Friend Lamb! thou choosest well, to love the lore
Of our old by-gone bards, whose racy page
Rich mellowing Time makes sweeter than before
It ever was; for the long-garnered store
Of fruitage is right luscious in its age,
Although to Fashion's taste austere. What more
Can be expected from the popular rage
For tinsel gauds, that are to gold preferred?
Me much it grieved; for I did long presage
Vain Fashion's foils had every heart deterred
From the warm homely phrase of other days,
Until thy muse's ancient voice I heard.
And now right fain, yet fearing, honest Bard,
I pause to greet thee with so poor a praise.