To A Missal Of The Thirteenth Century.

Missal of the Gothic age,
Missal with the blazoned page,
Whence, O Missal, hither come,
From what dim scriptorium?

Whose the name that wrought thee thus,
Ambrose or Theophilus,
Bending, through the waning light,
O'er thy vellum scraped and white;

Weaving 'twixt thy rubric lines
Sprays and leaves and quaint designs;
Setting round thy border scrolled
Buds of purple and of gold?

Ah!--a wondering brotherhood,
Doubtless, by that artist stood,
Raising o'er his careful ways
Little choruses of praise;

Glad when his deft hand would paint
Strife of Sathanas and Saint,
Or in secret coign entwist
Jest of cloister humourist.

Well the worker earned his wage,
Bending o'er the blazoned page!
Tired the hand and tired the wit
Ere the final Explicit!

Not as ours the books of old--
Things that steam can stamp and fold;
Not as ours the books of yore--
Rows of type, and nothing more.

Then a book was still a Book,
Where a wistful man might look,
Finding something through the whole,
Beating--like a human soul.

In that growth of day by day,
When to labour was to pray,
Surely something vital passed
To the patient page at last;
Something that one still perceives
Vaguely present in the leaves;
Something from the worker lent;
Something mute--but eloquent!

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

Outward Bound.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

To A Pastoral Poet.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

A Dialogue To The Memory Of Mr. Alexander Pope.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

To A Child.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

English

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Sat Est Scripsisse.

(To E. G., With A Collection Of Essays.)


When You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call,
And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall,
It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age,
Will find the present volume and listless turn the page.

For him I speak these verses. And, Sir (I say to him),
This Book you see before you,--this masterpiece of Whim
Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend),--
Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend.

For they had worked together, been Comrades of the Pen;
They had their points at issue, they differed now and then;
But both loved Song and Letters, and each had close at heart
The hopes, the aspirations, the "dear delays" of Art.

And much they talked of Measures, and more ...

Henry Austin Dobson

The Church-Builder

I

The church flings forth a battled shade
Over the moon-blanched sward;
The church; my gift; whereto I paid
My all in hand and hoard:
Lavished my gains
With stintless pains
To glorify the Lord.

II

I squared the broad foundations in
Of ashlared masonry;
I moulded mullions thick and thin,
Hewed fillet and ogee;
I circleted
Each sculptured head
With nimb and canopy.

III

I called in many a craftsmaster
To fix emblazoned glass,
To figure Cross and Sepulchre
On dossal, boss, and brass.
My gold all spent,
My jewels went
To gem the cups of Mass.

IV

I borrowed deep to carve the screen
And raise the ivoried Rood;
I parted with my small demesne
To make my owings good.

Thomas Hardy

The Study

Yet in the darksome crypt I left so late,
Whose only altar is its rusted grate, -
Sepulchral, rayless, joyless as it seems,
Shamed by the glare of May's refulgent beams, -
While the dim seasons dragged their shrouded train,
Its paler splendors were not quite in vain.
From these dull bars the cheerful firelight's glow
Streamed through the casement o'er the spectral snow;
Here, while the night-wind wreaked its frantic will
On the loose ocean and the rock-bound hill,
Rent the cracked topsail from its quivering yard,
And rived the oak a thousand storms had scarred,
Fenced by these walls the peaceful taper shone,
Nor felt a breath to slant its trembling cone.

Not all unblest the mild interior scene
When the red curtain spread its falling screen;
O'er some lig...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

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

The Abbey Mason

(Inventor of the "Perpendicular" Style of Gothic Architecture)



The new-vamped Abbey shaped apace
In the fourteenth century of grace;

(The church which, at an after date,
Acquired cathedral rank and state.)

Panel and circumscribing wall
Of latest feature, trim and tall,

Rose roundabout the Norman core
In prouder pose than theretofore,

Encasing magically the old
With parpend ashlars manifold.

The trowels rang out, and tracery
Appeared where blanks had used to be.

Men toiled for pleasure more than pay,
And all went smoothly day by day,

Till, in due course, the transept part
Engrossed the master-mason's art.

- Home-coming thence he tossed and turned
Throughout the night till the new sun bu...

Thomas Hardy

The Book-Plate's Petition.

By A Gentleman Of The Temple.


While cynic CHARLES still trimm'd the vane
'Twixt Querouaille and Castlemaine,
In days that shocked JOHN EVELYN,
My First Possessor fixed me in.
In days of Dutchmen, and of frost,
The narrow sea with JAMES I cross'd,
Returning when once more began
The Age of Saturn and of ANNE.
I am a part of all the past;
I knew the GEORGES, first and last;
I have been oft where else was none
Save the great wig of ADDISON;
And seen on shelves beneath me grope
The little eager form of POPE.
I lost the Third that owned me when
French NOAILLES fled at Dettingen;
The year JAMES WOLFE surpris'd Quebec,
The Fourth in hunting broke his neck;
The day that WILLIAM HOGARTH dy'd,
The Fifth one found me in Cheapside.
This...

Henry Austin Dobson