We owe the blame for James Henry (1798–1876) to the critic Christopher Ricks (born in 1933). Well, perhaps we owe it to James Henry himself, an eccentric Irish physician and scholar of Virgil’s Latin who self-published several bad (or at least uneven) volumes of poetry.

Yet it was Mr. Ricks who in the 1980s discovered in the Cambridge University library some of Henry’s books — books so definitively unread that Mr. Ricks had to use a paper knife to cut the pages. Whether by whim or boast at his discovery, or even in genuine admiration at the better poems, he included eight of Henry’s poems in his 1987 “New Oxford Book of Victorian Verse.”

In 2002, Mr. Ricks returned to the poet, editing “Selected Poems of James Henry,” which reaches sometimes to something almost Browningesque. Even Henry’s humor has the elaborateness of many of the bachelor comic poets of Victorian England, Latin-trained as schoolboys.

Take, say, “By What Mistake Were Pigeons,” a poem in Henry’s 1866 collection “Menippea.” In competent blank verse, 27 lines of unrhymed pentameter, Henry ponders the curious existence of pigeons: “The pigeon of all things that walk or fly / Or swim or creep, the best cared-for and happiest.”

It’s fine light stuff: “Not even by pagan set to heavier task / Than draw the cart of Venus; since the deluge / Never once asked to carry in the bill.” On the anniversary of his birthday today, December 13, an enjoyable glance at the subject of Christopher Ricks’s quixotic quest to bring him to fame: the eccentric Irish figure, James Henry.

By What Mistake Were Pigeons
by James Henry

By what mistake were pigeons made so happy,
So plump and fat and sleek and well content,
So little with the affairs of others meddling,
So little meddled with? say, a collared dog,
And hard worked ox, and horse still harder worked,
And caged canary, why, uncribbed, unmaimed,
Unworked and of its will lord absolute,
The pigeon sole has free board and free quarters,
Till at its throat the knife, and pigeon pie
Must smoke ere noon upon the parson’s table;
Say, if ye can; I cannot, for the life o’ me;
But, whersoe’er I go, I find it so;
The pigeon of all things that walk or fly
Or swim or creep, the best cared-for and happiest;
Ornament ever fresh and ever fair
Of castle and of cottage, palace roof
And village street, alike, and stubble field,
And every eye and volute of the minster;
Philosopher’s and poet’s and my own
Envy and admiration, theme and riddle;
Emblem and hieroglyphic of the third
Integral unit of the Trinity;
Not even by pagan set to heavier task
Than draw the cart of Venus; since the deluge
Never once asked to carry in the bill,
And by the telegraph and penny-post
Released for ever from all charge of letters.

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With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by Joseph Bottum with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems are drawn from the deep traditions of English verse: the great work of the past and the living poets who keep those traditions alive. The goal is always to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.