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Still lights this world below.
Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Through isles of light, where heroes tread
And flow'rs ethereal blow.
Thy god-like Spirit now is led,
Thy lip, with life ambrosial fed,
Forgets all taste of woe.

Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

The myrtle, round that falchion spread
Which struck the immortal blow,
Throughout all time, with leaves unshed-
The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread-
Round Freedom's shrine shall grow.
Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Where hearts like thine have broke or bled,
Though quench'd the vital glow,
Their mem'ry lights a flame, instead,
Which, ev'n from out the narrow bed

Of death its beams shall throw.
Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no,

Thy name, by myriads sung and said,
From age to age shall go,
Long as the oak and ivy wed,
As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head,
Or Helle's waters flow.

Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

'Mong those who linger'd list'ning there,—
List'ning, with ear and eye, as long
As breath of night could tow'rds them bear
A murmur of that mournful song,-
A few there were, in whom the lay
Had call'd up feelings far too sad
To pass with the brief strain away,
Or turn at once to theme more glad ;
And who, in mood untun'd to meet

The light laugh of the happier train,
Wander'd to seek some moonlight seat
Where they might rest, in converse sweet,
Till vanish'd smiles should come again.

And seldom e'er hath noon or night
To sadness lent more soothing light.
On one side, in the dark blue sky,
Lonely and radiant, was the eye
Of Jove himself, while, on the other,
'Mong tiny stars that round her gleam'd,
The young moon, like the Roman mother
Among her living "jewels," beam'd.
Touch'd by the lovely scenes around,

A pensive maid-one who, though young,
Had known what 'twas to see unwound
The ties by which her heart had clung-
Waken'd her soft tamboura's sound,

And to its faint accords thus sung

SONG.

CALM as, beneath its mother's eyes,
In sleep the smiling infant lies,
bo, watch'd by all the stars of night,
Yon landscape sleeps in light.

A while the night-breeze dies away,
Like relics of some faded strain,
Lov'd voices, lost for many a day,
Seem whisp'ring round again.

Oh youth: oh Love! ye dreams, that shed
Such glory once-where are ye fled?

Pure ray of light that, down the sky,
Art pointing, like an angel's wand,

As if to guide to realms that lie
In that bright sea beyond

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,
Who should he see, at that soft hour,
But young Minerva, gravely playing
Her flute within an olive bow'r.

I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion
That, grave or merry, good or ill,
The sex all bow to his dominion,
As woman will be woman still.

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;-
For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic,
To Love seem always out of tune.

But long as he found face to flatter,
The nymph found breath to shake and thrul;
As, weak or wise-it doesn't matter-

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
Reflected in the passing rill,

And started, shock'd-for, ah, ye creatures!
Ev'n when divine, you're women still.

Quick from the lips it made so odious,

That graceless flute the Goddess took,

And, while yet fill'd with breath melodious,
Flung it into the glassy orook;
Where, as its vocal life was fleeting
Adown the current, faint and shrill,
Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating,
"Woman, alas, vain woman still!"

369

An interval of dark repose—

Such as the summer lightning knows,
'Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright
The quick revealment comes and goes,
Op'ning each time the veils of night,
To show, within, a world of light-
Such pause, so brief, now pass'd between
This la gay vision and the scene,

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 :—

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So sung the shepherd-boy

By the stream's side,
Watching that fairy boat
Down the flood glide,
Like a bird winging,
Through the waves bringing
That Syren, singing

To the hush'd tide.

"Stay," said the shepherd-boy,
"Fairy-boat, stay,
"Linger, sweet minstrelsy,
"Linger, a day."

But vain his pleading,
Past him, unheeding,
Song and boat, speeding,
Glided away.

So to our youthful eyes
Joy and hope shone;

So, while we gaz'd on them
Fast they flew on;-
Like flow'rs, declining
Ev'n in the twining,
One moment shining,
And, the next, gone!

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WELCOME, Sweet bird, through the sunny air winging,
Swift hast thou come o'er the far-shining sea,
Like Seba's dove, on thy snowy neck bringing
Love's written vows from my lover to me.
Oh, in thy absence, what hours did I number!-
Saying oft, "Idle bird, how could he rest?"
But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber,
And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov'st best

Yet dost thou droop-even now while I utter
Love's happy welcome, thy pulse dies away;
Cheer thee, my bird-were it life's ebbing flutter,
This fondling bosom should woo it to stay.
But no-thou'rt dying-thy last task is over-
Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me!
The smiles thou hast waken'd by news from my love.
Will now all be turn'd into weeping for thee.

