, etc.     Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love,         Thro' 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 wondering eyes shall tell         The glory of thy way!     Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love,         Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee,     And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move,         Shall beat when they come nigh thee.                  *             *             *             *             *     Now in his Palace of the West,         Sinking to slumber, the bright Day,     Like a tired monarch fanned 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 e'er he slept.     How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames         The golden eve its lustre poured,     Shone out the high-born knights and dames         Now grouped around that festal board;     A living mass of plumes and flowers.     As tho' they'd robbed both birds and bowers--     A peopled rainbow, swarming thro'     With habitants of every hue;     While, as the sparkling juice of France     High in the crystal brimmers flowed,         Each sunset ray that mixt by chance     With the wine's sparkles, showed         How sunbeams may be taught to dance.     If not in written form exprest,     'Twas known at least to every guest,     That, tho' 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 answered 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 thro fields of poesy,     The tailor, in inventive trance,         Up to the heights of Epic clamber,     And all the regions of Romance         Be ransackt by the femme de chambre.     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-ian shades,     And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain,     As fortune-hunters formed their train.     With these and more such female groups,     Were mixt no less fantastic troops     Of male exhibitors--all willing     To look even more than usual killing;--     Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios,     And brigands, charmingly ferocious:--     M.P.'s turned 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 centring to one point they bear,     Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks,         Turned to the sun--and she is there.     Even in disguise, oh never doubt     By her own light you'd track her out:     As when the moon, close shawled in fog,     Steals as she thinks, thro' heaven incog.,     Tho' hid herself, some sidelong ray     At every step, detects her way.     But not in dark disguise to-night     Hath our young heroine veiled her light;--     For see, she walks the earth, Love's own.         His wedded bride, by holiest vow     Pledged in Olympus, and made known         To mortals by the type which now         Hangs glittering 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 tonight!     But hark! some song hath caught her ears--         And, lo, how pleased, as tho' 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 tho' she sate with all her train         At some great Concert of the Gods,     With Phoebus, leader--Jove, director,     And half the audience drunk with nectar.     From the 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 poured;     And one who from his youth and lyre     Seemed 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 driven to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven,     To put up with eyes such as beam round me here,         And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven.     So pledge me a bumper--your sages profound         May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan:     But as we are not sages, why--send the cup round--         We must only be happy the best way we can.     A reward by some king was once offered, we're told,         To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind;     But talk of new pleasures!--give me but the old,         And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find.     Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss,         Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day,     Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this,         And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way!     In the mean time, a bumper--your Angels, on high,         May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span;     But, as we are not Angels, why--let the flask fly--         We must be happy all ways that we can.                  *             *             *             *             *     Now nearly fled was sunset's light,         Leaving but so much of its beam     As gave to objects, late so blight,         The coloring of a shadowy dream;     And there was still where Day had set         A flush that spoke him loath to die--     A last link of his glory yet,         Binding together earth and sky.     Say, why is it that twilight best     Becomes even brows the loveliest?     That dimness with its softening Touch         Can bring out grace unfelt before,     And charms we ne'er can see too much,         When seen but half enchant the more?     Alas, it is that every joy     In fulness finds its worst alloy,     And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed,     Is sweeter than the whole possest;--     That Beauty, when least shone upon,         A creature most ideal grows;     And there's no light from moon or sun         Like that Imagination throws;--     It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks         Even from a bright reality,     And turning inly, feels and thinks         For heavenlier things than e'er will be.     