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. etc. etc.

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Through 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,
Through 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 fann'd 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 pour'd,
Shone out the high-born knights and dames
Now grouped around that festal board;
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 flowed,

Each sunset ray that mixed by chance
With the wine's sparkles, showed

How sunbeams may be taught to dance.

If not in written form exprest,

"T was 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 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 through fields of poesy,
The tailor, in inventive trance,

Up to the heights of Epic clamber,
And all the regions of Romance

Be ransacked by the femme de chambrs.

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, 't was plain,
As fortune-hunters form'd their train.

With these, and more such female groups,
Were mixed no less fantastic troops
Of male exhibiters —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, staunch 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 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 shawl'd in fog,
Steals as she thinks, through heaven incog.,
Though hid herself, some sidelong ray,
At every step, detects her way.

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
Pledg'd 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 sparkung 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 nought but pink champagne,
Her butterfly as gaily nods

As though 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 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 gaily 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: