Whether on ancient tombs thou tak’st thy stand,
By gibbering spectres hail’d, thy kindred band;
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
To please the females of our modest age.
All hail, M. P.![A] 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 gray men,” “wild yagers,” and what not,
To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott: