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CHAPTER 7th.
The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse |  |
Afflictions follow'd, in a trying train—
Deep disappointment, misery, and pain!
These were, alike, the plaintive Poet's lot,
In gothic Mansion, or in cribbing Cot!
Alike when perch'd in Patronesses Seat,
Or lowly lodg'd in primitive Retreat!
Alike when labouring for his daily bread,
Or, idly, at Scintilla's table fed!
Sickness and sorrow seiz'd his feeble flock,
While watch'd and folded on his natal rock!
Distemper stamp'd indelible disgrace
On every tender, interesting, face!
The reddening rose—untarnish'd lily—tore—
Whose opening blooms deckt each bright face before!
Each mangled charm proud scorn, or pity, felt,
Where long admiring love had fondly dwelt!
When Death, to prove his arbitrary pow'r,
Snatch'd from the group fond Crispin's favourite flow'r!
A flower, among large numbers, only left,
Grim Friend! before their birth, of life bereft!
While, worse than death, far different evils rose,
To grieve his Friends, and gratify his Foes!
Deep disappointment, misery, and pain!
These were, alike, the plaintive Poet's lot,
In gothic Mansion, or in cribbing Cot!
Alike when perch'd in Patronesses Seat,
Or lowly lodg'd in primitive Retreat!
Alike when labouring for his daily bread,
Or, idly, at Scintilla's table fed!
Sickness and sorrow seiz'd his feeble flock,
While watch'd and folded on his natal rock!
Distemper stamp'd indelible disgrace
On every tender, interesting, face!
The reddening rose—untarnish'd lily—tore—
Whose opening blooms deckt each bright face before!
Each mangled charm proud scorn, or pity, felt,
Where long admiring love had fondly dwelt!
When Death, to prove his arbitrary pow'r,
Snatch'd from the group fond Crispin's favourite flow'r!
A flower, among large numbers, only left,
Grim Friend! before their birth, of life bereft!
While, worse than death, far different evils rose,
To grieve his Friends, and gratify his Foes!
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Such fame, and favour, as a hamlet yields—
Such sustenance as flows from rented fields—
Such gain as from retail'd instruction grew,
Integrity, and diligence, and labour, knew.
The Wardens' honours, and the Master's meed,
The Vestry, and the Vicinage, decreed.
Each debt, and duty, chearfully, discharg'd,
His practice amplified, and pow'r enlarg'd;
And every trust, and trial, well sustain'd,
New confidence engaged—new friendships gain'd.
But still he scorn'd, from his parochial throne,
To spurn his peers, or make griev'd paupers groan—
To flatter Wealth, or give the Weak offence,
For heightening interest, or to spare his pence.
From cruel Plenty, or impoverish'd Clown
Incurr'd no imprecation—fear'd no frown—
But rather challeng'd rich Churls rashest curse,
Than pinch the Poor to skreen the common purse.
For, tho' possess'd of no superfluous pelf,
To imitate the woes of worn-out Elf;
Yet, still, each thankful voice proclaim'd his praise,
Imploring plenty, health, and length of days!
Tho' blest with little house, and little land,
And little money, he had small command;
Yet Penury's penetration ne'er mistook
Love's soothing tone, and sympathizing look—
And every eye and ear could clearly tell,
When he refus'd their suit he wish'd them well—
Renew'd no grievances—reveng'd no grudge—
Felt, like a Friend, but balanc'd like a Judge.
Such sustenance as flows from rented fields—
Such gain as from retail'd instruction grew,
Integrity, and diligence, and labour, knew.
The Wardens' honours, and the Master's meed,
The Vestry, and the Vicinage, decreed.
Each debt, and duty, chearfully, discharg'd,
His practice amplified, and pow'r enlarg'd;
And every trust, and trial, well sustain'd,
New confidence engaged—new friendships gain'd.
But still he scorn'd, from his parochial throne,
To spurn his peers, or make griev'd paupers groan—
To flatter Wealth, or give the Weak offence,
For heightening interest, or to spare his pence.
From cruel Plenty, or impoverish'd Clown
Incurr'd no imprecation—fear'd no frown—
But rather challeng'd rich Churls rashest curse,
Than pinch the Poor to skreen the common purse.
