Mr. Cooke's Original Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mr. Cooke's Original Poems

with Imitations and Translations of Several Select Passages of the Antients, In Four Parts: To which are added Proposals For perfecting the English Language

Cooke, Thomas (1703-1756)

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PART the First, CONTAINING ESSAYS, TALES, AND A RHAPSODY On Virtue and Pleasure.

PART the Second, CONTAINING EPISTLES, ODES, FABLES, SATIRES, LOVE-ELEGYS, PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, and EPIGRAMS.

EPISTLES the First, TO Mrs. COLSTON, On the Death of her only Son.

EPISTLE the Second, TO Mr. LEONARD WELSTED, On the Death of his only Daughter.

EPISTLE the Third, To the right honourable Thomas Earl of Pembroke at Wilton.

EPISTLE the Fourth, To the honourable Lord George Johnston.

EPISTLE the Fifth, To the right honourable Thomas Earl of Pembroke, Occasioned by The Death of Dr. Samuel Clarke.

EPISTLE the Sixth, To the right reverend Dr. Benjamin Hoadley, On his being translated from the Bishoprick of Salisbury to Winchester.

EPISTLE the Seventh, To his Grace The Duke of Somerset at Petworth.

EPISTLE the Eighth, TO James Vernon Esq;

PART the Third. THE BATTEL OF THE POETS, In Two CANTOS.

PART the Fourth, CONTAINING PARAPHRASES, IMITATIONS, AND TRANSLATIONS, Of several Parts of the Antients.

Epistle the Ninth. TO Dr. Edward Milward,

Ode the Twentyeth. TO The honourable Master Robert Petre a Day old, 1741.

The Twenty-fourth Ode of the first Book of Horace imitated and paraphrased, on the Death of Sir William Windham Bart.

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EPISTLE the Third, To the right honourable Thomas Earl of Pembroke at Wilton.

While in the Town I spend the tedious Day,
There waste the cheerful summer Suns away,
What distant Tracts the social Hour refuse!
Yet none impervious to the pow'rful Muse!
Far northward to the Humber some repair;
These on the Medway breathe the southern Air,
Where shady Mountains rise, and Vales subside,
Along whose Banks the liquid Mirrors glide:
While these, retiring to the rural Seat,
Seek on the peaceful Plains a bless'd Retreat,
To me the Hours move with a Sluggard's Pace,
For Time not flys, but seems to slack his Race.

While Wilton Shades receive my noble Friend,
What grateful Present can the Muses send?

Accept, the Language of my Heart, this Song;
No servile Flatt'ry shall thy Virtues wrong:
Fain by thy Virtues I my Name would raise,
And grow, my Lord, immortal in thy Praise.

Hail to those Shades where, in our golden Age,
The godlike Sidney pen'd the deathless Page;
Sidney to Mem'ry dear, and dear to Fame,
Of whom the learned Shades retain the Name .
Hail to those Shades where now my Genius roves,
Zealous to wait you thro the silent Groves:
I view you there with philosophic Eyes,
In your more boasted Titles, good and wise,
Searching thro Nature all her perfect Laws,
And tracing from th'Effect the secret Cause:
And here, great Man, another Subject trace,
The Glorys of your own immortal Race,
Worthys who, Ages pass'd, those Walks have trod,
Who, born in Greece, had each been stil'd a God.
Your great Forefathers Themes for Wonder give,
Renown'd for ev'ry Excellence they live.
In Council wise these prov'd their Sov'reign's Pride;
Those bravely stem'd of War the raging Tyde:

All human Greatness crouds thy glorious Line,
And ev'ry Virtue of thy Race is thine.
Would those cœlestial Guests one Look bestow
On Wilton's Fabric, their Retreat below,
They would confess their Joy encreas'd, to see
How fresh their Love of Arts still lives in thee:
There would they view, to beautyfy the Dome,
Proud Ornaments! the Arts of Greece and Rome:
There, Niobe, thy hapless Offsprings fall;
The Forest waves the Branches on the Wall;
Thick fly the Darts; the Mother makes her Moan,
And seems converted to a Stone in Stone;
How vain is Pride in the sad Tale behold,
And by the Sculptor's Hand the Story told.
Sav'd from the greedy Waste of Time, appears
The rev'rend Bust of near three thousand Years,
The Bard of Ascra, whose immortal Songs
Engag'd a Country to revenge his Wrongs.
There Terence stands, Prince of the comic Strain;
And Belles of former Days there charm again:
Poets and Heros there, of diff'rent Climes,
With Beautys meet, all Boasts of earlyer Times.
O! there, for which each Friend to Virtue prays,
Over thy Head smile many cheerful Days;
While there retir'd beneath the grateful Shade,
May no rude Care thy Soul divine invade:

Each Joy be thine that bounteous Nature yields,
And late thy Summons to the happyer Fields.

August, 1727.

At the Seat of the Earl of Pembroke at Wilton is a Walk now called by the Name of Sir Philip Sidney, who is sayed to have wrote most of his Arcadia there.