A Welcome From The "Johnson Club"

To William John Courthope, March 12, 1903


When Pope came back from Trojan wars once more,
He found a Bard, to meet him on the shore,
And hail his advent with a strain as clear
As e'er was sung by BYRON or by FRERE.^[1]

You, SIR, have travelled from no distant clime,
Yet would JOHN GAY could welcome you in rhyme;
And by some fable not too coldly penned,
Teach how with judgment one may praise a Friend.

There is no need that I should tell in words
Your prowess from The Paradise of Birds;^[2]
No need to show how surely you have traced
The Life in Poetry, the Law in Taste;^[3]
Or mark with what unwearied strength you wear
The weight that WARTON found too great to bear.^[4]
There Is no need for this or that. My plan
Is less to laud the Matter than the Man.

This is my brief. We recognise in you
The mind judicial, the untroubled view;
The critic who, without pedantic pose,
Takes his firm foothold on the thing he knows;
Who, free alike from passion or pretence,
Holds the good rule of calm and common sense;
And be the subject or perplexed or plain,--
Clear or confusing,--is throughout urbane,
Patient, persuasive, logical, precise,
And only hard to vanity and vice.

More I could add, but brevity is best;--
These are our claims to honour you as Guest.

Henry Austin Dobson

Henry Austin Dobson, commonly known as Austin Dobson, was an English poet and essayist. A civil servant by profession, Dobson was one of the most renowned poets and literary critics of the late Victorian and Edwardian periods. His work is noted for its delicate craftsmanship and profound interest in 18th-century literature. Dobson's poetry often revisited and celebrated historical themes and characters, blending scholarly interest with lyrical form.

Henry Austin Dobson

The Curé's Progress.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

The Claims Of The Muse.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

For A Copy Of Herrick.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

An April Pastoral.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Familiar Epistle

To * * Esq. of * * with a Life of the late Ingenious Mr. W M. Hogarth.


Dear Cosmopolitan,--I know
I should address you a Rondeau,
Or else announce what I've to say
At least en Ballade fratrisée;
But No: for once I leave Gymnasticks,
And take to simple Hudibrasticks;
Why should I choose another Way,
When this was good enough for GAY?

You love, my FRIEND, with me, I think,
That Age of Lustre and of Link;
Of Chelsea China and long "s"es,
Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses;
That Age of Folly and of Cards,
Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards;
--No H--LTS, no K--G--N P--LS were then
Dispensing Competence to Men;
The gentle Trade was left to Churls,
Your frowsy TONSONS and your CURLLS;
Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack
The AUTHOR ...

Henry Austin Dobson

The Poet And The Critics.

If those who wield the Rod forget,
'Tis truly--Quis custodiet?


A certain Bard (as Bards will do)
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by FOURDRINIER.
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;--
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,--in fine,
A neat and "classical" Design.
But the in-Side?--Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had:
Much Memory,--more Imitation;--
Some Accidents of Inspiration;--
Some Essays in that finer Fashion
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;--
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.

In the less-crowded Age of ANNE,
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked h...

Henry Austin Dobson

A Dialogue To The Memory Of Mr. Alexander Pope.

"Non injussa cano."
Virg.


POET. I sing of POPE--

FRIEND. What, POPE, the Twitnam Bard,
Whom Dennis, Cibber, Tibbald push'd so hard!
POPE of the Dunciad! POPE who dar'd to woo,
And then to libel, Wortley-Montagu!
POPE of the Ham-walks story--

P. Scandals all!
Scandals that now I care not to recall.
Surely a little, in two hundred Years,
One may neglect Contemporary Sneers:--
Surely Allowance for the Man may make
That had all Grub-street yelping in his Wake!
And who (I ask you) has been never Mean,
When urged by Envy, Anger or the Spleen?
No: I prefer to look on POPE as one
Not rightly happy till his Life was done;
Whose whole Career, romance it as you please,
Was (what he call'd it) but a "long Disease:"
Think of his ...

Henry Austin Dobson

A Hymn Of Welcome After The Recess.

        "animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo."


And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er--
Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more!
    Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain!
The short eclipse of April-Day
Having (God grant it!) past away,
    Collective Wisdom, shine again!

Come, Ayes and Noes, thro' thick and thin,--
With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in,--
    Whate'er the job, prepared to back it;
Come, voters of Supplies--bestowers
Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers,
    At eighty mortal pounds the jacket!^[1]

Come--free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares--
Ye Senators of many Shares,
    Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary;
So fond of aught like Company,
That you would even have taken tea
    (Had yo...

Thomas Moore

Henry Fielding.

(To James Russell Lowell.)


Not from the ranks of those we call
Philosopher or Admiral,--
Neither as LOCKE was, nor as BLAKE,
Is that Great Genius for whose sake
We keep this Autumn festival.

And yet in one sense, too, was he
A soldier--of humanity;
And, surely, philosophic mind
Belonged to him whose brain designed
That teeming COMIC EPOS where,
As in CERVANTES and MOLIÈRE,
Jostles the medley of Mankind.

Our ENGLISH NOVEL'S pioneer!
His was the eye that first saw clear
How, not in natures half-effaced
By cant of Fashion and of Taste,--
Not in the circles of the Great,
Faint-blooded and exanimate,--
Lay the true field of Jest and Whim,
Which we to-day reap after him.
No:--he stepped lower down and took
The pi...

Henry Austin Dobson

Invitation To Dinner. Addressed To Lord Lansdowne.

September, 1818.


Some think we bards have nothing real;
    That poets live among the stars so,
Their very dinners are ideal,--
    (And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)--
For instance, that we have, instead
    Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes,
First course--a Phoenix, at the head.
    Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus--Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath,
    Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor;
And nightingales, berhymed to death--
    Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit ...

Thomas Moore