University of Virginia Library

THE FESTAL HOUR.

A Festal Hour—bring wreaths—bring harps—bring lamps—a Festal Hour!
Call Pleasure's favourite votaries now to Pleasure's gilded bower;
Assemble now the Lovely Ones in the gay and glitt'ring halls—
Rubies and roses burning deep 'midst their Hair's perfumed falls;
Soft Flattery's incense shall salute ere long their listening ears,
And gentlest words shall soothe away their bashful maiden fears,
Till happy sighs shall sweetly through their honeyed accents thrill,
And soften them to lovelier and to dearer music still!
While radiant smiles shall tremble round their lips that blush apart—
The smile of Beauty's tenderness—sweet Sunstroke of the Heart!
True, lovelier might sound Love's first words beneath the greenwood shade,
When soft and slow the Evening light had dwindled and decayed,
Where Nature's vernal splendours spread in glorious pomp around,
Than here where gleam the dazzling lamps, and rings the loud harp's sound.
Where Love's words come down on the Soul, the moved and ruffled Soul,
Like moonbeams when o'er troubled seas, o'er broken waves they roll!
Soft, lovely in themselves they are, serene and gently mild,
But tossed upon those stirring waves, they too seem strange and wild;
For moved and ruffled is the Soul 'mongst festal scenes like these,
As waters of the sounding Sea, are ruffled by the breeze—
For me, I sorrowing, silent move amidst the gladsome train,
To me the sounds of joy bring grief—and pleasure gives but pain!
To me, to me, are nothing now the words of Flatt'ry's tongue,
Or more, the words of Passion's breath, whereon once I raptured hung,
The old, precious, household words of Love—to me long, deeply dear,
No more may greet my watchful sense, nor court my longing ear;
And therefore 'tis I wander 'mongst the idle and the gay,
And therefore 'tis I sickening turn from these light sounds away!—
I wander there in vain, vain hope, that it may bring relief—
Unto my aching lonely heart—my spirit's yearning grief;
But still remembering those blest words, so hallowed and so dear—
I shrink from Flattery's—Passion's tones, with grieved and wounded ear!
Ah! how many thus even like myself, may join the joyous throng,
With aching hearts and sorrowing minds, mingling the Gay among?
But who—who are the gay? and who the happy and the free?
Ah! could we rend the veil that hides the much we should not see—
And could we rend that covering veil—and push the mask aside—
And bid them put away their cloak of vanity and pride;
Then when that mask was pushed aside—that veil was rent away—
We might indeed ask mournfully—but who—who are the gay?
In deeply bosomed sorrow some have joined the splendid train,
That yet would not for worlds on worlds be set free from their pain—
While evermore they woo and win to wander by their side,
Some Phantom of some gentle thing—that loved, and sunk, and died!
Some Phantom of some lovely thing that now hath fled away—
And they have mingled 'mongst the throng—and they are of the gay!
Those that they loved are free—are flown—and they 'midst others mix,
Secure none other—ever may their winged affections fix!
Their winged affections—that on high with quenchless longing soar—
Fettered to this dull gloomy earth, this shadowy world no more—
Where all things that are lovely come, but for a little while,
O'er poor Mortality's marked path to flutter and to smile!—
And these are of the gay! these—these who inly mourn and groan—
And they assume the careless smile—affect the cheerful tone!
And some are there, who vainly have, through tumult and through wrath,
Toiled in Ambition's slippery ways, and veiled and dangerous path;
Who have slaved beneath her iron reign—and rued her fearful sway—
And worn their noblest energies, their proudest powers away?
And vainly worn, while others gained the prize for which they strove—
And they amongst the Crowd appear—amidst the gay they move!
And some are there who have been made Love's victims—wronged—betrayed!
Whose every hope was wrecked at once, when Love's fair wreath decayed;
And they smoothe down, and brightly wreathe the coiled up glossy braids—
And mingle in the lovely throng, of happier, brighter maids.
Upon these glossy coiled up wreaths they place the Crown of flowers,
And join the joyous concourse then, to smile away the hours,
While Grief's fell hungry canker-worm is preying on their hearts,
And vain for them are Pleasure's wiles, and Flattery's specious arts.
Who are the gay? Oh answer this! Who—who then are the gay?
Many may seem so—while in sooth they are bitterest Sorrow's prey;
But let them seem so—'tis indeed a harmless bright deceit,
And forces others too to smile, and one same task repeat;
The soft infection gently spreads throughout the festive crowd—
Oh! where would be a festive throng, where hidden truths avowed?