Is an old letter of my own to a friend in Ireland, giving an account of this brilliant festival (the gala at Boyle Farm), I find some memorandums which, besides their reference to the subject of the poem, contain some incidents also connected with the first appearance before the public of one of the most successful of all my writings, the story of the Epicurean. I shall give my extracts from this letter, in their original diary-like form, without alteration or dressing:—

June 30. 1827.-Day threatening for the Fête. Was with Lord Essex † at three o'clock, and started about half an hour after. The whole road swarming with carriages-and-four all the way to Boyle Farm, which Lady de Roos has lent, for the occasion, to Henry; the five givers of the Fête, being Lords Chesterfield, Castlereagh, Alvanley, Henry de Roos, and Robert Grosvenor, subscribing four or five hundred pounds each towards it. The arrangements all in the very best taste. The pavilion for quadrilles, on the bank of the river, with steps descending to the water, quite eastern-like what one sees in Daniel's pictures. Towards five the élite of the gay world was assembled the women all looking their best, and scarce a single ugly face to be found. About half-past five, sat down to dinner, 450 under a tent on the lawn, and fifty to the Royal Table in the conservatory. The Tyrolese musicians sung during dinner, and there were, after dinner, gondolas on the river, with

⚫ From the preface to the fifth volume of the collected edition of 190,1812]

I cannot let pass the incidental mention here of this social and public-spirited nobleman, without expressing my strong sense of

Caradori, De Begnis, Velluti, &c., singing barcarolles and rowing off occasionally, so as to let their voices die away and again return. After these succeeded a party in dominos, Madame Vestris, Fanny Ayton, &c., who rowed about in the same manner, and sung, among other things, my gondola song, “Oh come to me when daylight sets." The evening was delicious, and, as soon as it grew dark, the groves were all lighted up with coloured lamps, in different shapes and devices. A little lake near a grotto took my fancy particularly, the shrubs all round being illuminated, and the lights reflected in the water. Six-and-twenty of the prettiest girls of the world of fashion, the F****t* rs, Br *d *** lls, De R** s's Miss F ** ld ***, Miss F* x, Miss R * ss * 11, Miss B ** ly, were dressed as Rosières, and opened the quadrilles in the pavilion.

While talking with D-n (Lord P.'s brother), he said to me, "I never read anything so touching as the death of your heroine." "What!" said I, "have you got so far already?"‡ "Oh, I read it in the Literary Gazette." This anticipation of my catastrophe is abominable. Soon after, the Marquis P-lm-a, said to me, as he and I and B-m stood together, looking at the gay scene, "This is like one of your Fêtes." "Oh yes," said B-m, thinking he alluded to Lalla Rookh, "quite oriental." "Non, non," replied P―lm-a, “je veux dire cette Fête d'Athènes, dont j'ai lu la description dans la Gazette d'aujourd'hui."

his kindly qualities, and lamenting the loss which not only society, but the cause of sound and progressive Political Reform, has sustained by his death.

: The Epicurean had been published but the day before.

ΤΟ

THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON.

-

FOR the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fète, 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,

Thus spoke a young Patrician maid,
As, on the morning of that Fête
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 Sang as her own bright gems recline, At night, within their cotton shrineHad, 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 länthe at the sight,

Though-hark!-the clocks but strike elever, 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.

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-night -
That 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 in
From legs of far descended gout,

To the last new-mustachio'd chin-
All 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."

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 lengthen'd 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 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'
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,
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;

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 ministry A 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,

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 —

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.

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."
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 fam'd,
From a divine collection, nam'd,

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
Bequeath'd to an admiring world,
Down to the latest flounce that stands
Like Jacob's Ladder or expands
Far forth, tempestuously unfurl'd.
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 Imbecilles,2

Light fugues the flying lappets tell; "While rich cathedral chords awake "Our homage for the Manches d'Evêque."

Array thee, love, array thee, love,
In all's 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;
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,

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