Mark his slow-creeping, dead, metallic stare; His eyes, dull glimmering, like the balance-pan That weighs its guinea as he weighs his man. Who's next? An artist in a satin tie Whose ample folds defeat the curious eye. And there 's the cousin,--must be asked, you know,-- Looks like a spinster at a baby-show. Hope he is cool,--they set him next the door,-- And likes his place, between the gap and bore. Next comes a Congressman, distinguished guest We don't count him,--they asked him with the rest; And then some white cravats, with well-shaped ties, And heads above them which their owners prize. Of all that cluster round the genial board, Not one so radiant as the banquet's lord. Some say they fancy, but they know not why, A shade of trouble brooding in his eye, Nothing, perhaps,--the rooms are overhot,-- Yet see his cheek,--the dull-red burning spot,-- Taste the brown sherry which he does not pass,-- Ha! That is brandy; see him fill his glass! But not forgetful of his feasting friends, To each in turn some lively word he sends; See how he throws his baited lines about, And plays his men as anglers play their trout. A question drops among the listening crew And hits the traveller, pat on Timbuctoo. We're on the Niger, somewhere near its source,-- Not the least hurry, take the river's course Through Kissi, Foota, Kankan, Bammakoo, Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo, Thence down to Youri;--stop him if we can, We can't fare worse,--wake up the Congressman! The Congressman, once on his talking legs, Stirs up his knowledge to its thickest dregs; Tremendous draught for dining men to quaff! Nothing will choke him but a purpling laugh. A word,--a shout,--a mighty roar,--'t is done; Extinguished; lassoed by a treacherous pun. A laugh is priming to the loaded soul; The scattering shots become a steady roll, Broke by sharp cracks that run along the line, The light artillery of the talker's wine. The kindling goblets flame with golden dews, The hoarded flasks their tawny fire diffuse, And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold and bright, Pale as the moon and maddening as her light; With crimson juice the thirsty southern sky Sucks from the hills where buried armies lie, So that the dreamy passion it imparts Is drawn from heroes' bones and lovers' hearts. But lulls will come; the flashing soul transmits Its gleams of light in alternating fits. The shower of talk that rattled down amain Ends in small patterings like an April's rain;