(Friend Walter, I am certain quite,
You’ll say both voice and vote went right).
XI.
But why that hollow note of woe,
That stops of wine the genial flow;
Why shrinks the late convivial throng,
And why has silence banished song;
And why is horror’s aching stare
Sent wildly to the empty chair:
Oh! why is every eyebrow knit,
When turned to where D— —h should sit.—
————
The chair is filled! a stranger sat
Upon the honoured seat;
Nor deigned he to doff his hat,
Though more than one had hinted that
Respect was always meet.
But he was heedless of them all,
And thrice he gazed round the hall,
But ne’er a word did he let fall:
Whilst thus he sat, whilst thus he gazed,
The goodly throng were all amazed;—
XII.
And marvelled they, how this could be,
And how he entered none might say;
And some averred a sprite was he,
And others swore he was a fay:
And all agreed ’twas passing strange,
And marvellous withall,
That either sprite or fay should range
Into a festal hall:
Nor could the wisest present name
From whence he sprung, or how he came.
XIII.
He was of little form, and tight;
His weight, if man, had been full light:
In short, he was a sportsman-sprite.
A pea-green jerkin on his back
All dabbled by a splashing hack;
His dirty boots, his leathers long
With crimson whip-cord tied;
His straight necked spurs, and heavy thong,
Proclaimed him formed to ride:
And he had ridden far that day,
For he was daubed, and splashed with clay.
XIV.
The circling glass again goes round,
As fear in wine and use is drowned:
The goblin sprite enjoys each joke,
Though never once the while he spoke,
But lent a civil listening ear,
Resolved minutely all to hear;
And every toast with ready will
His elfin hand consents to fill.
Heavens! what a wondrous draught he drew
When e’er they toasted bold B— —h.