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,