The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse :: :: University of Virginia Library

When human forms confront the human eye,
Prompt Instinct summons to approach, or fly—
Strong positive impressions urge the Heart
To like, or dislike, perfect, or in part—
Without premeditation taught to trace
The graven figure, or the fleeting grace—
In fashion'd features, and in manag'd limbs,
The wiles of Art, and Affectation's whims;
Or, signs of Love, and Candour, clearly sees,
In face transparent, and all parts at ease—
In obvious looks, malignant, or benign,
Beholds the Fury frown, or Christian shine;
While form, and feature, manner, air, and mien,
Distinctly show the different shades between.
It instantaneous feels each object strike—
With kindness kindles love, or low'rs dislike—
The first fair gracious glance, from head to foot,
Expands the passive heart, or keeps it shut—
Illumin'd looks, kind acts, and words, that win,
At once invite, and let a lodger in,
Or swindling leers, cramp'd limbs, and careless lore
Block every apt approach, and bar the door.

Such clear discriminations need no rules—
No lessons, taught in Colleges, or Schools—
What all domestic quadrupedes discern
Requires not Arts, or Sciences, to learn.
While deeds declare, more palpably than speech,
What Ministers and Masters never teach;
Nature instructing more, from studied looks,
Than boasted lectures, or Lavater's books.
—Can Cunning frankly look, with full relief?
Or Honesty be blank'd, like skulking Thief?
Can Falshood front with still, and stedfast eye?
Or Truth e'er wink with subtle twinkling, sly?
Can prim Hypocrisy, with sidelong leer,
Like open, artless, Probity, appear?

Can bloated Pride, with supercilious glance,
Like gentle, meek, Humility advance?
Sly Simulation, mask'd with pert pretence,
Awake fond feelings like soft Innocence?
Or Affectation and mock Flattery, move,
Like sweet Simplicity, the Soul, to Love?

Art, never can, with false fugacious grin,
Like lengthen'd smiles of artless Nature, win.
Ne'er can, like pure Sincerity, impart
True transports to each sympathetic heart.
The shapes which Artifice assumes, at will,
Elude the Limner's and the Sculptor's skill,
No Painter e'er Arts fleeting airs can seize,
Nor Statuary fix what instant flees;
For, like as lightning's instantaneous blaze
Rends Night's black mask, with momentary rays,
Art's brilliant blandishments the face illume,
Then instant fly and leave ungracious gloom;
Playing, at pleasure, many a monkey prank,
Now, bright as May—now as November blank!
A moment, graceful, every feature glows;
Pure ivory teeth display'd in radiant rows;
Then, suddenly, the lips their beauty shrowd,
Fleeting as flashes from the cloven cloud!
So have I seen a Pointer's fawning face,
Grinning, ineffable, with fondling grace;
In wrinkled curls contracting nose and cheek,
With eyes as brilliant, smiles soft and sleek,
Expressing symptoms of extatic joy,
Whene'er his feeder turn'd a flattering eye—
But his were smiles more permanently spread;
Not by mere formal affectation bred—
Nature's pure, simple, effort, prompt, and rude,
To show his true regard, and gratitude.

The Soul that hates deceit, and scorns design,
Carves the deep curve, and draws the lasting line—
Her colours pure, and perfect shapes, are seen
In quiet cheek, smooth brow, and eye serene;
And so complete her pencillings adjusts
No trait disgraces, and no tint disgusts:
While well to polish, and preserve, each part,
Truth spreads pure varnish drawn from virtuous heart;
And Piety to fix the raptur'd sight,
Clear, o'er the picture, lays her happiest light.
But specious Policy, with cunning skill,
Still toils, with 'wildering looks to trick the Will;
Each feature fram'd with keen contractions, hard,
In vain solicit virtuous Love's regard;
While wrinkling lids, bent brows, and eyes dropt down;
Smile, illegitimate, just like a frown;
And cheeks, with angular contortions, deep,
Look, while she laughs, like ideots when they weep.

Can Wisdom's Offspring, lectur'd in Her schools,
See—hear—feel—judge—decide—like Fashion's Fools?
Let Cunning's kerchief, drawn, conceal Decit,
Nor know when Passion's palpitations beat?
Be trick'd, when Hypocrites perform their task,
While wearing Mimicry's religious mask?
No! She, of all true Children justified,
Ne'er suffers such mistakes from false outside.
Ne'er long deceiv'd by superficial grace,
Or parasitic twists of gross grimace;
Which, like false fiery vapour's twinkling flame,
On heedless eye-ball shines, but soon to shame;
For, flirting here and there, with flickering rays,
It draws thro' devious tracks, and then betrays:
Not like the blessed Sun's bright genial beams,
Which warm each heart with steady, constant, streams;
With equal splendour round each Mortal spread,
To point out perils each wrong step they tread—
But most like lamps, whose many-colour'd light,
Shoot feebly-glimmering gleams on festal night,
Which, through the throng of fluttering, flattering, Elves,
All dupes adopt as lighted for themselves.

