Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO THE HON. MRS. COCKAYNE, by JANE WEST


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO THE HON. MRS. COCKAYNE, by                    
First Line: C -- e, whom providence hath placed / in the rich realms of polished taste
Last Line: I mean the counterparts of you.
Alternate Author Name(s): Iliffe, Jane
Subject(s): Poetry Readings


C -- e, whom providence hath placed
In the rich realms of polished taste,
Where judgement penetrates to find
The treasures of the unwrought mind,
Where conversation's ardent spirit
Refines from dross the ore of merit,
Where emulation aids the flame
And stamps the sterling bust of fame:
Can you, accustomed to behold
The purest intellectual gold,
Where genius sheds its living rays,
Bright as the sunny diamond's blaze,
Like idle virtuoso deign
To pick up pebbles from the plain?
Pleased, if the worthless flints pretend
Fantastic characters to blend;
These in your cabinet insert,
And real excellence desert?
Just the comparison will be,
If you suppose the pebble me.
My verse, inelegant and crude,
Confused in sense, in diction rude,
You, not content with praising, spout
To friends of fashion at a rout.
You said the author was a charmer,
Self-taught, and married to a farmer;
Who wrote all kind of verse with ease,
Made pies and puddings, frocks and cheese.
Her situation, though obscure,
Was not contemptible or poor.
Her conversation spoke a mind
Studious to please, but unrefined.
So warm an interest you expressed,
It was not possible to jest.
The company, amazed, perplexed,
Wondering what whim would seize you next,
Perhaps expecting you would praise
The muse of Quarles, or Sternhold's lays,
Stammered, as due to complaisance,
The civil speech of nonchalance.
But at the instant you withdrew,
The conversation turned on you.
The sonnet might perhaps have merit.
You had recited it with spirit.
Your manner was so full of grace,
They could not judge in such a case.
But give each character its due,
You seemed a little partial too.
All, to commend your taste, agreed --
But friendship would the best mislead.
A warm enthusiastic heart
Would soon be wrought upon by art.
The Poem -- though, indeed, no wonder
Th' uneducated Muse should blunder --
Had here and there a small defect,
But 'twere invidious to object.
One thought alliteration fine,
And liked it every other line.
Another, might she be so free,
Would substitute a that for the.
A third said, 'Judges will perceive
Crown has a harsher sound than wreath.'
A witty beau observed, the nation
Had verse enough for exportation,
Wished ladies would such arts despise,
And trust their conquests to their eyes.
For, on his honour, if the whim
Should spread, they'd be too wise for him.
A man of rank grew warm, and swore
The times were bad enough before.
He offered to bet ten to one
The nation would be soon undone:
For honour, spirit, courage, worth,
Were all appendages on birth;
And if the rustics grew refined,
Who would the humble duties mind?
They might, from scribbling odes and letters,
Proceed to dictate to their betters.
A fellow of a college said
He studied nothing but the dead;
For men of sense have ne'er denied
That learning with the ancients died.
A lady, of distinguished taste,
Much stress on well-bred authors placed.
Though she could never time bestow
On trash inelegant and low;
Yet science was her darling passion,
And she read everything in fashion.
With her a lovely nymph agreed,
That people should with caution read:
And really, if she must confess,
That what with visiting and dress,
Music, her ever-dear delight,
And cards, the business of the night,
Her leisure was so very small,
She could not say she read at all.
Oh! that the great ones would confine
Such treatment to such verse as mine,
Adapted but to entertain
A partial friend or simple swain.
Yet, with a votary's ardent zeal,
The sorrows of the Muse I feel.
While Painting for her sons can claim
At once emolument and fame;
While Music, when she strikes the chord,
Confers distinction and reward;
Contemptuous scorn, or cold regard,
Awaits the heaven-illumined Bard.
No more shall wealth, with fostering care,
Fair Poesy's frail blossoms rear.
No more shall favour's influence bland
Bid the luxuriant growth expand.
No more shall candid judgement deign
That wild luxuriance to restrain.
No more shall chiefs, in arms renowned,
Sue by the Muses to be crowned.
Neglected, while the wintry storm
Tears the fine fibres of its form,
As if disdaining to complain
Of patronage, implored in vain,
It withering droops its lovely head,
And sinks upon its native bed;
Mourned only by the liberal few --
I mean the counterparts of YOU.





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