TO R.[J.]S.  KNOWLES, ESQ.

On his Tragedy of Virginius

(1820)

Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then
Esteemed you a perfect specimen
Of those fine spirits warm-soul’d Ireland sends,
To teach us colder English how a friend’s
Quick pulse should beat.  I knew you brave, and plain,
Strong-sensed, rough-witted above fear or gain;
But nothing further had the gift to espy. 
Sudden you re-appear.  With wonder I
Hear my old friend (turn’d Shakspeare) read a scene
Only to his inferior in the clean
Passes of pathos:  with such fence-like art—­
Ere we can see the steel, ’tis in our heart. 
Almost without the aid language affords,
Your piece seems wrought.  That huffing medium, words,
(Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway
Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play
We scarce attend to.  Hastier passion draws
Our tears on credit:  and we find the cause
Some two hours after, spelling o’er again
Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain. 
Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns,
Still snatch some new old story from the urns
Of long-dead virtue.  We, that knew before
Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.

          TO THE EDITOR OF THE “EVERY-DAY BOOK”

(1825)

        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-turn’d Catholic
        Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint,
          And cannot curse the candid heretic.

        Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page;
          Our fathers’ 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.

* * * * *

ACROSTICS

TO CAROLINE MARIA APPLEBEE

An Acrostic