Oh, wonder-working Lewis! monk, or bard,

Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a churchyard!

Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,

Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou! Whether on ancient tombs thou takest thy stand,

By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band;

270

Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age; All hail, M. P.! from whose infernal brain Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train; At whose command grim women' throng in crowds,

And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, With small grey men,'' wild yagers,' and what not,

To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott.

Again all hail! if tales like thine may please, St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease; Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell,

And in thy skull discern a deeper hell.

281

The lofty numbers of a harp like thine; 350
'Awake a louder and a lofter strain,'
Such as none heard before, or will again!
Where all Discoveries jumbled from the
flood,

Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,
By more or less, are sung in every book,
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.
Nor this alone; but, pausing on the road,
The bard sighs forth a gentle episode;
And gravely tells attend, each beauteous
miss!-

When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 360
Bowles in thy memory let this precept

dwell,

Oh, Amos Cottle! - Phœbus! what a name
To fill the speaking trump of future fame!
Oh, Amos Cottle! for a moment think 401
What meagre profits spring from pen and
ink!

When thus devoted to poetic dreams,
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams?
Oh pen perverted! paper misapplied!
Had Cottle still adorn'd the counter's side,
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils,
Been taught to make the paper which he
soils,

Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb,

He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.

409

That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r,

Caught it, as Danaë caught the golden show'r,

And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine,

Augments its ore, and is itself a mine.

again,

500

Resign the pistol and resume the pen;
O'er politics and poesy preside,
Boast of thy country and Britannia's guide!
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit,
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit,
So long shall last thine unmolested reign,
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain.
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan,
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.
First in the oat-fed phalanx shall be seen
The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer, and
sometimes,

510

gone?

Have we no living bard of merit ? - none ! A wake, George Colman! Cumberland, awake!

Ring the alarum bell! let folly quake!
Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen,
Let Comedy assume her throne again; 581
Abjure the mummery of the German
schools;

Leave new Pizarros to translating fools;
Give, as thy last memorial to the age,
One classic drama, and reform the stage.
Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear
her head,

Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread?

On those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's mask,

And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask?

Shall sapient managers new scenes pro

duce

590

From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose?

While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot,

On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim

The rival candidates for Attic fame!
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise,
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize.
And sure great Skeffington must claim our
praise,

For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays