CLARET
into the Muses’ battle; and at such a pass, it is the hour of Hautbrion, the moment of Margaux, the instant of Latour and Larose. Pactolus himself flowed with no richer burden; better than grains of gold are borne in Larose’s smooth-tongued flood, and whoso drinks of his ts “purple tide” from him the cares of the world go vanishing, vanishing, with a voluptuous and entrancing effect of delay. With Port we go down gloriously, but precipitately, into the couch of kings; we nestle into Luxury’s lap; but we sleep on the instant. To a splendour of light succeeds an abysm of dark; there is no moment of twilight, no tutelary crepusculum, wherethrough to watch the fading glow we leave, and discern the gradations of the nearing dark. But Claret bears us ever up and up toward the light.
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