Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN OLD MAGAZINE, by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN OLD MAGAZINE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: When first we issued from the press
Last Line: I am a genuine back-number!
Alternate Author Name(s): Dobson, Austin
Subject(s): Magazines


'Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse.'

WHEN first we issued from the Press,
In days less strenuous and prolific,
The folks who bought us could not guess
That we should serve for soporific.

The small-paned shop where we were sold,
Down a blind-alley in the City,
Where friendly Bookmen met of old,
Is now no more -- and more's the pity!

That was the Age of Auction Sales,
When lives of Books were somewhat longer;
Our sign-board was The Crab and Scales,
And he that 'kept' there, was a Conger --

Our Publisher -- a man of might
(As large as Johnson was, and louder),
Who planned new things from morn to night,
And owned a famous Fever Powder.

We scored at first. We took high ground,
Preached Aristotle from our garret,
Called Gray 'remote' and Locke 'unsound,'
And gave strange plates of plant and parrot;

Our Rebuses were reckoned neat,
Our Logogriphs were much debated;
Our note, in Ethics, was 'discreet,'
In Politics, 'twas 'plainly stated.'

We had our views. In Art and Song
We were -- above all -- patriotic;
We hated the imported throng
Of Fiddlers, Singers, Cooks exotic....

Then matters changed. Our Foremost Bard
(Later a copious rhetorician)
Found crambo-rhyming far too hard,
And 'odes Pindarick' not his mission;

Our Fictionist, whose 'High-Life' page
Failed to provide the funds he needed,
Threw up his post for 'living wage,'
And as a 'Pen-cutter' succeeded;

The cunning Artist, too, that drew
Our stage Roxana and Statira,
Flamed out in folio with a new
(Subscription) Ruins of Palmyra,

Which he set off to visit. Next
Our Essayist, the kind, the gentle,
Whose wayward Humour never vexed,
Whose Wit was never detrimental,

Fell sick and died. Then came a day,
Day to be draped with black, and banished!
When all our sales had ebbed away,
And what we had of vogue, had vanished --

When, by some stroke of Fate concealed
(Or stress of butcher and of baker),
Our stock-in-trade entire was wheeled
To 'Mr. Pastem, the Trunk Maker!'

Such is our mournful history!
You'll need some tranquillizing slumber.
I offer it. 'Times change, and we'...
I am a genuine Back-Number!





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