Of all the joys of earthly pride or power, What gives most life, worth living, in an hour? When Victory settles on the doubtful fight And the last foeman wheels in panting flight, No thrill like this is felt beneath the sun; Life's sovereign moment is a battle won. But say what next? To shape a Senate's choice, By the strong magic of the master's voice; To ride the stormy tempest of debate That whirls the wavering fortunes of the state. Third in the list, the happy lover's prize Is won by honeyed words from women's eyes. If some would have it first instead of third, So let it be,--I answer not a word. The fourth,--sweet readers, let the thoughtless half Have its small shrug and inoffensive laugh; Let the grave quarter wear its virtuous frown, The stern half-quarter try to scowl us down; But the last eighth, the choice and sifted few, Will hear my words, and, pleased, confess them true. Among the great whom Heaven has made to shine, How few have learned the art of arts,--to dine! Nature, indulgent to our daily need, Kind-hearted mother! taught us all to feed; But the chief art,--how rarely Nature flings This choicest gift among her social kings Say, man of truth, has life a brighter hour Than waits the chosen guest who knows his power? He moves with ease, itself an angel charm,-- Lifts with light touch my lady's jewelled arm, Slides to his seat, half leading and half led, Smiling but quiet till the grace is said, Then gently kindles, while by slow degrees Creep softly out the little arts that please; Bright looks, the cheerful language of the eye, The neat, crisp question and the gay reply,-- Talk light and airy, such as well may pass Between the rested fork and lifted glass;-- With play like this the earlier evening flies, Till rustling silks proclaim the ladies rise. His hour has come,--he looks along the chairs, As the Great Duke surveyed his iron squares. That's the young traveller,--is n't much to show,-- Fast on the road, but at the table slow. Next him,--you see the author in his look,-- His forehead lined with wrinkles like a book,-- Wrote the great history of the ancient Huns,-- Holds back to fire among the heavy guns. Oh, there's our poet seated at his side, Beloved of ladies, soft, cerulean-eyed. Poets are prosy in their common talk, As the fast trotters, for the most part, walk. And there's our well-dressed gentleman, who sits, By right divine, no doubt, among the wits, Who airs his tailor's patterns when he walks, The man that often speaks, but never talks. Why should he talk, whose presence lends a grace To every table where he shows his face? He knows the manual of the silver fork, Can name his claret--if he sees the cork,-- Remark that "White-top" was considered fine, But swear the "Juno" is the better wine;-- Is not this talking? Ask Quintilian's rules; If they say No, the town has many fools. Pause for a moment,--for our eyes behold The plain unsceptred king, the man of gold, The thrice illustrious threefold millionnaire;