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

When Man, at first, before his Maker stood,
The World was very fair; and very good;
And countless charms and blessings, still combine,
To prove a Pow'r and Providence divine—
For still, in part, kind Heav'n supports the plan;
From which no Creature swerves, but sinful Man,
And those he educates, in human schools,
To counteract their kind Creator's rules.
For Man, base Rebel! every gift confounds,
A World's confusion! while Himself he wounds—

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Nor can his Mind regain its pristine state,
Till God, by sovereign Grace, reverse his Fate!

The moral Muse, in part, before unfurl'd
Some striking traits of such a snaring World,
Yet still she feels her grieving bosom glow,
To state the troubles of this World below.

Oh! what a World! replete with tricks and wiles!
Where peccant Man imprudent Man beguiles!
While all things round assume such thick disguise,
They mock his lustful heart with masks and lies!
Deception, daily holds forth sounds, and sights;
To cherish Passions—charm strong Appetites;
While each frail object with a false outside,
Seducing Sense, and Reason, Prompts more Pride!
Deck'd with delights, so dazzling, nice, or new,
Each graceless Soul grows prompter to pursue!
And tho' unprosperous in the chafing chace,
Yet eager Ignorance still renews the race,
Till restless labour robs him of his breath,
Then down he sinks beneath black shades of Death!

Meanwhile, Man's willing Self, seduced by Sense,
Fond of indulgence, gulps each gross pretence,
And Body having long borne sovereign sway,
The Soul's bribed power's implicitly obey—
While Sin, by Habit, working on the Will,
Makes every strong temptation stronger still!
The passive Ear, thro' constant custom, prone,
Leans, fond, and listens, to each flattering tone—
The ready Eye, too, curiously inclines
To view, with taste, each showy toy that shines!
Oft fawns on Beauty till the breast's on fire,
With wanton wish, and dangerous desire;
While each inferior Sense finds bands to bind,
In basest servitude, the morbid Mind!
So long thus carnal Sense hath sway'd the Soul,
That feeble Reason feels the strong controul;
And Understanding so becomes a tool,
That Judgment yields, just like a fickle Fool,
While Will, submitting to their lawless lead,
Still executes their schemes by word or deed.
Fancy so long hath forag'd for delights,
To entertain the beastly Appetites—
So long each sordid Passion's sway'd by Pride,
Affections truckle, to base Lusts allied,
Heav'n's purer objects urge no Heartfelt plea,
To make the Will and mute Affections free;
But empty bubbles, round Earth's paltry Orb,
Prompt Man's pursuits—Mind's noblest pow'rs absorb!

How shall the Soul surmount this joint intrigue?
Or stop the mischiefs of this mighty league?
How these temptations of the World withstand?
And subtle blandishments of Satan's band?
Make Self's deprav'd propensities depart,
With each base habit of the head and heart?
How all her various Adversaries rout,
Poisoners within, and pioneers without?
Strong foes in garrison, ne'er known to fly,
And, tho' oft deeply wounded, never die—
How shall she still her pilgrimage pursue?
Though frequent foil'd, yet still the fight renew?
Still with fresh fortitude regain her ground,
'Mid sighs, and groans, and many a ghastly wound?
Ne'er turn, with terror, one base footstep back,
Nor seek, by sore mistake, some smoother track;
But, boldly looking back, o'er perils past,
Still trust to conquer, and be crown'd at last?
Let her apply to Heav'n's unfailing Source
For Truth and Temperance; Fortitude and Force—
For full assurance Faith shall never fail,
And Hope, fix'd sure when winds and seas assail—
Love to heal gash and bruise, with Gilead's balm—
Humility to keep her spirits calm—
Patience, and Meekness, to encounter Scorn—
Knowledge to lead, and Wisdom to forewarn—
Experience, watching with prophetic eyes;
And Circumspection to prevent surprize—
While, to protect each vulnerable part,
To fence the head, and fortify the heart,
Let her, all adverse weapons to repress,
Put on the breast-plate of Christ's Righteousness—
Her head His helmet of Salvation shield—
Her hand the Spirit's sword, with strength, to wield—
Her loins with Gospel-Truth's bright girdle bound—
On her firm feet the shoes of Peace be found,
To stand, or travel on, from fear secure,
And all the roughness of the road endure;
Still daily worn, throughout her trying ways,
Like all her heav'nly dress, which ne'er decays!
But more to baffle all her murderous Foes,
The shield of Faith, with pray'r, to interpose;
To quench each fiery dart; each doubt repel,
From sinful Self, and all the Fiends of Hell;

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From the false World, its works, and wiles, defend,
Till all Earth's troubles, and temptations, end!

But deem not all those Pow'rs can Peace destroy,
Or jilt true Christians' hearts of Hope, or Joy—
Deem not those deathless Foes in equal force
Each pace, and period, thro' his conscious course—
That greater Might their Mischief ne'er restrains—
That Truth ne'er triumphs—Grace no victory gains—
That God's free Goodness ne'er suspends the fight,
Nor deigns the Soul some tastes of true delight—
Think not strong hurricane or constant storm
Distress the Traveller's Heart, and Heaven deform—
That thorns and thickets, flints, or sands, or mire,
Each hour perplex his path—his footsteps tire—
That, pierc'd with spines, or stones, or sunk in sloughs,
He feels repentance for his pious vows—
That nothing meets the Wanderer, all the Way,
But Misery—Melancholy—Doubt—Dismay—
That Care and Pain confront him every pace;
Fear, Sin, and Sorrow, Danger, and Disgrace:
Tho' he experience Perils—taste Distress—
While wand'ring thro' the World's drear Wilderness;
From painful hunger, and from parching drought,
O'er tiresome tracts, for forty years, about—
'Mid fatal Serpents—under fiery Law;
Whose penalty speaks Death, for every flaw—
Where Tribulation stood with deepest Dread,
To agitate the heart, and rack the head—
Objects of Fear, or objects of Offence,
With nought to chear the Soul—or charm the Sense;
No! Christians, who've just forded Jordan's flood,
Find Jacob's blessing's bought with Jesu's blood—
Loath'd Manna ceases when they leave the strand,
Now fed with long-stored corn in Canaan's Land!
Yet, tho' not, now, to steril coasts confin'd,
They've left innumerable ills behind.
They still experience Peace, with Tumults mix'd,
Till safe on Sion's hill for ever fix'd!

Let long-experienc'd Sojourners declare
What pains and pleasures blest Believers' are.
Let them the full-contrasted facts recal;
What raptures rise—what blasting fears befal!
What shades to shock! what glories to regale!
While wandering up each hill, and down each dale.
What elevating views, or terrors strong,
Soarings, or sinkings, labouring all day long!
Depressions deep; or extacies sublime,
While coil'd with flesh, in Earth's frail, fickle, Clime!
What doubts depress the heart—what hopes dilate—
To try their Spirits in that pilgrim state!

Thick mists, and darkness, often intervene,
To cloud the sight, or close the solemn Scene—
Shut out the blessed beams that shot from far,
From Night's pale lamp, or twinkling polar star.
Obscure the Map, or shining Chart, that show'd
Each point and bearing in Earth's temporal road—
Dismay'd with anxious care—dissolv'd with dread,
Lest Ignorance might, at last, be most misled;
Or Reason, rul'd by Passion, Lust, or Pride,
Still carnally inclin'd, should wander wide—
Should, ultimately, lead their footsteps back,
To join the Troops that throng the fatal track.
But, tho' the Christian scarce perceives a spark,
At sundry times to guide him thro' the dark;
Yet longer intervals of light appear,
More pure—more splendid—constant—warm—and clear,
Than the short gleams that shoot their glaring ray,
With dazzling lustre, o'er the wider Way!
A Light which Lust, and Pride, and Vice, pervert
To private ruin, and to public hurt—
Mere blinding beams, that seem to aid the sight,
And dart rich radiance thro' dark Nature's Night;
But only lead Man's dim, deluded, eyes,
To gaze on Earth, and quite forget the Skies!
Not such a transient, blinding, blaze, as theirs
Illuminates the eyes of Heaven's Heirs;
But Light, discovering, clearly, all around,
The gay deceptions, and the dangerous ground.
Assists the Soul to weigh each object's worth
Which prompts affections, and pursuits, on Earth!
Can with most pertinent precision show
What tends tow'rd Heav'n—what leads to depths below!
By which pure Mind their genuine price may view,
And show what Will should shun, and what pursue
Help Understanding rightly to discern
What Prudence ought espouse—what Wisdom spurn—
How Reason may point out each past mistake,
And keep the tender Conscience wide awake—
Discriminate, with judgment, Foe, from Friend,
And leading clues, thro' every labyrinth, lend,
Amidst Imagination's foulest fog,
Display each spiney brake, and specious bog;

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Nor only light the eyes, the feet inform,
But nerve the Heart, and weak Affections warm;
Diffusing, from pure Grace, a rapturous glow,
Which Worldlings never feel, nor Infidels e'er know!

