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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| I. | CANTO I. |
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 | Mr. Cooke's Original Poems |  |
CANTO I.
To Bards tenacious of the dying Lay,
The happy few who back with Conquest came,
The pensive many who return'd with Shame,
I sing. Indulge, Calliope, my Verse,
While I the Horrors of the War rehearse,
How Poets doubly in their Works were slain,
When the big Volumes cover'd all the Plain,
How little Witlings like Enthusiasts fought
For the same Cause, they knew not why, they wrote.
First, Goddess, for thou know'st, instruct my Tongue
To tell the Source whence the Dissention sprung.
The Lust of Int'rest, and the Trade of Song,
The Fools of Fortune and the Sons of Fame
Confus'dly mix'd; the first a num'rous Croud
O'er Merit rising insolent and proud.
Resolv'd no longer such Affronts to bear,
That each the Laurels he deserv'd might wear,
Thus, calling to his Aid Jove's winged Son,
The ever-youthful God of Verse begun.
Where Dryden late Apollo's Laurels wore;
Thus says the delphic God, to all proclaim,
Who plead the Sanction of a Poet's Name,
Long has Confusion ravag'd round the Plain,
And Discord rul'd among the tuneful Train;
Without Distinction, to my own Disgrace,
The brighter gives th'inferior Genius Place;
Hence who are strenuous to obtain their Right
Are thus by Phœbus summon'd to the Fight.
His Arms let each advent'rous Chief prepare;
And I the God will be in Person there,
To see that all to Justice may submit,
By Force of Learning, and by Dint of Wit.
To him who longest shall maintain the Field
This blooming Verdure on my Brows I yield.
On Windsor's Forest to decide the Day.
Convey'd the Message thro Apollo's Land.
All view their Forces, and correct each Line,
And swear at ev'ry Word the Chaplet's mine.
Lend in the greatest Time of Need thine Aid;
O'er all the Labours of my Song preside,
And thro the arduous Task thy Herald guide;
Impartial let my Praise and Censure be,
For ev'ry Poet's Worth is known to thee;
And first the Leaders and their Forces tell,
Allys, and Neuters, for thou know'st them well.
Call from the Womb of Earth the infant Flow'rs,
In the full Beauty of the fragrant May,
When Nature smiles, and ev'ry Field is gay,
When George and Caroline begun their Reign,
Bless'd Pair, tremendous to the Pride of Spain,
To interrupt their Peace, no greater Foe.
In saffron Robes, unbar'd the Gates of Light,
First on the Plain a haughty Gen'ral came,
Of Rumour born, the short-liv'd Child of Fame,
In glaring Arms array'd, and Pope his Name.
Brittle the Helm he wore, no Artist's Care;
The Plume, Belinda, was thy ravish'd Hair.
See on his Shield's thin Boss the Greecian stand,
The lifeless Labour of the Painter's Hand,
Of Greeks the first, the deathless Son of Fame,
Not known for Homer but by Homer's Name.
Low on the Orb, on the sinister Side,
Lay Hobbs and Chapman to indulge his Pride;
Betwixt them Ogylby, and on his Head,
Our Hero stood, insulting o'er the dead.
Thy Lawns, O! Windsor, on the right were seen,
In Colours painted like autumnal Green.
Figures ill match'd of various Kinds were there,
The Dunce's Bird and Eloisa fair.
In Wit superior, and of equal Pride,
A scurril Joker, and of all the Jest.
This Leader, sable-rob'd, his Conscience sold
Long since; or Whig or Tory he for Gold.
Worth in all Shapes he views with envious Eyes,
A Vanbrugh witty, and Godolphin wise:
Nor could the foremost of the Sons of Men
Escape his ribbald and licentious Pen,
He who protected, in the doubtful Hour,
The Land of Freedom from tyrannic Pow'r:
Hail ever honour'd Shade, whose sacred Name
Shall live, till Worlds decay, the Boast of Fame!
As Right requires, this, Marlb'ro', is thy Lot;
The Foes to Virtue dy, and are forgot,
Or Death survive, detested by their Race,
Wretches immortal in their own Disgrace!
This Doom be his, who now his Mind employs
In feigning idle Tales for Girls and Boys,
Or gives his Genius the malignant Scope
At better Men to throw his Dirt with Pope.
