At the Hostelry, Part 8

So Brouwer, the droll. But others sit
Flinting at whiles scintillant wit
On themes whose tinder takes the spark,
Igniting some less light perchance —
The romanesque in men of mark;

And this, Shall coming time enhance
Through favoring influence, or abate
Character picturesquely great —
That rumored age whose scouts advance?
And costume too they touch upon:
The Cid, his net-work shirt of mail,
And Garibaldi's woolen one:
In higher art would each avail
So just expression nobly grace —
Declare the hero in the face?

On themes that under orchards old
The chapleted Greek would frank unfold,
And Socrates, a spirit divine,
Not alien held to cheerful wine,
That reassurer of the soul —
On these they chat.

But more whom they,
Even at the Inn of Inns do meet —
The Inn with greens above the door:
There the mahogany's waxed how bright,
And, under chins such napkins white.
Never comes the mart's intrusive roar,
Nor heard the shriek that starts the train,
Nor teasing telegraph clicks again,
No news is cried, and hurry is no more —
For us, whose lagging cobs delay
To win that tavern free from cumber,
Old lads, in saddle shall we slumber?

Here's Jack, whose genial sigh-and-laugh
Where youth and years yblend in sway,
Is like the alewife's half-and-half;
Jack Gentian, in whose beard of gray
Persistent threads of auburn tarry
Like streaks of amber after day
Down in the west; you'll not miscarry
Attending here his bright-and-sombre
Companion good to while the way
With Naples in the Times of Bomba.