For, tho' possess'd of no superfluous pelf,
To imitate the woes of worn-out Elf;
Yet, still, each thankful voice proclaim'd his praise,
Imploring plenty, health, and length of days!
Tho' blest with little house, and little land,
And little money, he had small command;
Yet Penury's penetration ne'er mistook
Love's soothing tone, and sympathizing look—
And every eye and ear could clearly tell,
When he refus'd their suit he wish'd them well—
Renew'd no grievances—reveng'd no grudge—
Felt, like a Friend, but balanc'd like a Judge.
Should He assume the Christian's noblest Name
While murd'rously encountering Misery's claim?
Could He expect with plenty to be fed,
Who grudg'd Necessity its meagre bread;
Or fancy he should find long Life and Health,
Who prest the Poor by lifting weight from Wealth?
He hope warm robes by Heav'n would be supplied,
Who coverings, coarse, to Nakedness denied?
E'er feel refresh'd before his blazing fire,
Whilst letting Toil without a spark expire?
Could Wealth taste quiet rest, secure, and warm,
While Penury lay expos'd to every storm;
Or close his eyes, on feathery couch, for shame,
While harden'd planks bruis'd Labour's painful Frame?
While murd'rously encountering Misery's claim?
Could He expect with plenty to be fed,
Who grudg'd Necessity its meagre bread;
Or fancy he should find long Life and Health,
Who prest the Poor by lifting weight from Wealth?
He hope warm robes by Heav'n would be supplied,
Who coverings, coarse, to Nakedness denied?
E'er feel refresh'd before his blazing fire,
Whilst letting Toil without a spark expire?
Could Wealth taste quiet rest, secure, and warm,
While Penury lay expos'd to every storm;
Or close his eyes, on feathery couch, for shame,
While harden'd planks bruis'd Labour's painful Frame?
Ah! what avails the sympathetic Soul,
Where Indigence denies the needful dole!
What benefit can flow from barren pray'r,
Where Poverty no unclaim'd pence can spare!
What will import the unproductive wish,
While Heav'n devises no superfluous dish!
What kind Compassion's insufficient sigh,
If Providence no second coat supply;
Or what mere Pity's pearly drops produce,
For Sorrow's comfort, or for Hunger's use!
Soft Sympathy's pure looks may mourn such lot!
But cannot Bodies clothe, or build a Cot!
May swell the sigh, or wing the wish, aloft,
But yields no fuel—makes no floor more soft!
Her eyes may bubble, and her heart may bleed,
But mere emotions neither fence, nor feed.
The ineffectual tear, and fruitless groan,
Can only make her fellow-feelings known;
May copy misery, and can echo grief,
Yet whelm not woe, nor lend one Want relief!
Where Indigence denies the needful dole!
What benefit can flow from barren pray'r,
Where Poverty no unclaim'd pence can spare!
What will import the unproductive wish,
While Heav'n devises no superfluous dish!
What kind Compassion's insufficient sigh,
If Providence no second coat supply;
Or what mere Pity's pearly drops produce,
For Sorrow's comfort, or for Hunger's use!
Soft Sympathy's pure looks may mourn such lot!
But cannot Bodies clothe, or build a Cot!
May swell the sigh, or wing the wish, aloft,
But yields no fuel—makes no floor more soft!
Her eyes may bubble, and her heart may bleed,
But mere emotions neither fence, nor feed.
The ineffectual tear, and fruitless groan,
Can only make her fellow-feelings known;
May copy misery, and can echo grief,
Yet whelm not woe, nor lend one Want relief!
Had Crispin stores of treasur'd pelf possest,
Large as the plans of his capacious breast,
His bounteous heart had emptied all his bags,
To metamorphose wretchedness and rags!
In that poor Vicinage was room enough
For Vanity's and Pomp's superfluous stuff!
True Charity might there her pounds employ,
In giving and receiving mutual joy!
Philanthropy might there expand her pow'rs,
And spread bright sunbeams o'er her cloudiest hours!
Humanity might boast unmingled bliss,
And taste pure transports in a World like this!
Might all their wants and weaknesses withstand
And light up comforts in a famish'd Land.