See to the Field Swift self-sufficient run,
To share the Wreath with his poetic Son;
With him Invectives gross for Humour pass:
He wears no Armour but a Face of Brass.
Thus from his Bitterness of Soul began.
The bold Encroachments of the Sons of Song;
But now the Hour is come that shall declare
To all, in Wit, we Brobdignaggians are.
Observe my Words before our Foes appear,
And to the Voice of Counsel lend thine Ear.
Soon as we hear the Signal to engage
Exert with all thy Might poetic Rage;
Nor meanly stoop to Justice in the Cause,
Despise all Manners, and regard no Laws.
Foes in all Cases we must treat like Foes;
Whether the Sons of Verse, or Men of Prose,
Call them, without Reserve, Dog, Monkey, Owl,
And splutter out at once Fish, Flesh, and Fowl.
To give Advice to whom Advice is vain.
Who better knows than I his Dirt to throw?
To wound in Secret either Friend or Foe?
Go preach to Gay, and such as are inclin'd
Less to exert an enterprising Mind,
Who, slothful to pursue our glorious Ends,
Lag as if willing to make all their Friends.
When was I known basely to court the Schools,
Or not to rail at dull methodic Fools,
Who dare not venture from their Depth to wade?
Souls fit as Philips for the rhyming Trade!
A Genius form'd like mine will soar at all,
And boldly follow where Subscriptions call.
My gentle Touch from Homer clear'd the Rust,
And from the Brow of Shakespeare wip'd the Dust.
With one Accord, the aukward Voice of Praise,
All Strangers to Renown, not form'd for War,
But humble Waiters on their Leader's Car;
Whose loud Applause at ev'ry Step they bawl,
And fright their Hearers with the hideous Squall.
And with their Screams torment the winter Sky.
The longliv'd Sons of Fame, and Pride of Song!
Brave without Rage they march to face the Foe,
Nor Clamours raise, majestically slow.
To the bless'd Symphony of War they move,
To Sounds which seem to animate the Grove.
Here lofty Notes full worthy Homer swell,
Well answer'd, Flaccus, by thy Roman Shell;
Here Pindar's bold and manly Strokes inspire;
There breathes the Softness of the Teian Lyre.
So round their God the nine melodious Maids,
Soft warbling, charm the Heliconian Shades.
A Chief at once advent'rous and serene;
Firm on his Shield the Roman Swan appears,
Horace bright shining thro a Length of Years,
And there Lavinia by her Dream betray'd,
And Acon smiling on the blushing Maid:
Longinus there extends the laurel Bough,
And with the Ivy crowns the Critic's Brow.
Thus arm'd the Bard advanc'd, in Heart sincere,
Welsted to Phœbus and the Muses dear.
A Chief, whose Moments are employ'd to please,
Tho fit in Prowess, not inclin'd to War,
Who would the stubborn Foe to Justice shame,
Friend to all Worth, and Theobald his Name:
His ample Shield two mighty Poets grace,
Here Æschylus , there Shakespeare's aweful Face,
Those great Supporters of the tragic Scene.
A Leader bold, and by the Muses lov'd,
Took in resplendent Arms the martial Field,
The Head of Homer painted on his Shield;
The Lines so strong the master Pencil speak,
All wish he'd draw'd at Length th'immortal Greek.
With Virgil's Genius, tho but Lucan's Days,
Behold. O! Youth, if into Fate I see,
Another Dryden shall arise in thee.
Born to add Glory to thy native Land,
Thy early Virtues now our Hearts command:
Let Malice throw her feeble Darts in vain,
By thee retorted only with Disdain,
And to the Eye of Judgement ever shine:
Thee in thy Works shall Men unborn adore,
And call the Genius of pass'd Ages Moore.
Each zealous to assert his Leader's Fame;
Tho worthy in themselves the Bard's Renown,
They modestly declin'd the laurel Crown.
Against the Foe they march'd in Arms ally'd,
And knew the God with Justice would decide.
And all the Signal for the Fight receive.
Betwixt both Hosts Pope, dauntless Champion, stands,
And bids Defyance to the social Bands:
Who dares, he crys, with me his Strength to try,
Let him consider well what 'tis to dy;
'Tis living to observe his Labours dead,
And by no Reader but their Author read:
Both Day and Night he may torment his Brain,
And write, and write, and ever write in vain:
The Works on which I look with Eyes unkind
Shall vanish like the Chaff before the Wind.
Who can like me invent, or who translate?
Of Epic Bards the Chief and oldest see
Explain'd, and more illustrious made, by me.
On which th'Unlikeness of the Greek appears.
Tickell step'd forth, with just Resentment fir'd
In Homer's Cause, and by the Muse inspir'd.
Shield against Shield the Heros now oppose;
Sense clash'd with Sense, and Words on Words arose;
For Pope, a Chief more resolute than strong,
Persisted boldly in the Fight of Song,
Till he at last the Foe too pow'rful found,
And by him fell unpity'd to the Ground.
About him throng'd his sad Attendants all,
And tho they saw would scarce believe his Fall;
Him to the greenwood Shade they gently bore,
And in hoarse Elegys his Fate deplore.
Tickell observ'd, and thus his Thoughts express'd,
Contempt and Pity rising in his Breast:
Severe his Lot to whom the Muses gave
A Pow'r so bounded, and a Soul so brave!
Bards unrecorded in the Rolls of Fame;
Dablers in Verse in Politics and Law;
Some much affecting Wit are all Grimace,
Whose total Merit is a joking Face:
Thrice happy Men, with silent Talents bless'd,
Who may reserve your Words, and look a Jest,
In the eternal Book of Fame forbear
To hope a Place; no Phizzes enter there.
Be witty while you may, for, such your Fate,
Short is of Life, short of your Reign, the Date:
Will Somers is no more; and Pinkey rests
In the cold Grave; the Men who look'd such Jests!
When those ye join, over the cheerful Glass
The Friends of each will say, poor Phiz! Alas!
With each a Face more hum'rous than his Pen,
Disdain'd alike by Pope and the Allys,
Each hoping singly for the laurel Prize.
To Moore and Welsted they direct their Way;
To each an easy, but inglorious, Prey.
The Sentence to the Foe to dy or live,
Survey'd the Captives o'er, their Worth to find,
And turn'd the useless Pages to the Wind:
His Hand destructive stop'd, he call'd a Name,
Just sinking in Oblivion, back to Fame;
A Portion of his Verse he view'd with Care;
And saw th'Assistance of the Muses there:
While those are doom'd to write, and be forgot,
For thee, Brevall, is cast a happyer Lot.
Once more in Arms appear'd sustain'd by Swift;
Whose Art restor'd the Hero to the Plain,
Unkind restor'd him but to fall again:
Fresh flutt'ring by the Pill of Misaubin,
But hear'd, 'e're many Suns, the Wretch complain
Of the curs'd Emp'ric, and returning Pain.
Welsted with Vigilance observ'd his Course,
And for the Fight collected all his Force;
Forward he sprung to meet the approaching Foe,
Eager his great Antagonist to know,
Resolv'd with him singly to try his Fate,
With him of whom Report had spoke so great.
Pope met him near, and the Assault began,
Just to the Counsel of the sable Man;
But Welsted, to distinguish Right from Wrong,
Proceeded to the Merits of his Song,
When fled the maudlin and unmeaning Lay,
As Darkness flys before the Face of Day.
Pope sees the Danger, and incites the Croud,
Who for their Chief grow mutinous and loud.
That Hour, melodious Bard, had seen thy Name
Eras'd unjustly from the Book of Fame
By barb'rous Numbers, who conspir'd thy Fall,
Ill judging, noisy, and malicious, all,
Had not the God, who judg'd the Strife of Song,
Preserv'd thee harmless from the treach'rous Throng.
Their Fury doubled on great Shakespeare's Friend.
Here Swift exerts himself, whose sole Delight,
And Care, are only to enrage the Fight;
Th'invenom'd Breast of Pope he more inflames,
And the Globe ransacs for opprobrious Names;
The Stile of Porters he would bring in Use,
As if all Wit consisted in Abuse:
But Theobald, in keener Weapons strong,
Made his Revenge to prove the Foe was wrong;
He wisely sees, while envious Slanders fail,
The better Part is to convince, not rail.
Fierce to the servile and the flatt'ring Train.
While in the Brilliancy of Wit you shine,
Undoubted Conquest sits upon each Line,
Whether diverting in the comic Strain,
Or gayly sporting in Anacreon's Vein!
Nor stop'd thy Vict'ry on the menial Band;
The Chief went wounded from thy artful Hand.
Till Darkness had invested all the Sky:
And farther Battel till the Morn suspend.
The Reader must consider that this was writ in the Year 1729; at which Time the Poet was not apprehensive that Spain would soon become tremendous to us. 1740.
This Word is taken from a pretty Story-Book of Dr. Swift's, called Gulliver's Travels. I mention this, because that Book is not so well known now as it was when the last Edition of the Battel of the Poets was published. 1740.
See the Treatise on the Profund; in which the Qualitys of various Animals are set forth, and applyed to several Persons as Writers, and to most without any Analogy.
This Gentleman dyed since the last Edition of this Poem: from the Character which I have always heared of him, he never made an Enemy by his Conduct, nor deserved a Censure. Some of his Writings have great Merit, tho he was far from an Author of the first Class. 1741.
Ambrose Philips; besides whom, and the late Mr. John Philips, I never heared of any of the Name who were Poets, or indeed who could write, tho several of the same Name have printed Verses, and other Things. 1740.
Here an Observation may not be improper, that among all the commendatory Copys of Verses, which have yet appeared before the Works of Mr. Pope, not one, not the best, is a tolerable Performance.
In the Beginning of the third Book of the Ilias the Poet judiciously compares the Trojan Army to the clamorous Flight of Cranes; which Similitude strengthens the Contrast betwixt the Tumult of the Trojans and the orderly Disposition of the Greeks marching to Battel. Mr. Pope has injured his Author by adding the Word Order, which is not signifyed in the Original, to his Translation of this Simile. Says he,
—the Cranes embody'd flyWith Noise and Order.
This Error he endeavours to justify in a Note, by insisting on the Truth of their flying in Order; but, had Homer been sensible of this as a Fact, he would have took no Notice of it; because his Design was to oppose the noisy and unskillful Management of the Trojans to the harmonious and artful Discipline of the Greeks.
I should not have mentioned Æschylus, a Translation of which Author Mr. Theobald has happyly accomplished, had not Mr. Pope, in the first Book of the Dunciad, introduced it, I fear, with a malevolent Tendency; for since the Public cannot judge of the Equity of the Praise or Censure of a Work not published, with what View can any one condemn it, but to prejudice such as are influenced by his Judgement against the Proposals which are made for printing it? Such as have seen the Specimen of this Translation from the Tragedy of Prometheus, and are capable of judging, will be convinced that Mr. Pope is either no Judge, or, to speak in the mildest Terms, a partial Man. Mr. Theobald is treated in so unhandsome, foolish, and petulant, a Manner, thro the Dunciad, that we must think the Author much altered in his Opinion, since he wrote the following Lines; which, I believe, the Reader will think could never be more properly quoted than in a Satire on the Author.
In all you speak let Truth and Candour shine,
That not alone what to your Judgment's due
All may allow, but seek your Friendship too.
Essay on Criticism.
Mr. Theobald has, since the last Edition of this Poem, published an Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, which has been well received: he had before published a Specimen of the Work. 1740.
He dyed since the last Edition of this Poem: he was a Man of Genius, and has left some few Monuments of it behind him. 1740.
This Prophecy indeed was not fulfilled: however, the Death of this young Gentleman has, in some Measure, saved my Credit.
Virg. 1740.
In the Year 1729 some Persons, who herded among the Witlings and Poetasters of those Times, were remarkable for their comic Faces, and always raised a Laugh in Company when they spoke, tho what they uttered would have passed unheeded from any other Person: such was the Effect of a comic Phiz! 1740.
This Gentleman wrote an excellent Poem called Calpe or Gibraltar; in which we are delighted with the Description and History of that Place, and in a Language truly poetical. We are obliged to him for several other Pieces, which have each their Merit. The Fate of this Writer, as a Poet, is enough to deter the finest Genius, who has no View but Fame, and no Recommendation to the World but Merit, from his Pursuit. He dyed not long since; and I never heared of his being more than a travelling Tutor, or Governour, to a young Nobleman; which is a Station that of late Years is grown much into Contempt, not from any real Dishonour that it would be to a Person of small Fortune equal to the Trust, but from those who [OMITTED]
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