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 Fete is to be held to-night--
That Fete 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 Fete 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.
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