That few-frequented Track, far-distant view'd,
Seems quite sequester'd—desolate—and rude!
Displays no beauties, to induce desires,
But throng'd with thistles—brakes—and tangling briers!
A baleful Forest! dreary Desart! bare!
Fill'd with wild Beasts—fierce Birds—Asps—poisonous Air!
But, as the trembling Traveller proceeds,
He finds perennial springs, and verdant meads,
Fair flow'rs, of balmy scent, successive blow,
And grateful fruits, and healing herbage, grow!
Instead of blasted Forests, blooming Groves—
Or Beasts, or Birds, of Prey, but Lambs, and Doves—
Instead of dreadful Serpents, threatening death,
And poisonous Winds with pestilential breath,
Celestial breezes breathing fresh perfume,
And guardian Angels guiding tasks assume!
But safety rests not on seraphic Friends,
Their guardian-God on all their steps attends—
And when the Wanderers gain some gracious Height,
Faith, to enlighten and enlarge their sight;
Adjusts her sky-constructed telescope,
And lays it, level, on the head of Hope,
To view with fairer, fuller, evidence,
Scenes that escape the purblind pow'r of Sense;
Whilst Love, impatient to possess her dow'r,
Bounds on before, with more than mortal pow'r;
And, eager to attain her heavenly goal,
Tries to shake off her tiresome earthly stole;
Forgetting wale, and wound, and want, and woe,
And chides those Friends for sauntering on so slow!
Oft, as those kind Compeers advance their view,
Some heavenly vision, some experience, new,
Creates fresh vigour—expedites their pace,
To rival her in Time's terrestrial race.

While thus, these Friends, their lov'd Associate lead,
Increasing strength, and courage, prompt their speed—
Temptations weaken—terrors wear away—
And difficulties lessen every day!
The skies grow clearer, and the path more plain,
While songs of gladness banish grief and pain!
Thus like the harrass'd Israelitish host,
When flying from their Foe's accursed Coast,
With terror look'd tow'rds Egypt's horrid Lands,
While, still pursued, by strong, embattled Bands,
As from that cruel Coast their footsteps fled,
They saw them in the Red Sea, drown'd, and dead:
So, to the Wilderness, these looking back,
O'er every dangerous, every toilsome, track;
Where, wandering long, unnumber'd ills beset
With pain and pleasure mix'd—remember'd yet—
When, fraught with terrors, dreadful Sinai frown'd
With clouds—thick darkness—lightnings—thunderings, round—
While earthquakes—trumpets—vengeful voices, join'd!
But now, with all their horrors left behind!
The Laws there utter'd now no more condemn,
Tho' standing, still, as guides, to govern Them—
No more they threaten death, nor hope destroy,
Or rob one evangelic heart of Joy!
Receiv'd as rules of Life, from Christ's own hand,
To point their steps thro' all the promis'd Land.
Their legal Leader dead, the precious charge
Is given to One who grants the Land at large.
Now, treading safe on Canaan's happy coast,
That heavenly Joshua heads their well-arm'd host.
A dauntless Chieftain! an unerring Guide!
Still combating at each true Christian's side!
Supplied with strength, from Him, they never yield,
But every faithful Hero keeps the Field!
Their strength and courage never can decay,
While fed with heavenly food from day to day!
No Time destroys new regimental dress,
Completely cloth'd in His pure Righteousness!
Nor need they doubt the Soldier's amplest dow'r,
Their Captain's Wealth is boundless, like His Pow'r!
He gives not here, His full affianc'd Rest,
With all the bliss of Heav'n compleatly blest;
But bids to combat all unlicens'd Lust,
Till Canaan's idol Tribes embrace the dust!
Like David, conquering Pride's Philistian strength,
Till, safely lodg'd in Salem's tow'rs, at length,
Eternal transports each pure Spirit fill,
While singing hymns of Heav'n on Sion's Hill!

Not the curs'd Crowds that throng the wider Way;
The proudly Great, and profligately Gay;
Who urge, with ardour, their impure pursuits,
To pluck vile Pleasures' fascinating fruits;

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Fruits, which, like Hells of old, still offer joy,
But, from the eager grasp for ever fly!
Or Sodom-Apples, seized with greedy gust,
Are found all fill'd with dry and filthy dust!
Indulg'd in each wild wish, and dangerous whim,
While, filling Folly's cup above the brim,
They drink full draughts—not natural thirst to slake,
But Lusts to strengthen, from each philter'd lake!
Their prompt Imaginations, mad for change,
Thro' all Life's labyrinths, rude, bewildering, range;
Still hoping, tho' they tread enchanted ground,
More beatific bliss must, yet, be found!
Expect new transports will outstrip the past!
Activity and strength much longer last!
Deem rank indulgence never will abate;
Nor frantic pleasure expedite their fate!
O'er every fence their lawless fancies fly,
With step impetuous, and lust-kindled eye!
While, skipping sprightly round, with song and dance,
New—thoughtless—maddening, multitudes advance!
No obstacle impedes their fearless feet,
But grateful objects all their Senses greet!
No mountains to ascend—no cliffs to climb—
Regardless how the glass is turn'd by Time!
Still sporting on, exempt from fear, and pain,
O'er an invariably declining plain—
Adown the smooth descent, secure they slide—
Consult no compass, and engage no guide!
Inflam'd by Appetite—by Pride impell'd—
Temptation's ne'er withstood, nor Wish witheld—
Fearing no fall—predicting no disgust,
In floods of Luxury—or flights of Lust!
They dread no danger! try no duteous task!
No help implore! no true protection ask!
But seize, with greedy grasp, all offer'd joys,
That Fashion shapes, or Fancy can devise!

The genial fields, at first, choice charms display,
In all the bright beatitudes of May!
The balanc'd Air, maintains a constant calm,
Or fanning Zephyrs breathe an od'rous balm!
High-flavour'd fruits, rare flow'rs, with gladd'ning glow,
'Mid softest verdure, fondly laugh below!
Cool, limpid lakes unruffled mirrors hold,
Reflecting, fair, what beauteous banks unfold!
No sullen clouds athwart the welkin range,
To check their sports, prognosticating change—
Nor skimming meteors, wafted on the wind,
Predict artilleried storms approach behind!
No vapoury blight bedims the azure sky,
To hint some noisome evil hovers nigh;
Nor churlish blasts abound, with chilly breath,
Forboding fell distemper, pain, or death!
No secret pitfals, nor approaching foes,
Their whelming depths, or wounding darts disclose,
Yet every step some crafty snare's conceal'd,
And hidden hosts their deadly weapons wield!
Their beastly Minds no warning word believe—
No awful sign their Senses, prone, perceive—
But, bounding on, with resolute career,
Spurn all reproof, nor dream disaster's near,
Tho' in each vein a native poison's pent,
And leav'ning Lust makes the foul mass ferment!
Tho' Pride, pestiferous! broods in every breast,
Still hatching passions, in its private nest;
While Appetite expands with fume or foam
Thro' deadly yeast, in each heart's, direful home;
Till vapid Pleasure, settling on its lees,
Grows sour with Sloth, or putrid with Disease!
Ev'n Venom's mix'd with sunbeams bright, and clear,
And taints the still, transparent, atmosphere—
Thro' each polluted lake spreads interspers'd—
Ev'n flow'rs, and fruits, and grassy couch, are curs'd!
Much more Corruption's rankling pow'r's increas'd,
By vicious frolic, and voluptuous feast—
By pangs that lust, and jealousy, impart,
And deadly bane that blasts the envious heart!
Pall'd Appetite rejects intemperate joys—
Lust render'd listless—rank refection cloys—
With Disappointment's weight wild Passion strives
Till sharp Chagrin curtails their headlong lives!