Such was the effect of twilight's hour         On the fair groups that, round and round,     From glade to grot, from bank to bower,         Now wandered thro' this fairy ground;     And thus did Fancy--and champagne--         Work on the sight their dazzling spells,     Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain,         Now brightened in the gloom to belles;     And the brief interval of time,         'Twixt after dinner and before,     To dowagers brought back their prime,         And shed a halo round two-score.     Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye,         The ear, the fancy, quick succeed;     And now along the waters fly         Light gondoles, of Venetian breed,     With knights and dames who, calm reclined,         Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide--     Astonishing old Thames to find         Such doings on his moral tide.     So bright was still that tranquil river,     With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver,     That many a group in turn were seen     Embarking on its wave serene;     And 'mong the rest, in chorus gay,         A band of mariners, from the isles         Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles,     As smooth they floated, to the play     Of their oar's cadence, sung this lay:--     TRIO.     Our home is on the sea, boy,         Our home is on the sea;             When Nature gave             The ocean-wave,         She markt it for the Free.     Whatever storms befall, boy,         Whatever storms befall,             The island bark             Is Freedom's ark,         And floats her safe thro' all.     Behold yon sea of isles, boy,         Behold yon sea of isles,             Where every shore             Is sparkling o'er         With Beauty's richest smiles.     For us hath Freedom claimed, boy,         For us hath Freedom claimed             Those ocean-nests             Where Valor rests         His eagle wing untamed.     And shall the Moslem dare, boy,         And shall the Moslem dare,             While Grecian hand             Can wield a brand,         To plant his Crescent there?     No--by our fathers, no, boy,         No, by the Cross, we show--             From Maina's rills             To Thracia's hills         All Greece re-echoes "No!"                  *             *             *             *             *     Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind         A minute come and go again,     Even so by snatches in the wind,         Was caught and lost that choral strain,     Now full, now faint upon the ear,     As the bark floated far or near.     At length when, lost, the closing note         Had down the waters died along,     Forth from another fairy boat,         Freighted with music, came this song--     SONG.     Smoothly flowing thro' verdant vales,         Gentle river, thy current runs,     Sheltered safe from winter gales,         Shaded cool from summer suns.     Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide.         Fenced with flowery shelter round;     No rude tempest wakes the tide,         All its path is fairy ground.     But, fair river, the day will come,         When, wooed by whispering groves in vain,     Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home,         To mingle with the stormy main.     And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pass         Into the world's unsheltered sea,     Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas,         All hope of peace is lost for thee.     Next turn we to the gay saloon,     Resplendent as a summer noon,         Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights,     A Zodiac of flowers and tapers--     (Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds     Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)--         Quadrille performs her mazy rites,     And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;--     Working to death each opera strain,         As, with a foot that ne'er reposes,     She jigs thro' sacred and profane,         From "Maid and Magpie" up to "Moses;"--[3]     Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes,         Till fagged Rossini scarce respires;     Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues,         And Weber at her feet expires.     And now the set hath ceased--the bows     Of fiddlers taste a brief repose,     While light along the painted floor,         Arm within arm, the couples stray,     Talking their stock of nothings o'er,         Till--nothing's left at last to say.     When lo!--most opportunely sent--         Two Exquisites, a he and she,     Just brought from Dandyland, and meant         For Fashion's grand Menagerie,     Entered the room--and scarce were there     When all flocked round them, glad to stare     At any monsters, any where.     Some thought them perfect, to their tastes;     While others hinted that the waists     (That in particular of the he thing)     Left far too ample room for breathing:     Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes,         The isthmus there should be so small,     That Exquisites, at last, like fishes,         Must manage not to breathe at all.     The female (these same critics said),         Tho' orthodox from toe to chin,     Yet lacked that spacious width of head         To hat of toadstool much akin--     That build of bonnet, whose extent     Should, like a doctrine of dissent,         Puzzle church-doors to let it in.     However--sad as 'twas, no doubt,     That nymph so smart should go about,     With head unconscious of the place     It ought to fill in Infinite Space--     Yet all allowed that, of her kind,     A prettier show 'twas hard to find;     While of that doubtful genus, "dressy men,"     The male was thought a first-rate specimen.     