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

Could Crispin, when such wakening reasons rose
Lull rous'd Religion in supine repose?
Resolve each contradictious argument,
And give convicting Conscience full content?—
Could he have quench'd his Mind's religious light,
And stopt right Reason's true remarks, he might,
In spite of Heav'n—in spite of Christian Men,
He might have brandish'd, bold, the Poet's pen—
Have gain'd his Patronesses proud regard,
Have borne the honour, still, of household Bard;
Transform'd into a Lyre his rustic Reed,
And merited far more than Laureat's meed—
But he must then have modelled Mind anew,
And turn'd his Heart from all things right and true—
Made his tame Conscience truckle, like the tribes
Of Sycophants, that fawn, and bow, for bribes—
Imagination fill'd with fictions wild,
Till all the principles of Truth were spoil'd—
Till true Religion was possess'd no more,
And pure Morality turn'd out of door.
Then might his breast have harbour'd blessed hopes,
Among ten thousand similes, and tropes,
A wonderous Woman-Deity to draw,
Compounding all fond Fancy ever saw!
A Nondescript! more dignified, and great,
Than Her whom peacocks drew in Car of State,
More fair than Her that issued from the Main!
More bright than Her who burst her Father's brain!
A Goddess more majestic—sweet—and wise—
Than all who taught—seduced—and teiz'd,—the Skies!
Each beauteous charm, and attribute bestow'd,
To puff Protectress, in bold birth-day Ode.
Bedeck'd antique, with all bland airs of youth,
Maugre each hint of mortifying Truth—
In spite of Justice—Knowledge—Sense—and Sight—
Held fadeless Charms must still yield fresh delight!
How matchless Conduct counteracted Time—
Blazon'd each new-born year with Song sublime—
How each bright Virtue made His visage blythe,
While Wit, and Wisdom, stole his glass, and scythe!

Had he pursued the scheme his Muse begun
And Her proud praise thro' annual Odes had run,
No querulous complaint had once been heard—
No lash been felt—no foul indictment fear'd:
No Pow'r had then oppress'd—no Malice blam'd—
No Pride insulted—no rude Passion sham'd—
Nor dauntless Falshood forg'd audacious Lies,
His head to puzzle, or his heart surprize!
Protected Crispin had experienc'd, still,
Her first affection, or her great good-will—
No Child been chasten'd, but with warmth caress'd,
And Daphne boasted, still, untroubl'd breast!

Here qualms of Conscience made his heart demur;
He durst not pillage Heav'n to pamper Her;
Nor let his Muse attempt such impious height
But bridled back his Hobby's feathery flight—
He durst not chaunt such sacrilegious lays,
Nor pay proud Mortal pure Immortal's praise.
He durst not venture heavenly Pow'rs to mock,
Fearing the vengeful Vulture, Chain, and Rock;
But laid aside his once-presumptuous Lyre,
And let the Empyrean keep its fire.
No whip, or spur, would Inclination lend,
To speed the praise of metamorphos'd Friend,
While Sense lay smarting with continual strokes,
Of scorn sarcastic and ungenerous jokes;
The bays all stript before profusely spread,
In shining wreaths, around his humble head—
Long by her selfish suffrage borne, but now
All rudely ravish'd from his blushing brow;
While the bright mantle, Shenstone's shoulders bore,
O'er Crispin's, fondly, doubled on before,
Now from his back by frantic fury reft,
Not one poetic rag, or relique, left!

Could honest Poesy, thus proudly stripp'd,
And oft, by Malice, for amusement, whipp'd;
A trembling, bleeding, Culprit-Bard, inspire,
To sing such Tyrant's fame with wonted fire?
A Muse, denuded, and degraded, so,
Still praise with glee—and still as promptly glow?
She must be mopish, or she must be mad,

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Thus robb'd of every favourite robe she had;
Or act the Hypocrite, with smirking face;
The honest Muse's, honest Man's, disgrace!

The Muses all are females—fond of dress—
None can a Female Robber's hands caress—
Woman's delight is love, in every shape;
But all her Soul abhors a savage rape.

Would courtly Ladies like sarcastic scoff,
While Pow'r, imperious, tore their trinkets off?
Insulted, so, e'er more at Court be seen,
And pay like prompt respects to squabbling Queen?
Suppress all spleen when told, in taunting way,
School-miss could compliment as well as They—
Or, in the Ball-room, urge their happiest airs,
Assur'd such Minx's minuets equall'd Their's?

Would Poet-laureat mount his Pegasus,
And search the World for tropes, when treated thus?
Bring loads of Nectar and Ambrosia back,
When Patron stops his Salary, and Sack?
Still chearful chaunt, while waspish Prince explodes
All inspiration in his annual Odes?
It cannot be—his flying Steed must flag,
When treated thus, like penny Postboy's Nag—
His Muse no more at lofty numbers aim,
Nor fan her kindling fire to lambent flame,
But throw quite by the panegyric pen
And let the Monarch die like other Men.

The simplest Songster, of the feather'd throng,
Witholds the tribute of his twittering Song,
When his almighty Master strips his plumes,
And shuts out sunshine with his wint'ry glooms,
Till vernal radiance renovates the Skies,
When wonted kindness kindles genuine joys:
So when some Female, with weak, fickle, Mind,
Hath whistling Warbler to a cage confin'd,
And there, ungracious, all his hopes betrays,
Curtails his pinions, and restrains her praise;
Still adding cruel, persecuting, pains,
He stops, at once, his wild, untutor'd strains—
For unlike Nature's universal Friend,
Her favour ceas'd, his songs for ever end!