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

Poor Crispin's Muse ne'er grubb'd in golden Mine,
Whose produce made his purse, or pinion, shine;
But dug for peat, or delv'd in gravel ground,
Where no bright diamonds, but dull flints, were found,
Had he plough'd silver ore, in place of sands,
He'd ne'er been driven back from distant lands—
Had he discover'd pearls, instead of peat,
He'd ne'er been banish'd from that sordid seat.
But he acquir'd no praise, amass'd no pelf,
To please Employer, or enrich Himself.
The best endeavours, urg'd with utmost might,
When unsuccessful ne'er are reckon'd right;
Tho' every step with care, and skill, be trod,
No single slip escapes the scourging rod.
From sordid Souls no gratitude's obtain'd,
Who fancy greater profits might be gain'd,
Nor hankering heart feels thankful for much store,
Which deems its factor might have furnish'd more.
But censure falls on that afflicted Soul
Which comes within such tyrannies controul!