Though War's high-sounding harp may How far more sweet their numbers be Most welcome to the hero's ears, Alas, his chords of victory Are wet, all o'er, with human tears. run, Who hymn, like Saints above, GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT (AIR. STEVENSON) Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home,1 Bring myrtle and palm-bring the boughs of each tree With a light not their own, through the Jordan's deep tide, Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home, IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER (AIR. 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, Blest, and thinking bliss would stay? And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olivebranches,' &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. Hope still lifts her radiant finger Alas, alas-doth Hope deceive us? That bind a moment, and then leave us, To keep our hearts from wrong and Who would not try to win a Heaven Where all we love shall live again? thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon.'-Josh. x.12. 4 Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths.'-Neh. viii. 15. ''Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and WAR AGAINST BABYLON (AIR.-NOVELLO) 'WAR against Babylon!' shout we around,' | Make bright the arrows, and gather the Be our banners through earth unfurl'd; Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound-2 'War against Babylon!' through the world! shout Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,3 War, war, war against Babylon! shields, THE SUMMER FÊTE TO THE HONOURABLE 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. THE SUMMER FÊTE WHERE are ye now, ye summer days, That once inspir'd the poet's lays? Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains, For lack of sunbeams, took to coalsSummers of light, undimm'd by rains, Whose only mocking trace remains In watering-pots and parasols.' 1 'Shout against her round about.'-Jer. 1. 15. 2 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. 3 Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters, THOMAS MOORE. Thus spoke a young Patrician maid, thine end is come.'-Jer. li. 13. Make bright the arrows; gather the shields set up the standard upon the walls of Babylon.'-Jer. li. 11, 12. 5 Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation ! '—Jer. 1. 27. Lord Francis Egerton. A lover, lov'd for ev'n the grace Seem'd circled with a fairy light ;-70 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 in— From legs of far-descended gout, To the last new-mustachio'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, 80 She, like another Epicurus, Sets dancing thus, and calls the Behold how busy in those bowers entice, 89 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 mov'd, as he of Syracuse 1 Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force Of four-horse power, had all combin'd Through Grosvenor Gate to speed their course, Leaving that portion of mankind, 100 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 dethron'd! 1 Archimedes. Ev'n Parliament this evening nods Being all call'd to-prose elsewhere. Soon as through Grosvenor's lordly square-1 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 121 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 ; 130 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 rov'd through that bright hair, While, all capriciously, she now Dislodg'd some curl from her white brow, And now again replac'd it there ;— Through the small boudoir near-like 'Twas the first op'ning song-the Lay SONG 201 ARRAY thee, love, array thee, love, 210 Put on the plumes thy lover gave, Bring forth the robe, whose hue of 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. How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames 240 Now group'd around that festal board; A peopled rainbow, swarming through Each sunset ray that mix'd by chance If not in written form exprest, In the bleak fog of England's skies, Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Thy every look a ray, And tracks of wond'ring eyes shall tell, Now in his Palace of the West, 232 Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, Struggling each other's light to dim, some ; Muses in muslin-pastoral maids With these, and more such female Were mix'd no less fantastic troops And catch his last smile e'er he slept. | And brigands, charmingly ferocious ; |