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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,

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 sky— Th' 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 rigour!
Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how
To nurse a bud, or fan a bough,

But Eurus in perpetual vigour;
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,

Through the white fingers flushing came.

But oh! the light, th' unhop'd-for light,
That now illum'd this morning's heaven!
Up sprung Iänthe at the sight,

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 raysPay for the pride of sunbeams past, And to mere moonshine come at last?

"Calumnious thought!" Iänthe 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 smok'd 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, lov'd for ev'n the grace

With which he slides from their embrace.

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 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 inFrom 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, She, like another Epicurus,

Sets dancing thus, and calls "the World."

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!
Ev'n Parliament this evening nods
Beneath th' harangues of minor gods,

On half its usual opiate's share; The great dispensers of repose, The first-rate furnishers of prose

Being all call'd to- -prose elsewhere.

Soon as through Grosvenor's lordly square-2
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 watchmen still:-
Soon as through that illustrious square
The first epistolary bell,
Sounding by fits upon the air,

Of parting pennies rung the knell;
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; As though her task was meant to be One endless change of ministryA routing-up of Loves and Graces, But to plant others in their places.

Meanwhile-what strain is that which floats
Through 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 ventur❜d to exalt
Its rash ambition to B alt,

the time when the above lines were written, they still obstinately persevered in their old régime; and would not suffer themselves to be either well guarded or well lighted.

That point towards which when ladies rise,
The wise man takes his hat and-flies.
Tones of a harp, too, gently play'd,

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 pleas'd, among the joys of Heav'n,
He specifies" harps ever tun'd." 1
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.

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,
&c. &c. &c.

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 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 thee.

Now in his Palace of the West,

Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, Like a tir'd 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 group'd around that festal board;

2 The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely.

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 flow'd,

Each sunset ray that mix'd by chance
With the wine's sparkles, show'd

How sunbeams may be taught to dance.

If not in written form exprest,
'Twas 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 hop'd—and well that hope
Was answer'd 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 ransack'd 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 form'd their train.

With these, and more such female groups,
Were mix'd no less fantastic troops
Of male exhibiters-all willing
To look, ev'n more than usual, killing;-
Beau tyrants, smock-fac'd braggadocios,
And brigands, charmingly ferocious;-
M. P.'s turn'd 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 lur'd 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 glitt'ring 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 pleas'd, 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,
Inspir'd by nought but pink champagne,

Her butterfly as gaily nods
As though she sat 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 lur'd 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;
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 ap-
pear-

If driv'n to the worst, I could manage, thank
Heaven,

A reward by some king was once offer'd, 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 meantime, 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 flyWe must only 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 bright,

The colouring of a shadowy dream; And there was still where Day had set A flush that spoke him loth 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 soft'ning 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

Such was th' effect of twilight's hour

On the fair groups that, round and round, From glade to grot, from bank to bow'r,

Now wander'd through this fairy ground; And thus did Fancy-and champagneWork on the sight their dazzling spells, Till nymphs that look'd, at noon-day, plain, Now brighten'd, 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 reclin'd,
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 th' 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 mark'd it for the Free. Whatever storms befall, boy, Whatever storms befall, The island bark

Is Freedom's ark,

And floats her safe through all.

Behold yon sea of isles, boy, Behold yon sea of isles, Where ev'ry shore

Is sparkling o'er

With Beauty's richest smiles. For us hath Freedom claim'd, boy, For us hath Freedom claim'd

Those ocean-nests
Where Valour rests
His eagle wing untam'd.