While thus the scene of song (their last
For the sweet summer season) pass'd,
A few presiding nymphs, whose care
Watch'd over all, invisibly,

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,
A feast of fruits and wines was laid-
Soon to shine out, a glad surprise!

And now the moon, her ark of light
Steering through Heav'n, as though she bore
In safety through that deep of night,
Spirits of earth, the good, the bright,

To some remote immortal shore,
Had half-way sped her glorious way,
When, round reclin'd on hillocks green,
In groups, beneath that tranquil ray,

The Zeans at their feast were seen,
Gay was the picture-every maid
Whom late the lighted scene display'd,
Still in her fancy garb array'd;-
The Arabian pilgrin, smiling here

Beside the nymph of India's sky;,
While there the Mainote mountaineer
Whisper'd in young Minerva's ear,

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?

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Thus circled round the song of glee,
And all was tuneful mirth the while,
Save on the cheeks of some, whose smile,
As fix'd they gaze upon the sea,
Turns into paleness suddenly!
What see they there? a bright blue light
That, like a meteor, gliding o'er
The distant wave, grows on the sight,

As though 'twere wing'd to Zea's shore

To some, 'mong those who came to gaze,
It seem'd the night-light, far away,
Of some lone fisher, by the blaze

Of pine torch, luring on his prey;
While others, as, 'twixt awe and mirth,
They breath'd the bless'd Panaya's name,
Vow'd that such light was not of earth,

But of that drear, ill-omen'd flame,
Which mariners see on sail or mast,
When Death is coming in the blast.
While marv'lling thus they stood, a maid,
Who sat apart, with downcast eye,
Nor yet had, like the rest, survey'd

That coming light which now was nigh,
Soon as it met her sight, with cry

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,
All stood, like statues, mute, and gaz'd
Into each other's eyes, to seek

What meant such mood, in maid so meek?

Till now, the tale was known to few,
But now from lip to lip it flew :-
A youth, the flower of all the band,
Who late had left this sunny shore,
When last he kiss'd that maiden's hand,
Ling'ring, to kiss it o'er and o'er,

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,
Veil'd her own fears to banish his :-
With frank rebuke, but still more vain,
Did a rough warrior, who stood by,
Call to his mind this martial strain,

His favourite once, ere Beauty's eye
Had taught his soldier-heart to sigh:-

SONG.

MARCH! nor heed those arms that hold thee,
Though so fondly close they come;
Closer still will they enfold thee,
When thou bring'st fresh laurels home.
Dost thou dote on woman's brow?
Dost thou live but in her breath?
March!-one hour of victory now
Wins thee woman's smile till death.

01 what bliss, when war is over,
Beauty's long-miss'd smile to meet
And, when wreaths our temples cover,
Lay them shining at rer feet!

The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary..

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Even then, e'er loth their hands could part,
A promise the youth gave, which bore
Some balm unto the maiden's heart,

That soon as the fierce fight was o'er,
To home he'd speed, if safe and free-
Nay, ev'n if dying, still would come,
So the blest word of "Victory!"

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,
Had stolen to seek that promis'd light;
Nor long her eyes had now been turn'd
From watching, when the signal burn'd
Signal of joy-for her, for all-

Fleetly the boat now nears the land,
While voices, from the shore-edge, call

For tidings of the long-wish'd band.

Oh the blest hour, when those who've been
Through peril's paths by land or sea,
Lock'd in our arms again are seen
Smiling in glad security;

When heart to heart we fondly strain,
Questioning quickly o'er and o'er—
Then hold them off, to gaze again,

And ask, though answer'd oft before,
If they, indeed, are ours once more?
Such is the scene, so full of joy,
Which welcomes now this warrior-boy,
As fathers, sisters, friends all run
Bounding to meet him-all but one,
Who, slowest on his neck to fall,
Is yet the happiest of them all.

And now behold him, circled round
With beaming faces, at that board,
While cups, with laurel foliage crown'd,
Are to the coming warriors pour'd,-
Coming, as he, their herald, told,
With blades from vict'ry scarce yet cold,
With hearts untouch'd by Moslem steel,

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,
To witness and hallow its birth.

The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flam'd
Till the sun-beam that kiss'd it look'd pale.

""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
Each tendril and cluster it wore,

From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire,
As made the tree tremble all o'er.

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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.

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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

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In watering pots and parasols."

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-
Snug as her own bright gems recline,
At night within their cotton shrine-
Had, more than once, been caught of late
Kneel ng before her blazing grate,

• Lord Francis Egerton.

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 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!" 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,
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 Femier, 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 allu: e 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 a 1 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 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
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
T 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 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
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 ash 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, 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-
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 conceive
"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 Imbécilles,§

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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
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 hee, love, Through Pleasure's circles aie thee,

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