"
It comes, with a laugh on its rubicund face;
Methinks, by the way, it's in pretty good case,
For a spirit unblest with a body;
"On the claret bee's-wing," says the sprite, "I regale;
But I'm ready for all--from Lafitte down to ale,
From Champagne to a tumbler of toddy.
"Then I'm not over-nice, as at least _you_ must know,
In the rank of my hosts--for the lofty or low
Are alike to the Spirit of Mirth;
I care not a straw with whom I have dined,
Though a family dinner's not much to my mind,
And a proser's a plague upon earth.
"But where, my dear sprite, for this age have you been?
Have you plunged in the Danube, or danced on the Seine?
Or have taken in Lisbon your station?
Or have flapped over Windsor your butterfly-wings,
O'er its bevy of beauties, and courtiers, and kings--
The wonders and wits of the nation?"
"No; of all climes for folly, Old England's the clime;
Of all times for fully, the present's the time;
And my game is so plentiful here,
That all months are the same, from December to May;
I can bag in a minute enough for a day--
In a day, bag enough for a year.
"My game-bag has nooks for 'Notes, Sketches, and Journeys,'
By soldiers and sailors, divines and attorneys,
Through landscapes gay, blooming, and briary;
And so, as you seem rather pensive to-night,
To dispel your blue-devils, I'll briefly recite
A specimen-leaf from my diary:--
"'THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER.
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