Not long the skies rest silent and serene,
But dire events disturb the vasty scene!
Not long the path lies plane, or prospects please,
Or Dissipation sleeps in peace, or ease—
Debauchery riots with uninjur'd health,
Or Avarice wallows in his heaps of wealth—
Unmanly Meanness Pomp and Pride attends—
Religion's mask Hypocrisy befriends—
Crowns domineer, or Courtiers cringe and fawn;
Or People, rights, and privileges, pawn!

That ample Track contains a countless Crew
Of Dupes, undone, and Scoundrels that undo!

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Of servile Villains, and of sordid Slaves—
Of lawless Lechers, rich, yet needy, Knaves—
Cross interests clash throughout the motley Throng,
Each Wretch contriving, or still acting Wrong!

There travel tyrant Kings, that scourge the Earth!
And Princes, prove no nobler boast than Birth!
Idolaters of Pomp—Pimps with full Pow'rs!
Titles which trick! and Wealth which Want devours—
Seduction's brutal Bands—Imposture's Troops—
And mad mistaken Honour's sanguine Groups—
Ambition's Flatterers, and Mammon's Fools;
For glory, or for gold, all Tyrants' Tools!
Heroes, who, frequent, in their furious wrath,
With dreadful desolation sweep their Path!
Like firebrands kindling cruel waste and war,
Which Salem's peaceful progeny abhor!
Not aim'd to settle wrongs, or 'stablish rights,
But to expand their Fame, and prove their Mights!
With brandish'd blades to prune away the Poor,
The mean Mechanic, and the labouring Boor—
More useful far, in Peace, for Life's support,
Than all the Crimps that buzz about a Court!
Heroes, which lead on Armies, like a flood,
To drench and deluge every field with blood—
Steeping their horses' hoofs in human gore,
While few escape, their phrenzies to deplore;
Or, strip their Track like wild, impetuous, wind,
Leaving one vast vacuity behind!

Oft have the Sojourners to Sion felt
What threats, and thunders, Despotism has dealt;
When fell revenge, with furious wrath, decreed,
The faithful Followers of the Lamb should bleed—
Or, in the cursed Mary's martyring days,
When Smithfield's walls beheld the fatal blaze,
Whose dreadful flames the bleeding space illumed,
While Saints pure Frames the cruel fires consum'd;
But while their Bodies fed the funeral Pyre,
Each Soul ascended to its heavenly Sire!
Or when Bartholomew, in guileful Gaul,
Saw each sad Protestant, pure Victim, fall!

Pride, join'd with Profligacy, ne'er connives
At striking truths, and exemplary Lives;
But vents full vengeance on those hapless Elves
Who shew forth shapes so little like Themselves—
All deem'd foul Monsters, or acknowledg'd Foes,
Who impious Passions, Pride, and Lust oppose—
Whose blameless Lives, and virtuous converse, prove
Libels on most that round Earth's Monarchs move!
As savage Negroes feel supreme delight,
In massac'ring each Monster skinn'd with white.

When Tyrants pause, and persecutions cease,
And Christians share a temporary Peace;
While fierce convulsions in such Crowd subside,
Each Soul still swells with Passions, Lusts, and Pride!
Pride, panting, still, for some superior sway—
Lust, prowling, like a savage Beast, for prey—
Dark Passions, propagating feuds, and strife,
Lay waste, or swallow up, the sweets of Life—
Strangle Content, or lay frail Pleasure low,
Like Turkish Tyrant's brac'd, or unbrac'd, bow;
Or Earth's gross vapours, labouring to get loose,
O'erturns what tends to happiness or use!
Hate's—Envy's—Anger's—virulence, or rage,
Convulse each individual's every stage;
Like a corroding canker, Life consume,
Or, like a dagger, antedate their doom!
Care—Fear—Anxiety—or Dread—or Doubt,
Spare no rash Spirit in this Rabble-rout,
But jilt their Hearts of every earthly joy,
Till dark despondence love of Life destroy;
While private Wretchedness and public Wrongs,
By Soul-exacerbations thin the Throngs!
Illegal licence, and oppressive Pow'r,
With murderous deaths vast multitudes devour!
Pride—Pomp—Extortion—sacrifice their Slaves—
Replenish prisons—glut untimely graves—
'Mid meaner Slaves whom Fortune's goods beguile,
Crowds are cut off with trouble, care, and toil!

Among the monstrous train of hell-born ills,
Misfortune mangles—Melancholy kills!
Some pine and perish with undue Desire;
And some on freakish Fancy's racks expire.
Some fall vain Victims in false Honour's cause;
And myriads massacred by sanguine Laws.
Assassination slays in different forms,
By secret killing strokes, or open storms;
And, last of all, with desperation, drear,
Desponding Suicides bring up the rear!

In that vast concourse of discordant parts
No strong attractions knit such selfish hearts—
By no affinities, elective, held,
All mutually repelling, and repell'd.

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As when some substances, of adverse kind,
Tho' cold by Nature, when, by Art combin'd,
The inimical mixture quick conspires
To waste itself by fermentation's fires:
So, when such heterogeneous Mortals meet,
All effervesce, with preternatural heat,
Till each obnoxious combination's burst,
By flames consum'd, or dissonance dispers'd!

Thro' this incongruous Crowd no Friendship's found—
This grows, alone, on consecrated ground!
In such a soil, in such inclement sky,
Mildews, and blights, both leaves, and blooms, destroy!
Pride's caterpillars eat its infant fruits—
Lust's canker-worms corrode its feeble roots—
The fires of Passion, or the frosts of Sloth,
If ever planted, still impede its growth—
Like damps, or droughts, destroy its tender head,
Or tempests tear it from its barren bed:
Religion can, alone, light up its fires—
Love only keeps alive its pure desires;
To cherish Grace, and twine the golden chain,
Uniting Minds, and making one of twain—
While moral Virtues link the mass, immense,
Inspiring courtesy, and confidence—
To shape the parts, and keep the polish pure,
Connecting each, and holding all secure.

Vice, like a Solvent, melts each mutual tie—
Makes friendly Faith, and warm Affection, fly—
An acid menstruum! all corrodes with rust,
Or totally dissolves each social trust.
Uncouples each connection Heaven frames,
Except what serves for selfish ends, or aims.
It may, short space, like lovely Virtue shine,
Covering, with lucid masks, its views, malign—
Assuming smiles which smoothe her heavenly face,
Conceal dissension, and escape disgrace.
Hypocrisy may practise tricks a time,
And hide, with constant care, each impious crime—
Behind Religion's vizor long may lurk,
And, unsuspected, ply her wiley work—
A veil, resembling Piety's, employ,
And, for awhile, deceive each searching eye;
But soon prompt energies of hidden Pride,
With pow'rful efforts push the mask aside—
Soon Lust, which, for a season, secret lies,
Starts into deed, and tears the thin disguise;
Or Passions' wild combustibles, within,
Burst into blaze, and show foul Fiends of Sin.
Strife, and Contention, rouze their angry storms,
Strip off their shrowds, and show their hateful forms;
While Hate's, and Envy's, vile, rebellious, broods,
Each heart inflame, and stir continual feuds,
Which kill with poison, slow, or sudden stings,
Each embryo bliss that in pure bosom springs;
Still, in ten thousand varied traits, destroy
Domestic happiness, and general joy!
Mischief and Misery penetrate the Whole,
Pervade the Body, and pervert the Soul!
All shapes of Pain, and pining Languor, low,
Extinguish Nature's animating glow!
Chills of Indifference—fits of deep Disgust,
Damp all delights of Luxury and Lust.
Tho' apt Amusement, Lust, and Luxury, joins,
Amusement mocks—all vapid Pleasure pines;
And, while the Frame some daily damage feels
Lust becomes mawkish—Luxury loathes its meals!
Experience dissipates fond Fancy's dreams,
And Disappointment mars their cloudy schemes;
Still pulling down their air-built, baseless, tow'rs,
Till Death Life's cold, corrupt, remains, devours!
No joyful Faith, or genuine Hope, appear,
To strew their tranquil consolations there!
Not that blest Faith which lifts each look, sublime,
Beyond all check of change, or stretch of Time;
But only diabolic Imp's belief,
Which darkens gloom and deepens pain and grief;
Depriv'd of Peace, and every ray of Hope,
While sliding, rueful, down the dreadful slope!
Each heightening horror Soul and Body tear,
By Demons dragg'd—but, chief, the Fiend, Despair!
The gloom still gathering every step they go,
With stronger foretastes of the blasts below!
Glaring, aghast! like Sin's infernal Sire,
To chains and darkness driv'n, fiends! worms! and fire!

Dandled in Fashion's lulling lap, at first,
Indulgence, by Fall'n Nature, fondly nurs'd;
That heedless Race to headlong ruin run,
Nor note their danger till their Soul's undone!

In Faith's bright form Credulity beguiles!
And counterfeited Hope, deceptive, smiles!
Dress'd in fair Fancy's endless shapes, and hues,
With pantomimic chase false charms pursues;

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But near its close no more mock shapes assumes,
Engulph'd, for ever, in Egyptian glooms!

In that tumultuous track of Pride and Spleen,
Love, sweet celestial Seraph! never seen—
Her representative an impious Prude,
Of specious manners, but profane, and lewd,
A mass of folly, impudence, and art,
Nam'd Affectation, personates her part;
Whose mimic skill calls trifling Minds astray,
With whims, and self-deception, all the Way!

Meantime, like Fashion's evanescent forms,
Or figures, frail, that skirt departing storms—
Like morning mists which end in midday show'rs,
Or fall'n leaves fluttering wild, in woods and bow'rs—
Like shadows passing o'er the chequer'd plains,
Or bubbles, rising from the falling rains—
Like vernal flow'rs of various forms, and hues—
Or bright prismatic drops of sparkling dews—
Like snows, dissolving in bright solar beams;
Or fleeting troops that dance in figur'd dreams,
Before Death's awful face the crowds decay,
And melt, each hour, in multitudes, away!
Reduc'd to scatter'd groups, or trembling bands,
Till here, and there, a straggling Mortal stands,
With agonizing hearts, and looks aghast,
Lest every languid pulse should prove the last!
Each insulated Wretch, that thus remains,
Beholds no prospect but fears, woes, and pains—
Curs'd expectation—and perpetual cry—
Much loathing Life—yet dreading more to die!
At Time's last steps no mitigation's known;
All grating torture, and terrific groan!
Still rack'd Reflection, bringing back the past,
Shriveling the Soul like leaves by wintry blast—
While aggravating Conscience takes her turn,
To freeze, with fear, or hot forebodings, burn—
Her stripes forestalling, with fierce, wrathful, rod,
The future fury of an anger'd God!

Thus have I sought, with simple pow'rs, to paint
The prospects of the Sinner, and the Saint.
Before Thy feeble, aged, eyes, display'd,
In striking outlines, with strong light and shade,
That Thou may'st meditate the obvious view,
The good to choose, the evil to eschew!
But Thou, I fear, hast walk'd so far, and wide,
With heedless ardour, in the paths of Pride—
Each prejudice, and habit grown so strong,
And so delighted with fool-Fashion's Throng,
Thy Soul will scorn to hear a Clown advise;
Spurn the rude Poet, and dull rhymes despise!

Perchance my Lecture may not meet the light,
Before Thy evening end in Death's dark Night—
But should my strains e'er meet the public eye,
Some Soul, regardless, long, of greatest joy,
And, rouz'd with dread of Heav'n's impending wrath,
May labour to explore Life's narrow Path—
Yet, should proud Man my admonition spurn,
And, from so mean a Lecturer, scorn to learn,
Or, should pure Providence, in wisest way,
Decree my Song shall never see the day;
My Heart must feel its Liberty enlarg'd,
Reflecting full on friendly debt discharg'd!

Now let my Muse return to Crispin's tale;
New toils recite, and recent woes bewail;
And, from loose fragments of remaining lays,
Show how he spent more harsh dependent, days—
How, in the midst of Spring's rich, sportive, reign,
His heart, most wretched! reach'd the hapless Plain—
Why smiling Spring, to him, prov'd more severe
Than Winter's frosts would, frowning all the Year—
Why Plains felt painful, and fair Skies unkind—
He left dear Daphne, and his Flock, behind!

When drear November, with distemper'd breath,
Wing'd o'er the barren wilds disease and death;
Then, tho' the Champaign starv'd, the Welkin storm'd;
And savage Nature's face look'd all deform'd;
His Mind was tranquil, and his Heart was eas'd,
While beauteous Daphne and fond Offspring pleas'd!
Dear Daphne's charms made Heart and Soul serene,
Much more than views of sweetest vernal scene—
Joys far more genial than from Summer flow'd,
The blameless luxuries of her Love bestow'd!

While thus residing on his native heights
'Mid sharp misfortunes, still more dear delights—
Death having now Vanessa's knot untied,
Her soul felt pregnant with full broods of Pride;
While to exhibit more Wealth, Wit, and Taste,
Resolv'd to realize vast schemes at last.

Aspiring plans had long her bosom burn'd,
And, now, each petty Habitation's spurn'd—

166

Determin'd much sublimer Domes to build,
Than those mean Fanes, her Pride, before o'er-fill'd—
With Altars high'r, and Off'rings richer, stor'd;
Where she, great Goddess! might be more ador'd,
By Worshippers well-pick'd, of pompous—proud—
And rich—and rare—from great Augusta's crowd,
While Winter spread his desolating pow'rs
O'er barren hills, and lawns, and leafless bow'rs—
But might, in gothic Mansion, on the Plain,
Through leafy, flowery, fruitful, Seasons, reign;
That there, her sylvan Votaries, all, might view
Her grand achievements, and give glory due!
There she enlarg'd her antiquated Dome,
Which worthless Monks long made their idle Home;
Till Henry, promptly, by long Pride and Lust,
Laid all its honours prostrate in the Dust!
There, to administer more food for Pride,
With ornaments bedeck'd the fair outside,
Where she might show her Wealth—her Taste display—
Expecting praise from all who pass'd that way;
While from her Friends she hop'd more fame to win
Courtiers, or Clowns, when worshipping within.

In these proud Temples was poor Crispin found,
At different Seasons, while the World roll'd round;
And thro' those Seasons was our Son of Song,
Whirl'd round, with Whim, or dragg'd dull days along!
Engag'd in schemes which Imitation catch'd,
Or Fancy in her procreant hotbed hatch'd,
Foreign, or native, obvious, or abstruse;
To furnish flattery, or adopt for use—
Some that seem'd consonant with Common Sense,
Much more that gave his faithful heart offence—
Borne on Imagination's Air-balloon;
Now dragg'd in dirt—now mounting near the Moon,
In counter-currents forc'd to wing his flight;
Now clear—now cloudy—oftener wrong than right.
Embarrass'd, now among encumbering crowds—
Now, fluctuating, far beyond the clouds.
With praise inflated, or collaps'd by wrath,
Ne'er swimming, smoothly, in a medium path;
But wafted wild, on airy billows buoy'd,
The sport of Prejudice, or dupe of Pride!
Tossing, and desultory—never still—
For Whim, or Passion, sway'd the Pilot's Will!
Reason was forc'd to plod in Fancy's school,
Fashion's purveyor, or Caprice's Fool!
Conscience felt sometimes plagu'd, and frequent pain'd,
When witless Custom rul'd, or Ignorance reign'd—
In spite of Piety, and Reason's choice,
A catering drudge for Vanity, and Vice!
Oft'n, for Profaneness, Piety was chid!
And moral maxims forcibly forbid!
Unwilling tool in wicked plan, or plot,
By Cunning sketch'd, or black surmise begot—
A mere machine for Policy, or Pet,
In which unnumbered contradictions met.

Here was a puzzling plan to execute,
That ne'er would Conscience, nor calm Wisdom, suit.
Some thoughtless Theory—some idle Dream—
To Grace repugnant, and pure Christian Scheme.
A System, strange, compell'd him to pursue;
The Customs complex, and the Laws all new.
Far different from the former burdens borne,
In rearing Cattle, and in raising Corn—
Each rude contrivance centering full in Self,
For magnifying Fame, yet sparing Pelf.
Self-interest primum mobile in both—
Here—cool Economy—there—greatest growth.
There, to scrape; scuffle; and accumulate—
Here, to reduce expence to narrowest rate;
Except on Ostentation's Gala-days,
When Fires must burn, and fragrant Candles blaze;
While all the mix'd varieties of Meat,
Flesh—Fish—Fowl—Game, and Fruit, must grace the Treat;
With large libations of most costly Wine,
That Scholars—Commons—Lords—and Dukes—might dine—
Each proud expence tried Taste could then contrive,
To keep Importance, and loved Fame, alive!
'Twas gathering single grains of golden sands,
Then scattering round the heaps with both her hands!
Collecting drops of dew from herby blades,
To pour them forth, profuse, in vast cascades!
At all times, else, most prudent plans devis'd,
Each drop well-measured, and each morsel pois'd!
A System Wealth must form in Self-defence,
To furnish Fame's—Pomp's—Luxury's—consequence;
When frequent Concerts—Readings—Feast, and Rout,
Kept Fortune's amplest funds fast pouring out!

