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 |
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| 7. | EPISTLE the Seventh, To his Grace The Duke of Somerset at Petworth. |
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 | Mr. Cooke's Original Poems |  |
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EPISTLE the Seventh, To his Grace The Duke of Somerset at Petworth.
From Town retir'd, where Vice and Folly reign,
The Parents of Confusion and of Pain,
To the fair Scenes where Flora, richly dress'd,
Wears her green Mantle, and her purple Vest,
To whose Attire each Flow'r a Tribute brings,
For whom the Rose, the Queen of Fragrance, springs,
And where Pomona, with a lavish Hand,
Thick loads the Boughs, and Ceres cloaths the Land,
Where rise the Hills, and where the Valley leads
To the wide stretching Wood that skirts the Meads,
Amidst them all fix'd is my humble Cell,
Where Innocence and Meditation dwell:
Here the sweet Breath of Morn, and Ev'ning fair,
And solemn Stilness of the noontide Air,
Prove or to sacred Contemplation kind,
Or to the Field of Fancy wake the Mind.
The Parents of Confusion and of Pain,
To the fair Scenes where Flora, richly dress'd,
Wears her green Mantle, and her purple Vest,
To whose Attire each Flow'r a Tribute brings,
For whom the Rose, the Queen of Fragrance, springs,
And where Pomona, with a lavish Hand,
Thick loads the Boughs, and Ceres cloaths the Land,
Where rise the Hills, and where the Valley leads
To the wide stretching Wood that skirts the Meads,
Amidst them all fix'd is my humble Cell,
Where Innocence and Meditation dwell:
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And solemn Stilness of the noontide Air,
Prove or to sacred Contemplation kind,
Or to the Field of Fancy wake the Mind.
While round the wide Expanse the Muse surveys
What first to sing, and where begin her Praise,
Southward to Petworth's Bow'rs she turns her Eyes,
And of her Song beholds the Subjects rise.
Here might I wanton in Description bold
Of Architrave and Roofs of freted Gold,
Point out the Cornice elegant and Freeze,
And shew that Order never fails to please:
There Sculpture charms, the Hero or the Saint;
And there surprises the projecting Paint:
The Grove, the Gardens, there the Muse might range,
And feast her Fancy with Delight of Change:
But these she passes now unheeded by,
Studious to feed the Mind, and not the Eye:
Unsung she leaves the Temple, to declare
What Virtues are enshrin'd in Person there:
She the great Master views to Titles born,
But to more Virtues, which his Rank adorn:
His Soul's encompass'd with a heav'n-born Flame,
The Source of noble Deeds, and Foe to Shame,
That from the Breast all Vice, all Meanness, flings,
That pitys weak, and scorns inactive, Kings,
The godlike Pride, all selfish Views above,
That Admiration gains, and endless Love:
Unruly Riot never stains his Floor,
Yet open stands the hospitable Door:
As like to like inclines, his Judgement led
Fair Charity in Person to his Bed;
Whose Pleasure is to ease the Cares of Need,
To cloath the naked, and the hungry feed;
Whose Virtues, as they're exercis'd, afford
Joy to herself, and equal to her Lord:
Behold the Blessings of the good and wise!
See from their Loves angelic Offsprings rise!
What first to sing, and where begin her Praise,
Southward to Petworth's Bow'rs she turns her Eyes,
And of her Song beholds the Subjects rise.
Here might I wanton in Description bold
Of Architrave and Roofs of freted Gold,
Point out the Cornice elegant and Freeze,
And shew that Order never fails to please:
There Sculpture charms, the Hero or the Saint;
And there surprises the projecting Paint:
The Grove, the Gardens, there the Muse might range,
And feast her Fancy with Delight of Change:
But these she passes now unheeded by,
Studious to feed the Mind, and not the Eye:
Unsung she leaves the Temple, to declare
What Virtues are enshrin'd in Person there:
She the great Master views to Titles born,
But to more Virtues, which his Rank adorn:
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The Source of noble Deeds, and Foe to Shame,
That from the Breast all Vice, all Meanness, flings,
That pitys weak, and scorns inactive, Kings,
The godlike Pride, all selfish Views above,
That Admiration gains, and endless Love:
Unruly Riot never stains his Floor,
Yet open stands the hospitable Door:
As like to like inclines, his Judgement led
Fair Charity in Person to his Bed;
Whose Pleasure is to ease the Cares of Need,
To cloath the naked, and the hungry feed;
Whose Virtues, as they're exercis'd, afford
Joy to herself, and equal to her Lord:
Behold the Blessings of the good and wise!
See from their Loves angelic Offsprings rise!
Happy are they, thrice happy they, who find
Wisdom, the richest Jewel of the Mind.
Could we each precious Stone, known and unknown,
And ev'ry Gum, and Metal, call our own,
Of the wide Earth could we the Surface sweep,
And ransac ev'ry Corner of the Deep,
Compar'd with Wisdom, yet their Price is small;
In Worth intrinsic she exceeds them all:
In her right Hand is a long Length of Days,
And in her left Wealth and eternal Praise:
These are of Wisdom, these, the Gifts divine;
And these, illustrious Seymour, all are thine.
Wisdom, the richest Jewel of the Mind.
Could we each precious Stone, known and unknown,
And ev'ry Gum, and Metal, call our own,
Of the wide Earth could we the Surface sweep,
And ransac ev'ry Corner of the Deep,
Compar'd with Wisdom, yet their Price is small;
In Worth intrinsic she exceeds them all:
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And in her left Wealth and eternal Praise:
These are of Wisdom, these, the Gifts divine;
And these, illustrious Seymour, all are thine.
Thro Ages yet may England's Nobles see
From you, my Lord, what Nobles ought to be:
Long may you live the Grace of Petworth's Bow'rs;
And may your Consort share those happy Hours:
Their Sex's Glory may your Offsprings rise,
And bless with Angels, like themselves, your Eyes.
From you, my Lord, what Nobles ought to be:
Long may you live the Grace of Petworth's Bow'rs;
And may your Consort share those happy Hours:
Their Sex's Glory may your Offsprings rise,
And bless with Angels, like themselves, your Eyes.
These the first Fruits of her Retreat, your Due,
The Muse an Off'ring sends, my Lord, to you,
To you beneath whose Smiles she plumes her Wings,
And thus retires, and in Retirement sings.
The Muse an Off'ring sends, my Lord, to you,
To you beneath whose Smiles she plumes her Wings,
And thus retires, and in Retirement sings.
August, 1739.
| Mr. Cooke's Original Poems | |