I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone!
In whose capacious all-embracing leaves
The very marrow of tradition's shown;
And all that history--much that fiction--weaves.
By every sort of taste your work is graced.
Vast stores of modern anecdote we find,
With good old story quaintly interlaced--
The theme as various as the reader's mind.
Rome's life-fraught legends you so truly paint--
Yet kindly,--that the half-turned Catholic
Scarcely forbears to smile at his own Saint,
And cannot curse the candid heretic.
Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page;
Our father's mummeries we well-pleased behold,
And, proudly conscious of a purer age,
Forgive some fopperies in the times of old.
Verse-honouring Phoebus, Father of bright _Days_,
Must needs bestow on you both good and many,
Who, building trophies of his Children's praise,
Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any.
Dan Phoebus loves your book--trust me, friend Hone--
The title only errs, he bids me say:
For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown,
He swears, 'tis not a work of _every day_.