Such Savans, too, as wisht to trace     The manners, habits, of this race--     To know what rank (if rank at all)     'Mong reasoning things to them should fall--     What sort of notions heaven imparts     To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts     And how far Soul, which, Plato says,     Abhors restraint, can act in stays--     Might now, if gifted with discerning,     Find opportunities of learning:     As these two creatures--from their pout     And frown, 'twas plain--had just fallen out;     And all their little thoughts, of course.     Were stirring in full fret and force;--     Like mites, through microscope espied,     A world of nothings magnified.     But mild the vent such beings seek,     The tempest of their souls to speak:     As Opera swains to fiddles sigh,     To fiddles fight, to fiddles die,     Even so this tender couple set     Their well-bred woes to a Duet.     WALTZ DUET.     HE.     Long as I waltzed with only thee,         Each blissful Wednesday that went by,     Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee         Adorned a youth so blest as I.             Oh! ah! ah! oh!             Those happy days are gone--heigho!     SHE.     Long as with thee I skimmed the ground,         Nor yet was scorned for Lady Jane,     No blither nymph tetotumed round         To Collinet's immortal strain.             Oh! ah! etc.             Those happy days are gone--heigho!     HE.     With Lady Jane now whirled about,         I know no bounds of time or breath;     And, should the charmer's head hold out,         My heart and heels are hers till death.             Oh! ah! etc.             Still round and round thro' life we'll go.     SHE.     To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son,         A youth renowned for waistcoats smart,     I now have given (excuse the pun)         A vested interest in my heart.             Oh! ah! etc.             Still round and round with him I'll go.     HE.     What if by fond remembrance led         Again to wear our mutual chain.     For me thou cut'st Fitznoodle          dead,      And I levant from Lady Jane.         Oh! ah! etc.         Still round and round again we'll go.     SHE.     Tho' he the Noodle honors give,     And thine, dear youth, are not so high,     With thee in endless waltz I'd live,      With thee, to Weber's Stop--                 Waltz, die!              Oh! ah! etc.              Thus round and round thro' life we'll go.     [Exeunt waltzing.                  *             *             *             *             *     While thus, like motes that dance away     Existence in a summer ray,     These gay things, born but to quadrille,     The circle of their doom fulfil--     (That dancing doom whose law decrees      That they should live on the alert toe     A life of ups-and-downs, like keys         Of Broadwood's in a long concerto:--)     While thus the fiddle's spell, within,      Calls up its realm of restless sprites.     Without, as if some Mandarin      Were holding there his Feast of Lights,     Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers,     Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers,     Till, budding into light, each tree     Bore its full fruit of brilliancy.     Here shone a garden-lamps all o'er,         As tho' the Spirits of the Air     Had taken it in their heads to pour         A shower of summer meteors there;--     While here a lighted shrubbery led         To a small lake that sleeping lay,     Cradled in foliage but, o'er-head,         Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray;     While round its rim there burning stood         Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded,     That shrunk from such warm neighborhood,     And, looking bashful in the flood,         Blushed to behold themselves so wedded.     Hither, to this embowered retreat,     Fit but for nights so still and sweet;         Nights, such as Eden's calm recall         In its first lonely hour, when all             So silent is, below, on high,             That is a star falls down the sky,         You almost think you hear it fall--         Hither, to this recess, a few,             To shun the dancers' wildering noise,         And give an hour, ere night-time flew,             To music's more ethereal joys,         Came with their voices-ready all         As Echo waiting for a call--      In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee,      To weave their mingling ministrelsy,     And first a dark-eyed nymph, arrayed--     Like her whom Art hath deathless made,     Bright Mona Lisa[4]--with that braid     Of hair across the brow, and one     Small gem that in the centre shone--     With face, too, in its form resembling     Da Vinci's Beauties-the dark eyes,     Now lucid as thro' crystal trembling,         Now soft as if suffused with sighs--     Her lute that hung beside her took,     And, bending o'er it with shy look,     More beautiful, in shadow thus,     Than when with life most luminous,     Past her light finger o'er the chords,     And sung to them these mournful words:--     SONG.     Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying--         Here will I lay me and list to thy song;     Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,         Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long,     Chase them away-they bring but pain,     And let thy theme be woe again.     Sing on thou mournful lute--day is fast going,         Soon will its light from thy chords die away;     One little gleam in the west is still glowing,         When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay.     Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled!     Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.     The group that late in garb of Greeks         Sung their light chorus o'er the tide--     Forms, such as up the wooded creeks         Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide,     Or nightly on her glistening sea,     Woo the bright waves with melody--     Now linked their triple league again     Of voices sweet, and sung a strain,     Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear         But caught it, on the fatal steep,     She would have paused, entranced, to hear,         And for that day deferred her leap.     SONG AND TRIO.     On one of those sweet nights that oft         Their lustre o'er the AEgean fling,     Beneath my casement, low and soft,         I heard a Lesbian lover sing;     And, listening both with ear and thought,     These sounds upon the night breeze caught--         "Oh, happy as the gods is he,         "Who gazes at this hour on thee!"     The song was one by Sappho sung,         In the first love-dreams of her lyre,     When words of passion from her tongue         Fell like a shower of living fire.     And still, at close of every strain,     I heard these burning words again--         "Oh, happy as the gods is he,         "Who listens at this hour to thee!"     Once more to Mona Lisa turned         Each asking eye--nor turned in vain     Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned         Bright o'er her cheek and died again,     Showed with what inly shame and fear     Was uttered what all loved to hear.     Yet not to sorrow's languid lay         Did she her lute-song now devote;     But thus, with voice that like a ray         Of southern sunshine seemed to float--         So rich with climate was each note--     Called up in every heart a dream     Of Italy with this soft theme:--     SONG.     Oh, where art thou dreaming,         On land, or on sea?     In my lattice is gleaming         The watch-light for thee;     And this fond heart is glowing         To welcome thee home,     And the night is fast going,         But thou art not come:                          No, thou com'st not!     'Tis the time when night-flowers         Should wake from their rest;     'Tis the hour of all hours,         When the lute singeth best,     But the flowers are half sleeping         Till thy glance they see;     And the husht lute is keeping         Its music for thee.                             Yet, thou com'st not!                  *             *             *             *             *     Scarce had the last word left her lip,     When a light, boyish form, with trip     Fantastic, up the green walk came,     Prankt in gay vest to which the flame     Of every lamp he past, or blue     Or green or crimson, lent its hue;     As tho' a live chameleon's skin     He had despoiled, to robe him in.     A zone he wore of clattering shells,         And from his lofty cap, where shone     A peacock's plume, there dangled bells         That rung as he came dancing on.     Close after him, a page--in dress     And shape, his miniature express--     An ample basket, filled with store     Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore;     Till, having reached this verdant seat,     He laid it at his master's feet,     Who, half in speech and half in song,     Chanted this invoice to the throng:--     SONG.     Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?--         We've toys to suit all ranks and ages;     Besides our usual fools' supply,         We've lots of playthings, too, for sages.     For reasoners here's a juggler's cup         That fullest seems when nothing's in it;     And nine-pins set, like systems, up,         To be knocked down the following minute.              Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?     Gay caps we here of foolscap make.         For bards to wear in dog-day weather;     Or bards the bells alone may take,         And leave to wits the cap and feather,     Tetotums we've for patriots got,         Who court the mob with antics humble;     Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot,         A glorious spin, and then--a tumble,                                     Who'll buy, etc.     Here, wealthy misers to inter,         We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper;     While, for their heirs, we've quicksilver,         That, fast as they can wish, will caper.     For aldermen we've dials true,         That tell no hour but that of dinner;     For courtly parsons sermons new,         That suit alike both saint and sinner.                                     Who'll buy, etc.     No time we've now to name our terms,         But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you,         This oldest of all mortal firms,         Folly and Co., will try to please you.     Or, should you wish a darker hue     Of goods than we can recommend you,     Why then (as we with lawyers do)         To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you.                                     Who'll buy, etc.     While thus the blissful moments rolled,         Moments of rare and fleeting light,     That show themselves, like grains of gold         In the mine's refuse, few and bright;     Behold where, opening far away,         The long Conservatory's range,     Stript of the flowers it wore all day,         But gaining lovelier in exchange,     Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware,     A supper such as Gods might share.     Ah much-loved Supper!