Part 138 (1/2)
'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 l.u.s.tre poured, Shone out the high-born knights and dames Now grouped around that festal board; A living ma.s.s 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-- Circa.s.sian 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 gla.s.s delaying Like Eve, when by the lake she sate, In the clear wave her charms surveying, And saw in that first gla.s.sy 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 b.u.t.terfly, 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 G.o.ddess-s.h.i.+p approves the air; And to a mere terrestrial strain, Inspired by naught but pink champagne, Her b.u.t.terfly as gayly nods As tho' she sate with all her train At some great Concert of the G.o.ds, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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.