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:—