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. • Lord Francis Egerton. 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 Nov. 1831. THOMAS MOORE. THE SUMMER FÊTE. "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, undimm'd by rains, "Whose only mocking trace remains "In watering-pots and parasols." Thus spoke a young Patrician maid, Faint were her hopes; for June had now Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how But Eurus in perpetual vigour; With hands uplifted to the flame, Whose glow as if to woo them nigher, Through the white fingers flushing came. But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light, 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, "Calumnious thought!" Iänthe cries, While coming mirth lit up each glance, And, prescient of the ball, her eyes For brighter sun than that which now To kiss Firenze's City of Flowers. What must it be if thus so fair Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor SquareWhat 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, A lover, loved for ev'n 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, That Fête already link'd to fame, Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight To the old Premier, too long in |