I have seen the poem entitled “The Immortality of the Soul,” mentioned by G. J. D., though I have no recollection of its general features or merit; but of “The Battle of the Poets” I have a copy; and what renders it more rare and valuable is, that it was Mr. Cooke’s own impression of the work, and has several small productions upon various occasions, written, I presume, with his own hand, each having the signature “Thomas Cooke,” on the blank leaves at the commencement of the book.
On my return from the continent, I shall have no objection to intrust this literary curiosity to your care for a short time, giving you the liberty of extracting any (and all if you think proper) of the pieces written on the interleaves: and, in the mean time, I will do myself the pleasure of selecting one from the number, for insertion in the Table Book, which will, at least, prove that Mr. Cooke’s animosity was of transient duration, and less virulent than that of Pope.
It is possible that at some future time I may be able to enlarge upon this subject, for the better information of your correspondent; and I beg, in the interim, to remark that there is no doubt the Annual Register, from about the year 1750 to 1765, or works of that description, will fully satisfy his curiosity, and afford him much more explanation relative to Mr. Cooke than any communications from existing descendants.
In Mr. Cooke’s copy of “The Battle of the Poets,” the lines before quoted run thus:—
“But in his other works what beauties shine—
What sweetness also dwells in ev’ry line!
These all admire—these bring him endless praise,
And crown his temples with unfading bays!”
I remain, sir,
Your obedient servant and subscriber,
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Oxford, Jan. 29, 1827.
VERSES,
Occasioned by the lamented Death
of Mr. Alexander Pope.
Pope! though thy pen has strove with heedless rage
To make my name obnoxious to the age,
While, dipp’d in gall, and tarnish’d with the spleen,
It dealt in taunts ridiculous and mean,
Aiming to lessen what it could not reach,
And giving license to ungrateful speech,
Still I forgive its enmity, and feel
Regrets I would not stifle, nor conceal;
For though thy temper, and imperious soul,
Needed, at times, subjection and controul,
There was a majesty—a march of sense—
A proud display of rare intelligence,
In many a line of that transcendent pen,
We never, perhaps, may contemplate again—
An energy peculiarly its own,
And sweetness perfectly before unknown!
Then deign, thou mighty master of the lyre!
T’ accept what justice and remorse inspire;
Justice that prompts the willing muse to tell,
None ever wrote so largely and so well—
Remorse that feels no future bard can fill
The vacant chair with half such Attic skill,
Or leave behind so many proofs of taste,
As those rich poems dulness ne’er disgrac’d!