Poems from The Teacups | Page 5

go myself,
And fetch the book
of verses from its shelf."
No time was lost in finding what she
sought,--
Gone but one moment,--lo! the book is brought.
"Now, then, Professor, fortune has decreed
That you, this evening,
shall be first to read,--
Lucky for us that listen, for in fact
Who
reads this poem must know how to act."
Right well she knew that in
his greener age
He had a mighty hankering for the stage.
The
patient audience had not long to wait;
Pleased with his chance, he
smiled and took the bait;
Through his wild hair his coaxing fingers
ran,--

He spread the page before him and began.
THE BANKER'S SECRET
THE Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast
The town has heard of for a
year, at least;
The sparry lustres shed their broadest blaze,
Damask

and silver catch and spread the rays;
The florist's triumphs crown the
daintier spoil
Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil;
The
steaming hot-house yields its largest pines,
The sunless vaults unearth
their oldest wines;
With one admiring look the scene survey,
And
turn a moment from the bright display.
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;
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