When I, unconscious all Of such high presence at our festival, Heard her name bandied in the general hum Of hungry tongues, which told the guests had come, And saw in converse with our host the form, Familiar once in sunshine and in storm, Of her who was to me the type and sign Of all things noble, not to say Divine, Breathing the atmosphere of that vain house, My heart stopped beating. Half incredulous, I looked and questioned in my neighbours' eyes, Seeking the sense of this supreme surprise. My thought took words, as at the table set Men's lips were loosed, discoursing while they ate, And each to each. Beside me, of the crew Of gilded youths who swelled the retinue Of our fair hostess in her daily lot Of hunting laughter when field sports were not, Sat one, a joyous boy, whom fashion's freak, A mad-cap courage and a beardless cheek, Had set pre-eminent in pleasure's school To play the hero and to play the fool For those few years which are the summer's day Of fashion's foils ere they are cast away. Young Jerry Manton! Happy fortune's son, What heights of vanity your creed had won, Creed of adventure, and untiring words And songs and loves as brainless as a bird's. Who would not envy you your lack of sense, Your lawless jibes, your wealth of insolence, The glory of your triumphs unconcealed In pleasure's inmost and most sacred field! Who would not share the sunshine of your mirth, Your god-like smile, your consciousness of worth, The keenness of your wit in the world's ways, Your heart so callous to its blame or praise! Him I addressed, in pursuance of my doubt How such a prodigy had come about. Young Manton eyed me. "Every road," he said, "Leads--well--to Rome." He laughed and shook his head, As if in censure of a thought less sage. "My lady's thirty is a dangerous age, And of the three where most misfortunes come Is the worst strewn with wrecks in Christendom." "You see," he added, "we are not all wise In all dilemmas and all companies, And there are times and seasons when the best Has need of an hour's frolic with the rest, If only to set free the importunate load Of trouble pressing on an uphill road. Women's first snare is vanity. At twenty Praises are pleasant, be they ne'er so plenty; And some, the foolish ones, are thus soon caught Seeking to justify the flattery taught. These are the spendthrifts, dear ingenuous souls, Whose names emblazoned stand on pleasure's rolls, Manning the hosts of mirth. Apart from them, More serious or less eager in their aim, The wise ones wait like birds that hold aloof, Conscious of danger and the cloven hoof. Yet there are times."