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_ Caroline glides smooth in verse, And is easy to rehearse; Runs just like some crystal river O'er its pebbly bed for ever. Lines as harsh and quaint as mine In their close at least will shine, Nor from sweetness can decline, Ending but with _Caroline_. _Maria_ asks a statelier pace-- "_Ave Maria_, full of grace!" Romish rites before me rise, Image-worship, sacrifice, And well-meant but mistaken pieties. _Apple_ with _Bee_ doth rougher run. Paradise was lost by one; Peace of mind would we regain, Let us, like the other, strain Every harmless faculty, Bee-like at work in our degree, Ever some sweet task designing, Extracting still, and still refining. TO CECILIA CATHERINE LAWTON _An Acrostic_ Choral service, solemn chanting, Echoing round cathedrals holy-- Can aught else on earth be wanting In heav'n's bliss to plunge us wholly? Let us great _Cecilia_ honour In the praise we give unto them, And the merit be upon her. Cold the heart that would undo them, And the solemn organ banish That this sainted Maid invented. Holy thoughts too quickly vanish, Ere the expression can be vented. Raise the song to _Catherine_, In her torments most divine! Ne'er by Christians be forgot-- Envied be--this Martyr's lot. _Lawton_, who these _names_ combinest, Aim to emulate their praises; Women were they, yet divinest Truths they taught; and story raises O'er their mouldering bones a Tomb, Not to die till Day of Doom. ACROSTIC, TO A LADY WHO DESIRED ME TO WRITE HER EPITAPH (1830) Grace Joanna here doth lie: Reader, wonder not that I Ante-date her hour of rest. Can I thwart her wish exprest, Ev'n unseemly though the laugh