Wisdom, with parts, and judgment more profound
Still estimates each feeling, sight, and sound—
Strips the false tongue of all its deep disguise,
And severs lasting truths from fig-leaf lies—
Distinctly taught, thro' labial aperture,
When sentiments are sound, and praise is pure;
As true-ton'd ears, with certainty, can tell
Notes, well-observ'd, from firm or fractur'd bell;
She, maugre counterfeits, can hear and see,
When simple sounds with simple smiles agree—
Distinguishes, with nice-discerning ear,
When accents hesitate, or tones are clear—
Each secret sentiment as promptly spies
When Truth's or Falshood's tracings etch the eyes;
And, while, with strong contempt, her spirit spurns
The heart's vile views in all its tricks and turns—
Presents the hand, or clasps with close embrace,
As friendliness, or love, illume the face.

Eyes let in light, like lenses, to the Mind—
Shew turbid streams of thought, or rills refin'd—
Disclose the Soul's dark spots, and wrinkles, through—
What tends to benefit, and what undo—
And, as the fellow Spirit spies the stains,
Forbears to rivet on Affection's chains;
Still, judging by celestial Reason's laws;
From threatening dangers all desires withdraws:
As timid Snails their eyes and horns protrude,
To seek a Consort, or to feel for food,
And, when some adverse object hope repels,
Draw them both back, and shut them in their shells,
But when they trace, in slow, and cautious, course,
No strong obstruction, no repelling force,
Still, with strict wariness their path pursue,
For nourishment, and mates, to search, anew:
So prying Wisdom, with her piercing pow'r,
Observes where Virtues laugh, or Vices low'r,
What objects hurt, or happiness portend,
Whether they mark a Foe, or meet a Friend.

Man's intellectual eyes must needs be blind,
Which, in the face of others, ne'er can find
The inward workings of a wiley heart,
Imprest, distinctly, on each outward part—
And intellectual ears exceeding dull,
Which constantly perceive not, clear, and full,
Each turn of Spirit—change of tones, exprest,
Which lurk, or labour, in the throbbing breast.
How grossly ignorant must those Minds be found,
That hear not sentiment in every sound!
Which trace not crystal streams, spontaneous, flow,
When conscious of a Fellow's joy or woe!
More stupid still the Souls that ne'er discern,
From every word and act, when others burn—
Or, like mere savage Beasts, hear—see—and read;
Yet feel no sufferance while meek Sisters bleed!

Such, blest with knowledge—learning—sense—and wit,
For each sweet social office, how unfit!
Unfit for juror, advocate, or judge,
Whom Virtue gives no gust, and Vice no grudge!
Who never draw delight, or feel offence,
At Worth's reward, or injur'd Innocence!
None e'er deal fair, or faithfully decide,
Who pimp for profit, or who plot for Pride.
None who, with false insinuations, aim
To fill the Soul with foul Suspicion's flame;
Or with feign'd kindness cruelly unkind,
Stir up strange doubts to madden Despot's Mind,
Till jav'lin'd Jealousy, with Phrenzy fierce,
Thro' eyes, and ears, a Slave's fond Spirit pierce;
His breast wild burning with some deadly dart,
Deep venom'd Wit had hurl'd with desperate Art;
Which gnaws the nerves, and veins, with miseries, more,
Than ever bleeding backs of Negroes bore!

Like theirs was poor, afflicted, Crispin's case—
They suffer castigation—he, disgrace,
Which proves to upright, independent, hearts,
Much sharper pains than mere corporeal smarts!
Both Fugitives—both suff'ring Despot's pow'rs—
That, pains but Body—this, the Soul devours!
Like Them, He, banish'd from his native Hill,
To feel the force of treacherous Tyrant's Will!
From birth-place—parents—privileges—fled—
His happiness destroy'd! dear Hopes all dead!
No cordial Friend to lend him kind relief,
To soothe his anguish, or asswage his grief!
None but dear Daphne! tender Soul! alone,
Whose deep complainings echo'd all his moan;
And their poor, wretched, offsprings, pining round,
To sharpen pain, and widen every wound—
He would, with patience, his own pains abide,
But felt them tenfold thro' their bleeding side!

Wealth still will Wealth, and Splendour Splendour, court—
Pride, Pomp, and Pow'r, Pow'r, Pomp, and Pride, support!
Poor Slaves' complaints ne'er can descend to learn—
Or forc'd to hear incorrigibly spurn!
They fancy mental feeling's all confin'd
To high-born Courtiers' educated Mind!
Who, to maintain their mutual, crafty, cause,
Repeal Morality's perplexing Laws.
In sordid, sensual, puddles, deeply sunk;
With philtering draughts, and dregs, of flattery, drunk!
Or perch'd on pinnacles of boasted Birth,
All Penury mock, and spurn domestic Worth—
With Self-conceit, on cork, or bladders, buoy'd,
Court Folly's breeze, and crowd on Fashion's tide,
Plying each sail, and oar, to reach some port,
For sordid pleasure, or for sinful sport!
Borne high on mad Imagination's car,

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By stallion Passions drawn, Pride prompts to war;
Spurr'd on by rowell'd Spite, and whipp'd by Spleen,
While tyranny and rage let loose the rein;
To tread strict Justice down—clear Faith confound,
And grieve all Merit, rear'd on rented ground;
Till Virtue bend, and Piety submit,
To frantic Worthlessness, or froward Wit!
Will neigh or bray with rampant Appetite,
Indulging Lust with assinine delight—
Still wasting wealth, and still perverting pow'r,
With eager gust, each Vanity devour;
While with wide-open mouth, all madly aim
To grasp all glory, and confine all fame!
With cold contempt their subject Slaves despise,
All judg'd unmeet for mirth, hope, peace, or joys;
Afflicting frowns—scoffs—stripes—on each, bestow,
Well-pleas'd with suppliant's pain, or shame, or woe!
Scout kind intentions—past mistakes revive—
Impaling Spirit, while one Nerve's alive!
Fling sharp reflections, prompt, like poisonous darts
Still fixt, and festering in their feeling hearts—
Make every dole of twice-deserved bread
A baneful instrument to bruise their head,
While daily drench'd from Falshood's venom'd bowl,
To torture, not let loose, the sinking Soul;
Till, harrass'd, still, with cruelty and strife,
The shrivell'd Soul no longer groans for Life!

This is their civil Code, their social Creed,
Which all, who know Life's alphabet, may read—
Deem rustic Wretch not fitted to be free,
Whose ignorance ne'er could relish Liberty.
No Right attaches to the clownish Crew—
No Merit rests on ought they say, or do—
No recompence deserv'd by care and toil—
Their Words all vulgar, and their Ways all vile!

Should Merit rise among the boorish band,
'Tis all mere mechanism of Nature's hand—
Should genuine Genius grow 'mid groveling Ranks
It's deem'd her specimen of monstrous pranks—
Bright bullion Wit, among the swinish herd,
Is counted clumsy, brutish, or absurd—
Ev'n every casual seed of Common-Sense,
Give Pride, and Spite, and Envy, vast offence.

To poor advantage village Bards appear
When rich, or titled Poetaster's near.
Not Penury's pure heroics e'er can claim,
Among dull Fashion, more than damning fame;
While Wealth's most vile attempts in prose, or verse,
Monarchs might read—ev'n Angels might rehearse!

No Lily's fair, nor fragrant flow'rs the Rose,
Which in a Hamlet's vulgar garden grows—
No Apple's luscious—Strawberry rich, and red,
In homely orchard, or plebeian bed—
No Plumb looks pleasant—no choice Cherry smiles,
When rear'd by awkward Clowns, on rustic soils—
Currant's nor Gooseberry's many-colour'd breed,
Possess fine flavour from such low-bred feed—
No favourite Fruits' choice taste can charm, at all,
Bred from coarse births beside a cottage wall.
No village Boor can e'er one Virtue boast—
No Wench's charm be fit for courtly toast—
But both, whose origin from huts began,
Are Woman-monsters! moieties of Man!
Yea, every troop such teeming Mules produce
Are neither fit for ornament or use;
But barely helping Fashion as a foil,
Or as poor paltry instruments of toil;
By labour to improve a proud Estate,
Or dull machines ordain'd to grace the Great—
May plod in manufactures, arts, or trade,
Or, when well-train'd, may skip in Pomp's parade;
May clothe, and cover—may defend, or feed;
At last, and best, but Orang-outang breed!

Some few are found, among the courtly Tribes,
'Mid all their scoffs and mockeries, jeers and jibes,
With some small portions of right Reason blest,
Which Prejudice, in part, have dispossest;
Thus argue, candidly, and coolly judge,
Tho' selfish Greatness feels a secret grudge,
That, should kind Fortune change the Poor's affairs,
And give them Wealth—Wit—Knowledge—just like theirs—
Thro' three long Ages, mixing much with them,
To rub off Penury's rust, and purge its phlegm,
At length might whet and wear off dull disgrace,
And look, a little, like Wealth's wonderous Race!