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

Poor Crispin, tabernacled, now, agen,
Among his native Mounts, and native Men;
Near his lov'd rocks, and Heliconian springs,
Again strolls calm, and climbs, and sips, and sings!
Makes all his talents duteous tasks discharge,
His Will unshackled, and his limbs at large;
While faculties and strength, without controul,
Felt pow'r to act from full expanse of Soul!
No passive reference, now—no slavish fear—
No stern injunctions—reprimands austere—
No captious force, with folly to comply—
No cramp caprice—no flagellating lie—
No cruel cavil plucks the painful nerve—
No wish absurd, whence sober judgment swerve—
No false assertions fix their barbs of steel,
While subtle Sophistry makes Reason reel;
Nor hints, nor innuendos, frame a fault,
To blind clear Truth, and make right Conscience naught!
No pow'r despotic, with ungracious growth,
On word, and deed, sits judge and jury both;
Nor arbitrary mandate measures time,
Decreeing common rest a real crime:
In each prompt movement urging greater speed—
Nor deems it rash delinquency to read!

Here Heav'n might all its sovereign views fulfil—
The rot might Sheep, or murrain, Cattle, kill!

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Pigs, now, might pine, without impeaching care;
Or Horses fail without a trick unfair,
When Carters quit their rest, to take their flight,
And ride their labouring Nags to death by night.
Should Crops be scanty, now, or Harvests late,
None dares poor Crispin's lack of prudence rate,
No more he stoops before a Tyrant's throne,
But humbly bows to Providence alone!

Her dough, poor Daphne need not, now, prepare,
Mid colds and damps of midnight wintery air;
Nor, now, inspect each loaf, with luckless pain,
Lest Whim should cavil, or weak Pride complain,
Need not o'er scanty milk, or cream, or butter, moan—
Nor grieve o'er barren kine, now, all her own.
Should eggs grow addled—chickens catch the pip,
It spreads no livid paleness o'er her lip.
If truant turkeys leave neglected nest,
It breeds no horrors in her halcyon breast.
Should poults expire, or foxes dams destroy,
No dread of reprehension drowns her eye;
No cruel mockery doubles all her smarts,
Nor her harsh sorrows choak her Children's hearts!
Their tears, lost Liberty no more bewail—
No Legislators, now, but Parents, rail—
No Mistress makes their bosoms burn, or freeze,
Their sports, their diet, or their dress, decrees—
Claims, now, no rule, no sumptuary right,
Or wills it criminal to clothe in white.
Nature was, now, sole arbiter of sleep,
And taught them when to laugh, and when to weep.
True Freedom lighten'd every care and toil—
'Twas, there, no petit-larceny to smile—
Not construed, now, high-treason, there, to cry,
Nor uttering accents of their genuine joy.
No more they fear'd a Tyrant's awful frowns—
No cruel stigma felt as Fools or Clowns—
Nor, simple Souls! a Favourite's fault sustain'd,
While wounding Epithet, as Thieves, arraign'd.
They, now, might look on flow'rs, or long for fruits,
Without the badge of Cannibals, or Brutes—
Experience Paradise again begin,
Not, now, expell'd, or pain'd, except for Sin.
Their Parents, only, might amusement stint—
Enforce a moral, or religious, hint—
Before no other bar compell'd to plead,
For trifling look, light word, or witless deed;
While motive—thought—or wish—to them unknown,
Must Conscience canvas—Jesus judge, alone,
And fix just Lots, alike, when Time's no more,
On all the Prosperous, as on all the Poor.

Here was full exercise for all their parts,
In useful toils, and ornamental arts.
The Children form'd their chosen times to fill,
With works of exigence, or works of skill—
To ply the labours of the spinning-wheel,
Or evolutions of the pointed steel—
To fill the troughs with sustenance for Swine—
To farm the cowhouse, or to feed the Kine—
To press, from spouting teats, the milky spoil,
Or work the clouted cream to solid oil;
And, at more favour'd moments, garments form,
To decorate their frames, while keeping warm.

Industrious Daphne, thro' long waking hours,
To duteous tasks applied her ductile pow'rs;
Her happy Mate to cherish, and to chear,
Both Night and Day, throughout the toilsome Year,
And, by rare Prudence bless the rising Brood,
With useful clothing, clean, and strength'ning food.

Crispin applied his diligence, and care,
Their hopes to animate, and toils to share.
Prepar'd each necessary, well-known, aid,
To try his strength in agricultural trade;
And, to accommodate pedestrian calls,
Assum'd, once more, his hammer and his awls.
Spent Morning's earliest, Evening's latest, hours,
To rear his esculents, and nurse his flow'rs.
Engag'd, again, low, literary skill,
To scatter knowledge round his native hill;
While all his Race, as humble Ushers, wrought,
Strength'ning self-knowledge all the time they taught.

But tho' these honest efforts all were tried,
His happiest wish wise Providence denied!
Still thwarting Poverty barr'd every way;
Stopp'd each attempt, or baffled each essay—
Hung, like a palsied limb, in each pursuit,
Or, like a churl, refus'd expected fruit!
Nature connecting still some cruel curse,
The sure companion of a shallow purse;
While meagre Want, a treacherous Monster! stood,
Devouring labour—blasting livelihood.

No new-launch'd Characters can sail, or swim,
Unless their canvass flutter full and trim;

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And, to secure success, within the Hold,
A freight, and ballast, both, of goods, and gold.
From port the vacant Vessel never gets,
Or soon without such balance oversets—
Nor e'er can gain Golconda's shining shores,
Except with bullion boatmen poise their oars;
For useful hands ne'er help them on their way,
Till crews and pilots can secure their pay.