There was enough of Want for Wealth's supplies—
Ignorance enough for Learning's exercise—
Folly enough for Wisdom to correct,
And yield Benevolence its full effect:
Sufficient Vice for Virtue to controul;
And Sin enough to prompt each praying Soul!
Large as the plans of his capacious breast,
His bounteous heart had emptied all his bags,
To metamorphose wretchedness and rags!
In that poor Vicinage was room enough
For Vanity's and Pomp's superfluous stuff!
True Charity might there her pounds employ,
In giving and receiving mutual joy!
Philanthropy might there expand her pow'rs,
And spread bright sunbeams o'er her cloudiest hours!
Humanity might boast unmingled bliss,
And taste pure transports in a World like this!
Might all their wants and weaknesses withstand
And light up comforts in a famish'd Land.
There was enough of Want for Wealth's supplies—
Ignorance enough for Learning's exercise—
Folly enough for Wisdom to correct,
And yield Benevolence its full effect:
Sufficient Vice for Virtue to controul;
And Sin enough to prompt each praying Soul!
Tho' there all these were found yet found not more
Than ev'ry Place affords 'mong friendless Poor;
And Riches looking diligently round,
May find such Objects near each Site abound.
But needy Brethren rarely, now, engage
State's least attention in this iron Age!
Lust—Pride—Pomp—Ostentation—need not roam
They find Necessities enough at home.
Wealth feels continual want of something fresh,
To feast the Fancy, or to feed the Flesh—
Its eyes for ever wandering full of Lust,
And, 'midst fruition, feel still greater gust;
While sateless Ostentation, Pomp, and Pride,
With numerous Worlds would ne'er feel satisfied!
Than ev'ry Place affords 'mong friendless Poor;
And Riches looking diligently round,
May find such Objects near each Site abound.
But needy Brethren rarely, now, engage
State's least attention in this iron Age!
Lust—Pride—Pomp—Ostentation—need not roam
They find Necessities enough at home.
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To feast the Fancy, or to feed the Flesh—
Its eyes for ever wandering full of Lust,
And, 'midst fruition, feel still greater gust;
While sateless Ostentation, Pomp, and Pride,
With numerous Worlds would ne'er feel satisfied!
The Poor experience more content of Mind,
Their hopes all humble, and their calls confin'd;
But every human heart must feel, and flinch,
When cold oppresses; thirst and hunger, pinch.
This was the desperate case where Crispin dwelt;
Yet, tho' so fully seen, so sadly felt,
They set their fears, and sorrows, all aside,
And follow'd Nature as their faithful guide.
Their hopes all humble, and their calls confin'd;
But every human heart must feel, and flinch,
When cold oppresses; thirst and hunger, pinch.
This was the desperate case where Crispin dwelt;
Yet, tho' so fully seen, so sadly felt,
They set their fears, and sorrows, all aside,
And follow'd Nature as their faithful guide.
Some few enjoy'd their cots and scraps of Soil,
To skreen their households, and endear their toil.
To lift their labouring bands above distress,
But left no crumbs the neighbouring crows to bless.
Yet tho' they claim'd but scant contiguous ground,
Their fears were lessen'd as they look'd around,
While marking countless useful Arts engag'd
The pow'rs of either Sex, when young, or ag'd—
And, tho' they found few cultur'd fields to till,
Still other crafts employ'd their strength and skill.
The fibrous flax employ'd each spinning wheel,
While ductile iron, and indurated steel,
Engag'd the industry of every growth,
Precluding scarcity, and curing Sloth;
But yet with all their labour, skill, and care,
Still Poverty could find no crusts to spare.
The ampler portions of surrounding Lands,
By Providence were plac'd in idler hands;
And, by imperious, churlish, Chiefs employ'd
To gratify their Pomp, and Lust, and Pride.
The rest, rapacious Squires, or Yeomen proud,
Who grasp'd the pence, and spurn'd the groaning crowd;
With supercilious insolence oppress'd,
But neither Need supplied, nor Labour bless'd!
To skreen their households, and endear their toil.
To lift their labouring bands above distress,
But left no crumbs the neighbouring crows to bless.
Yet tho' they claim'd but scant contiguous ground,
Their fears were lessen'd as they look'd around,
While marking countless useful Arts engag'd
The pow'rs of either Sex, when young, or ag'd—
And, tho' they found few cultur'd fields to till,
Still other crafts employ'd their strength and skill.