--blithe repast     Of other times, now dwindling fast,     Since Dinner far into the night     Advanced the march of appetite;     Deployed his never-ending forces     Of various vintage and three courses,     And, like those Goths who played the dickens     With Rome and all her sacred chickens,     Put Supper and her fowls so white,     Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.     Now waked once more by wine--whose tide     Is the true Hippocrene, where glide     The Muse's swans with happiest wing,     Dipping their bills before they sing--     The minstrels of the table greet     The listening ear with descant sweet:--     SONG AND TRIO.     THE LEVE AND COUCHE.             Call the Loves around,             Let the whispering sound         Of their wings be heard alone.             Till soft to rest             My Lady blest         At this bright hour hath gone,             Let Fancy's beams             Play o'er her dreams,         Till, touched with light all through.             Her spirit be             Like a summer sea,         Shining and slumbering too.         And, while thus husht she lies,         Let the whispered chorus rise--     "Good evening, good evening, to our             Lady's bright eyes."             But the day-beam breaks,             See, our Lady wakes!         Call the Loves around once more,             Like stars that wait             At Morning's gate,         Her first steps to adore.             Let the veil of night             From her dawning sight         All gently pass away,             Like mists that flee             From a summer sea,         Leaving it full of day.         And, while her last dream flies,         Let the whispered chorus rise--     "Good morning, good morning, to our             Lady's bright eyes."     SONG.     If to see thee be to love thee,         If to love thee be to prize     Naught of earth or heaven above thee,         Nor to live but for those eyes:     If such love to mortal given,     Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven,     'Tis not for thee the fault to blame,     For from those eyes the madness came.     Forgive but thou the crime of loving         In this heart more pride 'twill raise     To be thus wrong with thee approving,         Than right with all a world to praise!                  *             *             *             *             *     But say, while light these songs resound,     What means that buzz of whispering round,     From lip to lip--as if the Power     Of Mystery, in this gay hour,     Had thrown some secret (as we fling     Nuts among children) to that ring     Of rosy, restless lips, to be     Thus scrambled for so wantonly?     And, mark ye, still as each reveals     The mystic news, her hearer steals     A look towards yon enchanted chair,         Where, like the Lady of the Masque,     A nymph, as exquisitely fair         As Love himself for bride could ask,     Sits blushing deep, as if aware     Of the winged secret circling there.     Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse,         What, in the name of all odd things     That woman's restless brain pursues,     What mean these mystic whisperings?     Thus runs the tale:--yon blushing maid,     Who sits in beauty's light arrayed,     While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise,     (Who from her eyes, as all observe, is     Learning by heart the Marriage Service,)     Is the bright heroine of our song,--     The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long     We've missed among this mortal train,     We thought her winged to heaven again.     But no--earth still demands her smile;     Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile.     And if, for maid of heavenly birth,         A young Duke's proffered heart and hand     Be things worth waiting for on earth,         Both are, this hour, at her command.     To-night, in yonder half-lit shade,     For love concerns expressly meant,     The fond proposal first was made,         And love and silence blusht consent     Parents and friends (all here, as Jews,     Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,)     Have heard, approved, and blest the tie;     And now, hadst thou a poet's eye,     Thou might'st behold, in the air, above     That brilliant brow, triumphant Love,     Holding, as if to drop it down     Gently upon her curls, a crown     Of Ducal shape--but, oh, such gems!     Pilfered from Peri diadems,     And set in gold like that which shines     To deck the Fairy of the Mines:     In short, a crown all glorious--such as     Love orders when he makes a Duchess.     But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the Sun     Up in the bright orient hath begun     To canter his immortal beam;         And, tho' not yet arrived in sight,     His leaders' nostrils send a steam         Of radiance forth, so rosy bright         As makes their onward path all light.     What's to be done? if Sol will be     So deuced early, so must we:     And when the day thus shines outright,     Even dearest friends must bid good night.     So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking,         Now almost a by-gone tale;     Beauties, late in lamp-light basking,         Now, by daylight, dim and pale;     Harpers, yawning o'er your harps,     Scarcely knowing flats from sharps;     Mothers who, while bored you keep     Time by nodding, nod to sleep;     Heads of hair, that stood last night     Crp, crispy, and upright,     But have now, alas, one sees, a     Leaning like the tower of Pisa;     Fare ye will--thus sinks away      All that's mighty, all that's bright:     Tyre and Sidon had their day,     And even a Ball--has but its night!