THE SUMMER FÊTE.

TO THE HONORABLE 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,^[1] 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,

THOMAS MOORE.
Sloperton Cottage, November 1881,

^[1] Lord Francis Egerton.

THE SUMMER FÊTE

"Where are ye now, ye summer days,
"That once inspired the poet's lays?
"Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains,
  "For lack of sunbeams, took to coals--
"Summers of light, undimmed by rains,
"Whose only mocking trace remains
  "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,
Peeped with the other at the sky--
The 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 rigor!
Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how
To nurse a bud, or fan a bough,
  But Eurus in perpetual vigor;
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.
  Thro' the white fingers flushing came.

But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light,
  That now illumed this morning's heaven!
Up sprung Iänthe at the sight,
  Tho'--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 rays--
Pay 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 smoked 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, loved for even the grace
With which he slides from their embrace.

In one of those enchanted domes,
  One, the most flowery, cool, and bright
Of all by which that river roams,
  The Fête is to be held to-night--
That Fête already linked to fame,
  Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight
(When looked for long, at last they came,)
  Seemed 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-mustachioed chin--
All were convoked by Fashion's spells
To the small circle where she dwells,
Collecting nightly, to allure us,
  Live atoms, which, together hurled,
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 lengthened 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 the important hour drew nigh,
When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky,
The west-end "world" for mirth let loose,
And moved, as he of Syracuse[1]
Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force
  Of four horse power, had all combined
Thro' 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;--
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 dethroned!
Even Parliament this evening nods
Beneath the harangues of minor Gods,
  On half its usual opiate's share;
The great dispensers of repose,
The first-rate furnishers of prose
  Being all called to--prose elsewhere.

Soon as thro' Grosvenor's lordly square--
  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 watchman still:--
Soon as thro' that illustrious square
  The first epistolary bell.
Sounding by fits upon the air,
  Of parting pennies rung the knell;
Warned by that tell-tale of the hours,
  And by the day-light's westering beam,
The young Iänthe, who, with flowers
  Half crowned, had sat in idle dream
Before her glass, scarce knowing where
Her fingers roved thro' that bright hair,
  While, all capriciously, she now
  Dislodged some curl from her white brow,
And now again replaced it there:--
As tho' 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
Thro' 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 ventured 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 played,
  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 pleased, among the joys of Heaven,
  He specifies "harps _ever_ tuned."
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 famed,
From a _divine_ collection, named,
  "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
  Bequeathed to an admiring world,
Down to the latest flounce that stands
Like Jacob's Ladder--or expands
  Far forth, tempestuously unfurled.

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 _Imbécilles_,[2]
  "Light fugues the flying lappets tell;
"While rich cathedral chords awake
'Our homage for the _Manches d'Évêque_."

'Twas the first opening song the Lay
  Of all least deep in toilet-lore,
That the young nymph, to while away
  The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:--


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, etc.

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love,
  Thro' 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,
  Thro' 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 fanned 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 poured,
Shone out the high-born knights and dames
  Now grouped around that festal board;
A living mass of plumes and flowers.
As tho' they'd robbed both birds and bowers--
A peopled rainbow, swarming thro'
With habitants of every hue;
While, as the sparkling juice of France
High in the crystal brimmers flowed,
  Each sunset ray that mixt by chance
With the wine's sparkles, showed
  How sunbeams may be taught to dance.
If not in written form exprest,
'Twas known at least to every guest,
That, tho' 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 thro fields of poesy,
The tailor, in inventive trance,
  Up to the heights of Epic clamber,
And all the regions of Romance
  Be ransackt 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_ formed their train.

With these and more such female groups,
Were mixt no less fantastic troops
Of male exhibitors--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, stanch 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 centring to one point they bear,
Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks,
  Turned to the sun--and she is there.
Even in disguise, oh never doubt
By her own light you'd track her out:
As when the moon, close shawled in fog,
Steals as she thinks, thro' heaven _incog_.,
Tho' hid herself, some sidelong ray
At every step, detects her way.

But not in dark disguise to-night
Hath our young heroine veiled her light;--
For see, she walks the earth, Love's own.
  His wedded bride, by _holiest_ vow
Pledged 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 sparkling thus on brow so white,
Tells us we've Psyche here tonight!
But hark! some song hath caught her ears--
  And, lo, how pleased, as tho' 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 naught but pink champagne,
  Her butterfly as gayly nods
As tho' 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 the 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 poured;
And one who from his youth and lyre
Seemed grandson to the Teian-sire,
Thus gayly 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 appear--
  If driven to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven,
To put up with eyes such as beam round me here,
  And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven.
So pledge me a bumper--your sages profound
  May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan:
But as we are _not_ sages, why--send the cup round--
  We must only be happy the best way we can.

A reward by some king was once offered, 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 mean time, 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 fly--
  We must 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 blight,
  The coloring of a shadowy dream;
And there was still where Day had set
  A flush that spoke him loath 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 softening 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
In fulness finds its worst alloy,
And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed,
Is sweeter than the whole possest;--
That Beauty, when least shone upon,
  A creature most ideal grows;
And there's no light from moon or sun
  Like that Imagination throws;--
It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks
  Even from a bright reality,
And turning inly, feels and thinks
  For heavenlier things than e'er will be.

Such was the effect of twilight's hour
  On the fair groups that, round and round,
From glade to grot, from bank to bower,
  Now wandered thro' this fairy ground;
And thus did Fancy--and champagne--
  Work on the sight their dazzling spells,
Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain,
  Now brightened 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 reclined,
  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 the isles
  Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles,
As smooth they floated, to the play
Of their oar's cadence, sung this lay:--