Such was the regular routine in Town,
In hopes to reap superlative Renown,

167

From polish'd circles, of high-sounding Name,
Whose pow'rs, alone, could amplify her Fame—
While, in her precincts, on the simpler Plain,
To purchase praise, and rural glory gain,
Far other arts, and mysteries, must be tried,
To draw Idolatry, and pamper Pride.
While Wisdom wish'd to see that Pride subdued,
And Idols, all, ere Death the Soul denude!

Thus different, now, were Crispin's toils and cares;
Yet, all his cornfields, here, were strew'd with tares—
Like every Scene of sublunary Life,
Compos'd of pain and transport, peace and strife—
For all this mingled Mass of earthly things,
Is rul'd by peccant Commons—Peers—and Kings—
While those that constitute its common Troops,
Are form'd of Wits and Dunces, Knaves and Dupes;
Whose adverse views of Fortune, or of Fame,
For ever counteract each other's claim.
All mix'd, and justling, generate mutual jars—
Grumblings, and Litigations—Words, and Wars—
Till, weary of such warfare, pains, and toils,
Mute Christians long to quit their mortal Coils—
From Earth, and all its fallacies, to fly,
And, with untented Spirits, climb the Sky!
Meantime, with elevated eyes of Hope,
Looking thro' Life's wild Scenes, with ampler scope;
Faith finds Christ's providential Pow'r controul,
His Goodness guard, His Wisdom guide the Whole;
Conscious His bounteous Love selects the best,
They feel His influence tranquilize the breast,
Each Passion still, and lull the Soul to rest!

Not only was the Bard obliged to mark
Close Home-economy, from dawn to dark—
Teach others when to rise, and when retire—
Provide all proper food, and watch each fire—
Expence, and spending, mark, of bread and meat—
See coals were not consum'd in place of peat—
Still regulate external objects round—
Contrive and guard the ornamented ground—
Relieve the Gard'ner at his dinner-meal,
Lest near Connexions flow'rs, or fruitage, steal—
In countless other offices concern'd,
House-Steward, ne'er before, had ever learn'd;
Tho' not in name, in number more than Scrub's,
And, in each office, felt more frequent snubs.

He would have fill'd, with pleasure, each employ,
And found fresh labours bring him larger joy,
Had he, when talents, time, and strength, were spent,
Found cares, and pains, and toils, produce content—
But coals were squander'd—wood was burnt in waste—
The table too expensive, each repast;
And well-watch'd Cupboard, caus'd a dismal din,
One moment left unlock'd when Orts were in—
So Crispin, ere he'd clos'd his moderate meal,
Was forced to skulk, and, thief-like, slily, steal,
To watch remaining mammocks borne away,
And cautiously secure, with lock and key;
Lest, when inferior Myrmidons had din'd,
Some parts might be, by pilfering hands, purloin'd—
Each scrap imprison'd till the stated hour
When servile Swine more offals might devour.

'Tis wise, in bounded Wealth to count the cost,
Nor let one fragment of God's gifts be lost.
The blest Redeemer's kind commandment pleads
To justify such pure, prudential deeds—
Yet still His bright example stronger taught,
What Pride and Pomp, would, falsely deem a fault.
For vain distinction sought no second dish,
But fed, with Friends, on barley-bread and fish.

This was a part of Crispin's daily toil,
Providing needfuls, and preventing spoil;
Not, simply, to comply with Christ's command,
But, cheaply, to supply her servile Band.
Another portion of his active hours,
Which exercis'd his Mind's more ample pow'rs,
Was Builders—Labourers—Gardeners, to direct;
To urge full efforts, and preclude neglect—
For swarms were busied round her rural Dome,
Preparing haughty Pride a pompous Home;
And numbers more, to make internals trim,
For vaunting Vanity, and wanton Whim.
Here was full scope for Crispin's utmost arts,
To watch the workers—and inspect the parts—
'Twas Honour's—Conscience's—and Duty's, call,
To stimulate—controul—and order—all—
For, tho' the schemes were sketch'd by abler hands,
And workmen brought, in well-appointed bands,
Yet mere mechanics count it not a crime
To steal materials, or to waste their time;
Or execute some inexpedient plans,
That thwart the Master's views, but suit the Man's;

168

Regarding not the kind Employer's cost,
If no advantage to themselves be lost.
And Masters, oft, imperfectly attend;
Oft, present, found not their Employer's Friend,
But plans, and projects, ardently advise,
Where Agent's individual interest lies.

Here rose repeated proofs how cunning Skill
Could work its purpose on capricious Will;
Inspiring Whim with strange bewildering dreams,
To further selfish, curious, novel, schemes;
Opening the purse of Vanity and Pride,
And guiding to its own the golden tide.

Year after year, on that productive spot,
'Twas Architects', and Artists', rapturing lot
To see their past endeavours all disgrac'd,
And what one season rear'd the next eras'd:
This, to demolish—that, re-edify;
Sustaining, nearly as long a siege as Troy,
Till the strange mangled Mansion rose to sight,
In every varied aspect, heteroclite—
Thus where the capabilities of Brown,
Had troops of vegetable tribes dug down,
When skilful Wyatt's tasteful scheme was heard,
Their new-rais'd ranks of happier plants appear'd.

Chief, Crispin's tasks employ'd plebeian Trains,
In corps collected from the neighbouring plains,
To execute the schemes his pregnant Mind,
For usefulness and beauty both, design'd.
Bestow'd and disciplin'd the order'd Bands
To polish and improve the bordering Lands—
To cut, with winding Walks, thick woodlands through,
And lead the Lake across the varied View—
To spread Plantations o'er the haggard heath,
Hiding its drear deformities beneath—
To fill the fresh-form'd Shrubbery's grassless ground,
With colonies of strawberries, reddening round;
Bestowing countless toils, and constant care,
To keep all former plans, and prospects, fair;
Nor wish'd he fuller fame, or high'r reward,
Than gracious countenance and kind regard.

He claim'd no capabilities, like Brown;
Nor wish'd, like Wyatt, architectural crown—
He only strove to win, with studious toil,
His heart's applause, and Patroness's smile!
Then every change had charm'd his raptur'd sight,
And giv'n his Heart unlimited delight!
Then genuine joys had grown in every glade!
High-thrilling transports in each thickening shade!
Made each lov'd lawn with gladdening verdure glow!
Clear lakes, with brightening lustre, shine below!
More freshening foliage spread o'er every spray,
Concealing curves through every winding way;
Twined all their naked boles with woodbines, fair,
That soothe each eye, and scent the odourous Air;
His bosom bless'd in every pure pursuit,
In fostering flow'rs, and cultivating fruit—
Not with a vain pretence, or private view,
To gratify frail Self with something new;
But for true Friend fresh pleasures to afford,
To grace her toilette, and to crown her board!
Then had the simple Minstrel tun'd his voice,
To chaunt her praises, and her Paradise!
Again had urg'd his Muse's utmost art
To sing the fond effusions of his heart!
But, ah! what comfort could affections feel
Amidst his industry, and ardent zeal,
When, while his best endeavours were bestow'd,
He felt the bridling bit, or galling goad!
Felt all his previous energies represt,
By counteracting Spleen, or Pride's behest;
And every trifle innocence enjoy'd,
Rude Hate restrain'd, or dark Revenge destroy'd!
His best endeavours met by mean distrust,
His diligence all damp'd by deep disgust!
Contention strengthening every anxious care,
Till all his hopes were sunk in dark despair!
While 'mid such Scenes, so beauteous and sublime!
His hapless heart, unconscious of a crime,
In melancholy mop'd each passing hour
Beneath hard bondage of oppressive Pow'r;
Denied each dear, and rational, delight,
By groveling Envy, or by grossest Spite!
It might be ask'd whence Envy could proceed,
Or Wealth, and Wit, grudge Ignorance and Need?
How Spite could with such Pow'r and Wisdom dwell?
One cruel Anecdote will, clearly, tell:

