Henry James Pye & The Snow-Drop

Poet Henry James Pye (1745 – 1813) was made Poet Laureate in 1790 but has gone down in history as the worst Poet Laureate ever.

When it came to poetry, he was hugely ambitious but seems to have had no feeling for poetic rhythms and a poor command of language. Before becoming Laureate, he had self-published several volumes of verse. He also wrote some plays, did translations from the classics and was not a bad prose writer, but his poetry is definitely poor (the only other contender for Worst Poet Laureate is Alfred Austin). In his 23 years in the position, he did write many odes for special occasions (his annual Ode to celebrate the birthday of King George III gave the public plenty of scope for derision) and he produced a steady stream of mechanical verse. You would struggle to find any of it in anthologies today. Readers mocked the dullness of his style, while Lord Byron said of him that “he was a man eminently respectable in everything but his poetry”.

The Snow-Drop by Henry James Pye

Hail earliest of the opening flowers!
Fair Harbinger of vernal hours!
Who dar’st unveil each silken fold
Ere Sol dispels the wintry cold,
And with thy silver leaves display’d
Spread lustre through the dreary glade.—
What though no fragrance like the rose
Tincturing the Zephyr as it blows,
Thy humble flowers from earth exhale
To scent the pinions of the gale;
What though no hues of gaudy dye
Strike with their dazzling charms the eye,
Nor does thy sober foliage shew
Each blended tint of Iris’ bow;
Yet in thy meek unsullied grace
Imagination’s eye shall trace
The glowing blossoms that appear
Proudly to paint the vernal year,
And smiling Maia’s blushing dyes,
And jocund Summer’s cloudless skies,
And Autumn’s labours which succeed
To bid the purple vintage bleed,
Our hopes anticipating see
Led on in radiant train by thee.

This poem uses the emergence of the snow-drop at the end of winter to meditate on beauty and the promise of nature’s renewal. The lines feel laboured, the rhymes forced or unnatural, it is full of clichés and is wonderfully forgettable. I don’t usually celebrate bad poems in ‘Notes from a Book Addict’, but sometimes it is good to be reminded of the bad in order to fully appreciate the good.

Sadly, poor Henry James Pye was a delusional poet who struck lucky when it came to the esteemed position of Poet Laureate, but who was simply not qualified for the job.