Thus having said, the kilted Goddess kist
Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist*.

Illustrious HOLLAND! hard would be his lot His hirelings mentioned, and himself forgot!

scriptions. The name of this personage is pronounced Broom in the South, but the truly Northern, and musical pronunciation is BROUGH-AM, in two syllables.

*I ought to apologise to the worthy Deities for introducing a new Goddess with short petticoats to their notice: but alas! what was to be done? I could not say Caledonia's Genius, it being well known there is no Genius to be found from Clackmannan to Caithness, yet without supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved? The national "Kelpies," &c. are too unpoetical, and the "Brownies" and gude neighbours," (spirits of a good disposition) refused to extricate him.-A Goddess therefore has been called for the purpose, and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only communication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with any thing heavenly.

HOLLAND, with HENRY PETTY at his back,
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack.
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House,
Where Scotchmen feed, and Critics may carouse!
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof,

Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 380
See honest HALLAM lay aside his fork,
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work,
And grateful to the founder of the feast,
Declare his landlord can translate, at least!*
Dunedin! view thy children with delight,

They write for food, and feed because they write:
And lest when heated with the unusual grape,

Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape,
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek,
My lady skims the cream of each critique;

390

* Lord H. has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega, inserted in his life of the Author: both are bepraised by his disinterested guests.

Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul,
Reforms each error and refines the whole*.

Now to the drama turn-oh! motley sight! What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite! Puns, and a Prince within a barrel pent, + And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. Though now, thank heaven! the Rosciomania's o'er, And full-grown actors are endur'd once more; Yet, what avails their vain attempts to please, While British critics suffer scenes like these? 400

* Certain it is, her Ladyship is suspected of having displayed her matchless wit in the Edinburgh Review: however, that may be, we know from good authority, that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal---no doubt for correction.

In the melo-drame of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on the stage, a new asylum for distressed heroes.

While REYNOLDS vents his "damme, poohs," and

"zounds,"*

And common place, and common sense confounds?
While KENNY's World just suffer'd to proceed,
Proclaims the audience very kind indeed?
And BEAUMONT's pilfer'd Caratach affords
A tragedy complete in all but words? +
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage,
The degradation of our vaunted stage?

Heavens! is all sense of shame, and talent gone?

410

Have we no living Bard of merit?-none?
Awake, GEORGE COLMAN! CUMBERLAND, awake!
Ring the alarum bell, let folly quake!

* All these are favourite expressions of Mr R. and prominent in his Comedies, living and defunct.

+ Mr. T. Sheridan, the new Manager of Drury-Lane Theatre, stripped the Tragedy of Bonduca of the Dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of Caractacus.—Was this worthy of his sire? or of himself?

Oh! SHERIDAN! if aught can move thy pen,
Let Comedy resume her throne again,

Abjure the mummery of 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 KEMBLE lives to tread? 420
On those shall Farce display buffoonery's mask,
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask?

Shall sapient managers new scenes produce
From CHERRY, SKEFFINGTON, and Mother Goose?
While SHAKESPEARE, 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. 430 And sure great SKEFFINGTON must claim our praise, For skirtless coats, and skeletons of plays