In that fair Site, a small sequester'd space,
The tutor'd eye's offence, and Dome's disgrace,
Obscenely squalid, weedy, wild, and waste;
Unfitted for attracting eyes of Taste,
But least the Owner's, when she walk'd that way,
Contiguous to each common Office lay:

169

Thence did his arm each hateful pest expel,
That in their stead much better births might dwell—
His leisure moments laudable employ,
Offering fair hope, large, unpolluted, joy!
With fostering toil rare flowers and fruits to raise,
Faint semblance of his bliss in brighter days!
Led alpine strawberries rambling runners round,
To glow on every barren blank of ground!
Taught feeble Pinks on friendly props to lean,
And light, with lucid smiles, the cultur'd scene;
To stand, in splendid tufts, on scanty strips,
And pour pure odours from their blushing lips.
Carnations rear'd erect their loftier crest,
In variegated vestments richly drest;
Not from her Garden's gay parterres purloin'd,
But gifts of Friends, benevolent, and kind—
Mixing their scent with minor Sisters, sweet,
Improv'd the pleasure of the rude retreat!
Clear, like the Sun amidst the sapphire skies,
Convolvuluses ope'd their golden eyes;
With their bright beauties greet his morning ray,
But closed for ever, with declining Day!
The evening Primrose, dash'd with dazzling light,
Reserv'd its meeker charms to chear the Night;
But full exposed to face a prying World,
Each veil was folded up—ne'er more unfurl'd!
Stocks perfume spread in many a shining knot—
And Roses blush'd about the puny spot,
With other blooms of different form, and hue,
To charm the smell, and variegate the view;
Whose mingled scents, and animating smiles,
Repay'd his tender cares, and constant toils!

Beauty, alas! tho' simple, sweet, and pure,
In calm retreat ne'er lodges long secure;
Ne'er long escapes the Pilferer's peeping search,
But Fame will babble—Lust will quickly lurch—
Nor can a Parent, or enamour'd Swain,
From Pride and Rapine long such prize retain—
Soon Profligate, or Pimp, the Charmer seize;
No more to prompt the Soul, or Senses please!
Did Honour—Virtue—Riches—partners rare!
With candour court and win the willing Fair,
No honest heart would blame the charming choice;
Nor Envy's self prevent applauding voice—
But when base Malice with bold Lust combin'd,
And each vile Passion that perverts the Mind,
Pride's prompt associates! range the rustic scenes,
And ravish thence rich Nature's comeliest Queens;
Not fixt in bosom, blest, with fond embrace,
True Friend's, or kind Companion's, proper place;
But rank'd with dirty drabs, in ragged gown,
And hawk'd about to every Brute in Town:
Thus fared those flow'rets rear'd by Crispin's hand,
On those poor patches of neglected land;
Which might have pass'd in that impoverish'd state
Till fire had fix'd its everlasting fate,
Had he not lent his labour, with delight,
To stablish beauty on that barren Site—
But soon its charms, its fragrance, or its fame,
Drew the attention of despotic Dame;
Who, his fond hopes, and happiness, to foil,
Resolv'd, in vengeful spite, on ample spoil.

Among the many specious, spurious, ways,
Selfish, and false, for propagating praise;
To serve her cunning, and to save her coin,
Yet make it look like Charity divine,
She schemed to cull, from all her beds and bow'rs,
Superfluous sprays of shrubs, and refuse flowers;
But chiefly gathering from the fragrant groups
That form'd the kitchen-garden's scatter'd troops,
From whence her female artists might compose,
Embellish'd bouquets for each vulgar nose,
In common market sold to compass pence,
Disburs'd in dole as pure Beneficence!

This proffer'd fair pretence for Pow'r and Pride,
With moral mask low, envious, hate to hide;
But the fell features of such Spite and Spleen,
Were fully thro' false Virtue's vizor seen!
She pillag'd all the blooms, both sweet, and fair,
That flower'd, and flourish'd, under Crispin's care;
And, lest a fellow-feeling might restrain
A Servant's grudging palm from giving pain,
She, like herself, perform'd the tragic part,
To plunge her dagger deeper in his heart!

Poor Crispin's loss, in solemn items told,
Was something like the injur'd Chiefs of old,
When Israel's cruel King, in antient times,
By Nature tempted to enormous crimes;
Not with Imp's envy, veil'd by base pretence,
To give a Servant, and a Friend, offence,
But let his graceless Lust and Passion guide
The inborn bent of Appetite and Pride.

170

Of ample herds and flocks, himself, possest,
A Neighbour's Lamb, companion of his breast,
His sole possession, and his dear delight;
His day's diversion—bosom Friend by night;
Which tender loving-kindness nourish'd up,
With him, each day, to share each cate and cup—
With him still dwelt—partook his choicest chear—
Nurs'd like a Child, a favourite Daughter, dear!
With wanton gambols, frisking, gaily, by,
Had caught the lustful Monarch's leering eye;
And, when wayfaring Friend, with cravings, came,
The Daring Despot, fir'd with selfish flame
Of wild Desire, unworthy of a Throne!
Seiz'd Neighbour's poor Ewe-lamb, and spar'd his own.
So fell poor Crispin's fondly-foster'd blooms,
With all their beauties bland, and pure perfumes!
Not as a prey to pow'rful Appetite,
To furnish food for animal delight—
Not as a sacrifice to fleshly gust,
Or pressing importunities of Lust;
But as the victim of a vicious Mind,
By crafty plans of policy refin'd
Despotic sketch of each polluted Soul
That stoops to Pride's unlimited controul,
And those black Passions that impel the heart
To act a sordid, or satanic part!
But as the Seer, by parable sublime,
Convicted Hebrew King of heinous crime,
So, Conscience, peradventure, soon, or late,
May wound her feelings, or unwind her fate!

The rich Carnations that his care had nurs'd
As Mischief's martyrs fell, her victims, first;
When she, her Friends, with spiteful purpose, led,
To pluck their beauties from their humble bed,
In tyrant triumph on their bosoms borne
To strike the troubled Bard with cruel scorn,

Her's, truly, was the lean uncultur'd soil,
But was not quit-rent paid by care and toil?
Completely paid to Reason, Sense, and Taste,
By forming Eden from a rueful Waste?
Were not carnations—roses—pinks—and stocks,
Better than thistles—nettles—dwale—and docks?
And pleasant odours, where a Lady dwells
More grateful than gross filth, or fetid smells?
Nor could the arbitrary Tyrant trace
Faint right or title to the flowery Race,
For every fragrant, fair, and beauteous, Breed,
Were free donations from a Friend indeed!

Tho' this, a time, could Reason's pow'r controul—
And raise resentment in his suffering Soul,
Still more he suffer'd from the haughty Dame,
When that kind Friend from neighbouring district came
To chear with social chat a happier hour,
While thus a Bond-Slave to such Despot's pow'r;
To draw each sharp-barb'd arrow from his heart,
Fix'd by the Tyrant in that tenderest part;
And spread pure sunshine o'er his troubled breast,
On that sole Day kind Heav'n ordain'd him rest!
When, free from care, he judg'd he might presume,
With such true Friend, to trace the woodland's gloom;
To note the fragrant shrubs, or shining flow'rs,
In variegated groups, or blooming bow'rs—
The velvet verdure, or the brilliant beams,
On polish'd landscapes, or illumin'd streams;
Each fair atchievement of his head, or hand,
Where Diligence preserv'd what Genius plann'd.

Who could conjecture pertinacious Pride,
Had e'er such simple privilege denied?
Who would suppose Hate—Envy—Spleen, and Spite,
Would cheat poor Crispin of such cheap delight?
Would wake the poignant spirit of Chagrin,
With Friend, familiar in those precincts seen,
Where he bestow'd, each day, strength—talents—time,
Could e'er be construed such a serious crime?
Could e'er imagine mad Malevolence,
Caprice, or Pride, would wish to keep them thence?
They only wander'd round the woods, and dells,
To greet their sights, and gratify their smells.
They were not Coxcombs—Savages—or Brutes,
That pillag'd shrubs, and flow'rs, and pilfer'd fruits—
They only read clear labels Heav'n inscribes
On the fair fronts of Nature's tongueless tribes!
Just trac'd the types Heav'n's Pow'r and Wisdom weaves
In all their limbs and features, flow'rs and leaves;
But ne'er to gratify wish—whim—nor rage,
Stole frontispiece, nor tore one title-page.
Just gaz'd upon the paintings God imprints,
But spoil'd no canvas, nor polluted tints—
Explor'd their fair complexions, features, shapes,
But plann'd no plots, nor schemed rude, cruel, rapes—
They only view'd those charms that always lie
Uncover'd, to the ken of every eye—

171

They only took those tempting spoils as prey,
Which ev'ry passing breeze would waft away;
Or, unobserv'd by human smell, or sight,
Expire, and perish, soon, in endless night!
'Twas tasting luxuries free from care, or cost—
Partaking pleasure, soon for ever lost—
'Twas fairly satisfying twofold Sense,
Without another's, or their own, expence—
Without disbursing Wealth, or burdening Wit—
Mere lighting lamps at those already lit,
Which must consume, continuing still to blaze,
Tho' none would profit by their friendly rays.
The Sun would still diffuse its fulgent beams,
Were all eyes clos'd in dull unconscious dreams—
The Air still offer vivifying breath,
Were all the race of men immerg'd in death—
So would such charms unfold, and yield perfumes,
Were Tyrants all inclos'd in cloister'd tombs.

But ought a Clown, with like Companion, rude,
On Scenes, so sacred, daringly, intrude?
Shall vulgar Ignorance dare those haunts invade
For Knowledge—Learning—Wit—and Wisdom—made?
Shall beastly Boors those hallowed paths explore
Which Taste, and Genius, trod but just before?
Shall Ignorant Penury trace the tracks where Wealth
E'er paced for pleasure, or patroled for Health?
Loath'd Rustics' footsteps thus presume to tread
Where Fame and Fashion, Lords and Ladies, led?
Such swinish nostrils seek to snuff the scent,
Solely for noble Births and Noses meant?
Those various beauties Barbarian eyes view,
To courtly Pomp and Splendour, only due;
And whence the polish'd Mistress hop'd for praise,
From graceful Politesse, at every gaze!

Unwitting Wights! how little did they dream
Such peccadillos would supply a Theme
Whence haughty Despotism could hope to draw
Sufficient sanction for a fiery Law;
Which, tho' fierce wrath that moment might reveal,
Necessity, to-morrow, must repeal!
How little could poor Crispin's Mind surmise
That Pride and Passion, then, should spoil his joys!
How could his honest, simple spirit think,
Amid such pure pursuits, his heart should shrink—
Should suffer lancing looks, and stinging taunts,
For sauntering, on a Sunday, round those haunts;
Relax'd, in those lov'd bow'rs, on Sabbaths, blest,
Where Soul and Body labour'd all the rest!
He ne'er suppos'd his presence could degrade
The shining shrubbery, or the sheltering shade,
Where constant care, and close attendance tied
To toil and study every day beside!
Ne'er judg'd a virtuous Friend could e'er pollute
The untouch'd flow'r, or fair untasted fruit—
Could cloud the Light, or hurt the Atmosphere,
By bathing in the beams, or breathing there,
With Friend, of Soul sublime, and bless'd with Worth;
Possess'd by few that boast their nobler Birth!
He ne'er imagin'd such fair Frame, and Mind,
Could leave a mildew, or a blight, behind!
Ne'er fancied Friendship could impair a Place,
Tho' deem'd important by a pompous Race;
Or Clowns, with sight, or smell, contaminate
Ev'n Scenes most grateful to proud Rich and Great;
Could foul, with frowziness, the pure perfumes,
Or tarnish richest tints of brightest blooms.
He ne'er suspected Innocence could spoil
The perfect purity of sand, or soil—
Hard gravel harm, or vitiate verdant sod,
Where Pomp reposed, or Ostentation trod;
Or pure Simplicity degrade the grove,
Where Affectation—Fashion—Foppery, rove.
He ne'er conceiv'd more mischiefs could arise,
To injure Air, or Light in clearest Skies;
Where temperate Peasants' respirations pass'd
Than where rank Luxury breath'd its tainted blast—
That chaste Plebeian's looks o'er waters, clear,
Could mar them more than Lechers', lounging near—
That kind Complacency, with smile serene,
Could more than Pride's dark frowns infect the Scene,
Or eyes of Meekness Prospect's charms impair
More than mum Grandeur's bluff and brazen glare,
That Christians could defile the fairest Seat,
Where Infidels e'er form'd their dull Retreat;
That Health would check the Grove's, or Copse's growth,
More than fumes of foul Disease and sordid Sloth;
Or Thanks and Praise the Lawn or Woodland stain,
Like Flattery's lies and compliments profane!

The Bard, from prompt philanthropy, was prone
To tune his periods in true Pity's tone,
Or touch his tenderer notes to lays of Love,

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In unison with hearts and harps above—
But when his warm Benevolence was checkt
By frigid coldness, or unkind neglect,
He laid aside the simple oaten flute;
Both plaintive pipe, and pensive Muse, were mute:
But such harse insult, such outrageous wrong,
Stirr'd up the strains of keen satyric Song;
While his meek spirit moved, by pungent smart,
These measures murmur'd from his injur'd heart.

“Is this the Order Heav'n at first decreed,
To stamp Distinctions on our free-born Breed?
Is this the kind Creator's perfect Plan,
Thus to commission Man the curse of Man?
This Providence's right, impartial, Rule,
One made a Despot—one the Tyrant's Tool?
One human Creature thus ordain'd, by Birth,
To claim huge districts of devoted Earth;
Another, equal born, be deem'd unmeet
To touch the surface with unlicens'd feet?
One grasp the products of the procreant Soil,
Exempt from every study—care—and toil—
Another think, and work, each waking hour,
With scarce one scrap of property, or pow'r?
Subject, by need, to Fellow-Sinner's nod?
This, but a mere Machine—and that—a God?

“With heavenly Justice will such scheme accord?
One starve, a Labourer—while one struts, a Lord?
One with each luxury, in profusion, fed;
A Brother cringing for a crust of bread?
In garb of silk and gold, one, costly, cloth'd,
And one half-rob'd in rags, by Brethren loath'd?
One sped in splendid and sublime Abode,
And one in stinking Cottage closely stow'd;
Some with vast Wealth, and Counties at command,
Others without one Coin, or inch of Land.

“God ne'er could sanction such a partial Pact,
Nor will His Word confirm so foul an Act!
'Twas the vile Offspring of the human Mind,
The base, the monstrous, birth, of curs'd Mankind;
That One should rule thus insolent, and rash,
While crowds sustain the labour, and the lash!
Griev'd with intolerable burdens, groan,
With scarce one morsel, or one mite, their own!
Bear jibes—taunts—frowns—from Arrogance and Scorn,
Because, like Beasts, without possessions, born!
Spend all their strength—health—time—to Life's last hours,
To furnish comforts Despotism devours!
Preventing all its wants with thought, and toil,
Then portering off the dregs drunk spendthrifts spoil!
And while they cleanse each suffocating drain
Deem it Sedition should such Clowns complain!

“Had such false Tyrants' Wills full exercise
They'd lodge such Slaves in stables, or in styes!
Clothe them in sackcloth, just to shrowd their shame,
To keep such Brutes subordinate, and tame;
Nor deal one part of Nature's plenteous dow'rs,
From field, or garden, grain, herbs, fruits, or flow'rs,
But, barely, for sustaining Life assign
Offals, deem'd meet for Dogs, or swill, for Swine—
Would suffer none but Sycophants to share
One inspiration of pure, wholesome Air—
One drop of water pure, from springs, or streams,
Or unpolluted spark from Phœbus' beams.

“What pity 'twas,” for thus he turned, with pain,
From keen sarcastic, to ironic strain,
“What pity 'twas no compact could be made
Betwixt the Gods of gold and Tools of trade!
Betwixt the labouring Boors and swineherd Swains,
And rich liege Lords that rule the peopled Plains!
Betwixt Pomp's glorious Dames and Demigods,
And servile Suits that cringe to catch their nods!
That those high Peers and Peeresses might share
All Earth contains, with solar Light, and Air!

