The Hostel, or Inn, 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;—