Still lights this world below. Through isles of light, where heroes tread Thou art not dead-thou art not dead! The myrtle, round that falchion spread Where hearts like thine have broke or bled, Of death its beams shall throw. Thy name, by myriads sung and said, Thou art not dead-thou art not dead! 'Mong those who linger'd list'ning there,— The light laugh of the happier train, And seldom e'er hath noon or night A pensive maid-one who, though young, And to its faint accords thus sung SONG. CALM as, beneath its mother's eyes, A while the night-breeze dies away, Oh youth: oh Love! ye dreams, that shed Pure ray of light that, down the sky, As if to guide to realms that lie Who knows but, in some brighter deep Than ev'n that tranquil, moon-lit main, Some land may lie, where those who weep Shall wake to smile again! With cheeks that had regain'd their power And play of smiles,-and each bright eye, Like violets after morning's shower, The brighter for the tears gone by, Back to the scene such smiles should grace These wand'ring nymphs their path retrace And reach the spot, with rapture new, Just as the veils asunder flew, And a fresh vision burst to view There, by her own bright Attic flood, The blue-ey'd Queen of Wisdom stood;Not as she haunts the sage's dreams, With brow unveil'd, divine, severe; But soften'd, as on bards she beams, When fresh from Poesy's high sphere, A music, not her own, she brings, And, through the veil which Fancy flings O'er her stern features, gently sings. But who is he that urchin nigh, With quiver on the rose-trees hung, Who seems just dropp'd from yonder sky, And stands to watch that maid, with eye So full of thought, for one so young?That child-but, silence! lend thine ear, And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear. SONG. As Love, one summer eve, was straying, I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion Though seldom yet the boy hath giv'n To learned dames his smiles or sighs, So handsome Pallas look'd, that ev'n, Love quite forgot the maid was wise. Besides, a youth of his discerning Knew well that, by a shady rill, At sunset hour, whate'er her learning, A woman will be woman stiil. Her flute he prais'd in terms extatic, Wishing it dumb nor car'd how soon;- But long as he found face to flatter, Woman, at heart, is woman still. Love chang'd his plan, with warmth exclaiming "How rosy was her lip's soft dye!" And much that flute, the flatt'rer blaming, For twisting lips so sweet awry. The nymph look'd down, beheld her features And started, shock'd-for, ah, ye creatures! Quick from the lips it made so odious, That graceless flute the Goddess took, And, while yet fill'd with breath melodious, 369 An interval of dark repose— Such as the summer lightning knows, Which now its depth of light disclos'd. A bow'r it seem'd, an Indian bow'r, Within whose shade a nymph repos'd, Sleeping away noon's sunny hourLovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves, And there, as Indian legends say, Dreams the long summer hours away. And mark, how charm'd this sleeper seems With some hid fancy-she, too, dreains! Oh for a wizard's art to tell The wonders that now bless her sight! 'Tis done-a truer, holier spell Than e'er from wizard's lip yet fell Thes brings her vision all to light :— So sung the shepherd-boy By the stream's side, To the hush'd tide. "Stay," said the shepherd-boy, But vain his pleading, So to our youthful eyes So, while we gaz'd on them WELCOME, Sweet bird, through the sunny air winging, Yet dost thou droop-even now while I utter While thus the scene of song (their last As do those guardian sprites of air, Whose watch we feel, but cannot see, Had from the circle-scarcely miss'd, Ere they were sparkling there againGlided, like fairies, to assist Their handmaids on the moonlight plain, Where, hid by intercepting shade From the stray glance of curious eyes, And now the moon, her ark of light To some remote immortal shore, The Zeans at their feast were seen, Beside the nymph of India's sky;, And urchin Love stood laughing by. Meantime the elders round the board, By mirth and wit themselves made young High cups of juice Zacynthian pour'd, And, while the flask went round, thus surg SONG. Up with the sparkling brimmer, Up to the crystal rim; Let not a moon-beam glimmer "Twixt the flood and brim. When hath the world set eyes on Aught to match this light. Which, o'er our cup's horizon, Dawns in bumpers bright? Thus circled round the song of glee, As though 'twere wing'd to Zea's shore To some, 'mong those who came to gaze, Of pine torch, luring on his prey; But of that drear, ill-omen'd flame, That coming light which now was nigh, Of pain-like joy, "Tis he! 'tis he!" Loud she exclaim'd, and hurrying by The assembled throng, rush'd tow'rds the sea. At burst so wild, alarm'd, amaz'd, What meant such mood, in maid so meek? Till now, the tale was known to few, By his sad brow too plainly told Th' ill-omen'd thought which cross'd him fnen, That once those hands should lose their hold, They ne'er would meet on earth again! In vain his mistress, sad as he, But with a heart from Self as free As gen'rous woman's only is, His favourite once, ere Beauty's eye SONG. MARCH! nor heed those arms that hold thee, 01 what bliss, when war is over, The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary.. Even then, e'er loth their hands could part, That soon as the fierce fight was o'er, Might be the last he'd breathe at home. "By day," he cried, "thoul't know my bark⚫ "But, should I come through midnight dark, "A blue light on the prow shall tell "That Greece hath won, and all is well!" Fondly the maiden, every night, Fleetly the boat now nears the land, For tidings of the long-wish'd band. Oh the blest hour, when those who've been When heart to heart we fondly strain, And ask, though answer'd oft before, And now behold him, circled round And wounds that home's sweet breath will heal "Ere morn," said he,—and, while he spoke, Turn'd to the east, where, clear, and pale, The star of dawn already broke "We'll greet, on yonder wave, their sail.' Then, wherefore part? all, all agree To wait them here, beneath this bower; And thus, while ev'n amidst their glee, Each eye is turn'd to watch the sea, With song they cheer the anxious hour SONG ""Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the cup-loving boy; As he saw it spring bright from the earth And call'd the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy, The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flam'd ""Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" ev'ry Spirit exclaim'd "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail !" First, fleet as a bird, to the summons Wit flew, While a light on the vine-leaves there broke, In flashes so quick and so brilliant, all knew 'Twas the light from his lips as he spoke. Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me," he cried, "And the fount of Wit never can fail:" 'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" hills and valleys reply "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!" Next, Love, as he lean'd o'er the plant to admire From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire, THE SUMMER FÊTE. ΤΟ 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, 1 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. wwwwwww THOMAS MOORE. 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 coals"Summers of light, undimm'd by rains, "Whose only mocking trace remains In watering pots and parasols." Thus spoke a young Patrician maid, But Eurus in perpetual vigour; • Lord Francis Egerton. Like a young worshipper of fire, With hands uplifted to the flame, But oh! the light, th' unhop'd-for light, Though-hark!--the clocks but strike eleven, 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!" länthe 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 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, And, like a Turk between two rows Of Harem beauties, on he goesA lover, lov'd for ev'n the grace With which he slides from their embrace In one of those enchanted domes, To the last new-mustachio'd chin- 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 a 1 out of flowers, The countless menials swarming run, And now th' important hour drew nigh, 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 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-t Sounding by fits upon the air, Of parting pennies rung the kneil; Warn'd by that telltale of the hours, And by the daylight's westering beam, The young länthe, who, with flowers Half-crown'd, had sat in idle dream Dislodg'd some curl from her white brow, Meanwhile-what strain is that which floats That point towards which when ladies rise, Came with this youthful voice communing, Tones true, for once, without the aid Of that inflictive process, tuningA process which must oft have given • Archimedes I am not certain whether the Dowagers of this Square have yet Fielded to the innovations of Gas and Police, but, at the time when the above lines were written, they still obstinately persevered in their old Poor Milton's ears a deadly wound; So pleas'd, among the joys of Heav'n, He specifies harps ever tun'd."‡ 64 She who now sung this gentle strain Was our young nymph's still younger sister- The song she thus, like Jubal's shell, "Songs of the toilet"-every Lay Taking for subject of its Muse, Some branch of feminine array, Speaking of one of these new Lays, "That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceive "The cut of each new sleeve so well; "A flat betrays the Imbécilles,§ ARRAY thee, love, array thee, love, The plumes, that, proudly dancing, Bring forth the robe, whose hue of heaven Array thee, love, array thee, love, &c &c Thy every look a ray, And tracks of wond'ring eyes shall tell The glory of thy way! Now hie thee, love, now hie hee, love, Through Pleasure's circles aie thee, |