The fibrous flax employ'd each spinning wheel,
While ductile iron, and indurated steel,
Engag'd the industry of every growth,
Precluding scarcity, and curing Sloth;
But yet with all their labour, skill, and care,
Still Poverty could find no crusts to spare.
The ampler portions of surrounding Lands,
By Providence were plac'd in idler hands;
And, by imperious, churlish, Chiefs employ'd
To gratify their Pomp, and Lust, and Pride.
The rest, rapacious Squires, or Yeomen proud,
Who grasp'd the pence, and spurn'd the groaning crowd;
With supercilious insolence oppress'd,
But neither Need supplied, nor Labour bless'd!
This was no place where Wealth would Worth protect;
Where Genius—Wit—or Parts could hope respect—
Where Honesty could Fortune's favours carve,
Or Industry do ought but strive and starve—
A Site where Sensibility must find
Much more to grieve, than gratify the Mind—
Where Art, or Science, scarcely could discern,
One subject prompt to teach, or proud to learn—
A Garden where few fruits of Knowledge grew,
Nor Skill, nor Taste, one Cultivator knew—
Where Learning, rarely, single scyon rear'd,
And ev'n Apollo's self had sung unheard—
Whence fair Morality was nearly flown,
And rational Religion hardly known;
Whose gleams, reflected from the gospel Sun,
Few hearts awaken'd, few'r affections won!
But little fervid Faith, or Hope, was found—
Few pious Psalms, or Hymns, responded round—
On Sabbaths, Charity scarce seen to chear
Want's trembling cheek, or soak up Sorrow's tear;
For Poverty had spread its general reign,
O'er every procreant Hamlet—Hill—and Plain!
Where Genius—Wit—or Parts could hope respect—
Where Honesty could Fortune's favours carve,
Or Industry do ought but strive and starve—
A Site where Sensibility must find
Much more to grieve, than gratify the Mind—
Where Art, or Science, scarcely could discern,
One subject prompt to teach, or proud to learn—
A Garden where few fruits of Knowledge grew,
Nor Skill, nor Taste, one Cultivator knew—
Where Learning, rarely, single scyon rear'd,
And ev'n Apollo's self had sung unheard—
Whence fair Morality was nearly flown,
And rational Religion hardly known;
Whose gleams, reflected from the gospel Sun,
Few hearts awaken'd, few'r affections won!
But little fervid Faith, or Hope, was found—
Few pious Psalms, or Hymns, responded round—
On Sabbaths, Charity scarce seen to chear
Want's trembling cheek, or soak up Sorrow's tear;
For Poverty had spread its general reign,
O'er every procreant Hamlet—Hill—and Plain!
But Crispin's heaviest want was mental meat;
Such as his pamper'd Spirit, now, could eat.
Shenstone long lost, and Lyttleton now gone,
He found few letter'd loaves to feed upon;
None but the larder of lov'd Dudley Ward,
Who then maintain'd His primitive regard.
But Penury rais'd insuperable bar,
Against importing printed food so far;
For sev'nths of Time were claim'd by Heav'n's behest,
Demands of duty call'd for all the rest.
Here varied Fortune press'd most vital pain;
His fall'n finance could no new stock obtain—
He chew'd his own choice morsels o'er and o'er,
But found they yielded nourishment no more;
While fervour striving some fresh store to find,
Increas'd the cravings of his famish'd Mind!
Such as his pamper'd Spirit, now, could eat.
Shenstone long lost, and Lyttleton now gone,
He found few letter'd loaves to feed upon;
None but the larder of lov'd Dudley Ward,
Who then maintain'd His primitive regard.
But Penury rais'd insuperable bar,
Against importing printed food so far;
For sev'nths of Time were claim'd by Heav'n's behest,
Demands of duty call'd for all the rest.
Here varied Fortune press'd most vital pain;
His fall'n finance could no new stock obtain—
He chew'd his own choice morsels o'er and o'er,
But found they yielded nourishment no more;
While fervour striving some fresh store to find,
Increas'd the cravings of his famish'd Mind!
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CHAPTER 7th.
The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse | |