REV. THOMAS COOKE.

The verses at the end of the following letter may excuse the insertion of a query, which would otherwise be out of place in a publication not designed to be a channel of inquiry.

To the Editor.

Sir,—I should feel much obliged, if the Table Book can supply some account of a clergyman of the name of Thomas Cooke, who, it is supposed, resided in Shropshire, and was the author of a very beautiful poem, in folio, (published by subscription, about ninety years since,) entitled “The Immortality of the Soul.” I have a very imperfect copy of this work, and am desirous of ascertaining, from any of your multifarious readers, whether or not the poem ever became public, and where it is probable I could obtain a glimpse of a perfect impression. Mine has no title-page, and about one moiety of the work has been destroyed by the sacrilegious hands of some worthless animal on two legs!

The list of subscribers plainly proves that Mr. Cooke must have been a man of good family, and exalted connections. On one of the blank leaves in my copy, the following lines appear, written by Mr. Cooke himself; and, considering the trammels by which he was confined, I think the verses are not without merit; at any rate, the subject of them appears to have been a beautiful creature.

By giving this article a place in the Table Book, you will much oblige

Your subscriber and admirer,
G. J. D.

Islington-green.

An Acrostic
On a most beautiful and accomplished
young Lady. London, 1748.

Meekness—good-humour—each transcendent grace,
Is seen conspicuous on thy joyous face;
Sweet’s the carnation to the rambling bee,
So art thou, Charlotte! always sweet to me!
Can aught compare successfully with those
High beauties which thy countenance compose,
All doubly heighten’d by that gentle mind,
Renown’d on earth, and prais’d by ev’ry wind?
Lov’d object! no—then let it be thy care
Of fawning friends, at all times, to beware—
To shun this world’s delusions and disguise,
The knave’s soft speeches, and the flatt’rer’s lies,
Esteeming virtue, and discarding vice!
[I-137,
I-138]
Go where I may, howe’er remote the clime,
Where’er my feet may stray, thy charms sublime,
Illustrious maid! approv’d and prais’d by all,
Like some enchantment shall my soul enthrall—
Light ev’ry path—illuminate my mind—
Inspire my pen with sentiments refin’d—
And teach my tongue on this fond pray’r to dwell,
“May Heav’n preserve the maid it loves so well!”
Thomas Cooke.