Dryden And Pope.

        Genius of Dryden and of Pope,
        Both did take a mighty scope,
        The first he virgil did translate,
        The second showed us Troys fate.
        On English themes they oft did sing
        And high their muses flight did wing.

James McIntyre

James McIntyre was a Canadian poet, most notable for his poetry concerning cheese, cheese-making, dairying, and dairy products. Often referred to as 'The Cheese Poet,' McIntyre's work is celebrated for its earnestness and unintentional humor, making him both a beloved and an infamous figure in literary circles. He emigrated from Scotland to Canada in 1851 and settled in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he became a successful businessman and community leader.

James McIntyre

Farrington, 1866, Factory System.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Shoe Black.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Tiger And Elephant.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Canada Before The Confederation Of The Provinces.

James McIntyre, 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 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

Dr. Swift To Mr. Pope, While He Was Writing The "Dunciad"

POPE has the talent well to speak,
    But not to reach the ear;
His loudest voice is low and weak,
    The Dean too deaf to hear.

Awhile they on each other look,
    Then different studies choose;
The Dean sits plodding on a book;
    Pope walks, and courts the Muse.

Now backs of letters, though design'd
    For those who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with hints, and interlined,
    Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each atom by some other struck,
    All turns and motions tries;
Till in a lump together stuck,
    Behold a poem rise:

Yet to the Dean his share allot;
    He claims it by a canon;
That without which a thing is not,
    Is causa sine quâ non.

Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit;
    For...

Jonathan Swift

To Thomas Edwards, Esquire - On The Late Edition Of Mr. Pope's Work

Believe me, Edwards, to restrain
The license of a railer's tongue
Is what but seldom men obtain
By sense or wit, by prose or song:
A task for more Herculean powers,
Nor suited to the sacred hours
Of leisure in the Muse's bowers.
In bowers where laurel weds with palm,
The Muse, the blameless queen, resides:
Fair fame attends, and wisdom calm
Her eloquence harmonious guides:
While, shut for ever from her gate,
Oft trying, still repining, wait
Fierce envy and calumnious hate.

Who then from her delightful bounds
Would step one moment forth to heed
What impotent and savage sounds
From their unhappy mouths proceed?
No: rather Spenser's lyre again
Prepare, and let thy pious strain
For Pope's dishonor'd shade complain.
Tell how displeas'...

Mark Akenside

Verses On Two Celebrated Modern Poets

Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise
With lofty branches to the skies,
Have large proportion'd roots that grow
With equal longitude below:
Two bards that now in fashion reign,
Most aptly this device explain:
If this to clouds and stars will venture,
That creeps as far to reach the centre;
Or, more to show the thing I mean,
Have you not o'er a saw-pit seen
A skill'd mechanic, that has stood
High on a length of prostrate wood,
Who hired a subterraneous friend
To take his iron by the end;
But which excell'd was never found,
The man above or under ground.
    The moral is so plain to hit,
That, had I been the god of wit,
Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather,
Should Young and Philips drudge together.

Jonathan Swift

Byron.

        Poets they do pursue each theme,
        Under a gentle head of steam,
        Save one who needed fierce fire on,
        The brilliant, pasionate Byron.
        His child Harold's pilgrimage,
        Forever will the world engage;
        He fought with glory to release
        From Turkish yoke the isles of Greece,
        Its glories oft by him were sung,
        This wondrous bard, alas, died young.

James McIntyre

American Poets.

        Like fruit that's large and ripe and mellow,
        Sweet and luscious is Longfellow,
        Melodious songs he oft did pour
        And high was his Excelsior.
        He shows in his Psalm of Life
        The folly of our selfish strife,
        With Hiawatha we bewail
        His suffering in great Indian tale.
        Indian nation was forlorn
        Till great spirit planted corn;
        His story of Evangeline
        It is a tale of love divine.

James McIntyre