“What pity Nature's Author, good and great!
To make his providential gifts complete,
Ne'er legislated some exclusive clause,
Some strong criterion of such boundless Laws,
Conferr'd on those dear Delegates in trust,
To prompt their Passions, and enlarge their Lust,
Subjecting all to Pow'r, for Pride's content,
Both solid Land, and liquid Element;
With all the fields of Air, and floods of Light,
Affording Spleen full exercise for Spite;
To dribble out their scanty doles to all,
That Penury binds around this raving Ball!
To all that hardly earn their meagre mess,
And shabby robes that form their shapeless dress;
Their twinkling farthing light, and transient fire,
With little less which Nature's calls require;
In huts of turf and straw to spend their days

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With endless toil, and nights devoid of ease;
All vested, fully, in Pride's amplest Pow'r,
To offer, or withold each fickle hour.

“What pity 'twas, when first the human Race,
Assum'd their proud, or sunk to abject, Place—
When Peleg, with his tyrant Chieftains, leagu'd,
Against their Fellow-mortals first intrigued—
First on wild forests—hills—woods—plains, appear'd,
And there their self-appointed standards rear'd,
To violate the Wills of virtuous Worth,
Monopolizing all the parts of Earth!
Or when tyrannic Nymrod's impious Mind
Presumed to hunt and persecute Mankind—
Or ere the spurious Ishmael's pompous plan,
The trade of making titles, first began;
Who, spurning Providence's sharp rebukes,
Created, dauntless, more than thirty Dukes—
Prescribing, bold, and consequential, bounds,
To idle epithets, and senseless sounds!
When first the Great began to burst with Pride,
Apprais'd the Poor so low—and, still, deride!
When first gaunt Peasant grip'd another's plough,
And fed their furrows from his dripping brow!
First reap'd the crops of alienated soil
While bladder'd palms were steep'd in blood with toil!
Bent down his aching back, to ply the spade!
And shaped lean shoulders like his bended blade!
Or, stooping lower still, for orts of meat
Bow'd, fawn'd, and cring'd, to kiss Wealth's scornful feet.

“What pity wonderous Peers, and peerless Dames,
Were not empowr'd to shut out counter-claims!
Such Lord-lieutenants, locum-tenens-Queens,
Whose parchment mounds inclose Earth's cultur'd Scenes,
Who'd fain, from agueish Poverty, withold
One heathy turf to tame the cutting cold—
What pity! what afflicting cause of grief!
And, while They worship Hell's exalted Chief,
And He can all created claims controul
Could get no royal grant to rule the Whole!
Then, clear, their full Commissions thus might run—
‘Know, all Men, by these Presents, that bright Sun
‘With both his attributes of Heat and Light,
‘Pour'd down, direct, or lent the Lamp of Night—
‘All feebler orbs that shine, and twinkle, round
‘His brilliant sphere, or speck the blue profound—
‘The fluid Air, ordain'd for general good,
‘With all the produce of Plain—Hill—or Wood,
‘And Watery Amplitude, be fully Their's,
‘With sole reversion to their sovereign Heirs’”
Then might They live, with Despot-pow'r, elate,
Scattering scant fragments, or dispensing Fate!
Smile into Life—annihilate with frowns—
And flash dread Lightnings from their dazzling Crowns!
Willing, as Tyrant's wish, on thundering Throne,
To favour slavering Sychophants, alone!
Those Apes that practise flattering—fawning arts,
The venturous Villain's, Pimp's, and Traytor's parts!
Storm as their Teachers storm—grin as they grin—
Cajole—deceive—lie—swear—thro' thick and thin!
Mark ev'ry motion—weigh each aweful Word—
And feign assent when frantic, or absurd!
Watch every look—dissolve with angry glow'r,
Or madden with one smile's transporting pow'r.
Each fellow Dupe deceive, thro' spleen and spite,
By representing wrong whate'er was right—
Repeat each peevish phrase from churlish Chief,
With aggravating tone for self-relief!
Load every cross, and make each comfort less,
Like Fiends, delighted in their Foes' distress!

Should Slave superior, find fair Worth forgot,
Thro' whim, or weakness, oft such Slavery's lot,
Thro' madd'ning megrims of the blood, and brain,
While Patroness looks down with harsh disdain,
Such favour'd Vassal's insolence abounds,
And business—order—influence, confounds—
While mean employer, with promoting hint,
Approving smile, arch wink, or look asquint,
Still strengthens, and inflames domestic strife,
To mix with misery Culprit's cup of Life!
Yet such poor Spaniels but with bones are fed,
And watch their Keeper's looks with louring dread,
While taught to growl, or grin, or bellow loud,
At other Puppies that compose the Crowd.
But could Commanders manage Light and Air,
Such Curs would scarce receive sufficient share;
For where Caprice and Spleen sway Sovereign pow'r,
No Sycophant's secures one single hour!
Ev'n Pimps and Panders often feel disgrace;
Such Needles point not long tow'rds northern place,
But, round the compass run, inconstant, still,
As Pride and Passion guide the graceless Will!
But woe to that condemn'd, devoted, Wight,

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Compell'd to feel a Female's impish spite;
Whose vile Invention's ever on the stretch
To plague, and persecute such hapless Wretch!
A Pauper might compare his abject state
And bless kind Providence for better fate!
Prisoners, unbeat, some pity might bestow;
Tho', pin'd with want, experience less of woe!
A Galley-slave, who hourly tugs the oar,
Feels less of misery, though of labour more.
A Demon, tho' condemn'd with Hell's high Chief,
From curs'd compeers may find some faint relief,
And might commiserate such a wretched Elf,
A Creature curs'd more harshly than himself!
Himself's a name such Slave ne'er can apply,
Who always labours from Himself to fly!
Himself! unmeaning noun! no more his own!
Mere mute appendage of a Despot's throne!
His heart once judg'd for generous Friendship meet,
Become base football for false Tyrant's feet!
Crispin—at nobler boards, aforetime, fed,
Made subject, now, to meaner Vassal's tread!
A Tool to trouble others—while his Soul
Sustains much stronger feeling for the Whole!
The butt of black inquisitorial pow'r!
To meet fresh miseries every hateful hour!
Corrosive sorrows, and impaling pains,
Enhanc'd by snubs each Fellow-slave sustains.
Destroy'd by atoms! rack'd both day and night,
With poison dropp'd by Aspic's deadly bite—
Some opiate, soft, may soothe a moment's smart,
But leaves the venom rankling in his heart?
No Coup-de-main's emancipating rage
Drives the doom'd Victim from the torturing stage—
To burst his prison-doors—tear Body's bands—
And put the Spirit into holier hands!
Still kept in fetters by a pseudo-Friend,
Without one prospect, clear, of ease, or end!
All anxious care, or crucifying fear,
Poniards and plaisters, daily, year by year!

No Soul should mix among the courtly Train,
So proud! so passionate! revengeful! vain!
Among the higher, or the lower, Class,
Whose breast's not form'd of steel, and front of brass!
Should ne'er be tied to Fashion's fickle Tribes,
Whose heart's not proof against gross jeers and jibes—
Ne'er bend his neck beneath such servile yoke
Whose Spirit's not before completely broke;
Grown heedless of each act, or look, or word,
Howe'er insulting, or howe'er absurd!
Must hope no health—no happiness—no peace—
Throughout his hapless—humbling—yearly-lease;
But live prepar'd for painful, fractious, fray,
Trials, and tribulations, day by day!
But, chiefly, one who female Fury serves
Should, first, cut out, or cauterize, his nerves—
Excluding from his Conscience—breast—and brain,
All sense of injury—shame—reproach—and pain

In such connections, Common-Sense expects
Repeated conflicts—insults—and neglects—
But none, besides experienc'd Sufferers, know
The bitter trials Bond-Slaves undergo!
Such compact form'd, such treaty ratified,
Perdition stamps the Dupe of piquant Pride.
From friendly list soon finds himself eras'd
Who doubts his Despot's Politesse—or Taste!
For all such courtly circles far unfit
Who calls in question Individual's Wit:
The Slave, who Sense, or Wisdom, dares dispute,
Stands dubb'd a Blockhead, or pronounc'd a Brute.
Her Genius—Judgment—Virtue—not avow'd,
He's rank'd among the ignorant, clownish, Crowd.
Who-e'er disputes her Pow'r, infuriate, feels
Stillettos—poisons—burnings—whips, and wheels!
No more should such behold the Sun's bright blaze,
Nor feel, again, his warm, invigorating, rays;
His heart to cherish, or his eyes to chear,
But dwell in cold, and darkness, all the year;
Or see them dealt abroad in dribbling Light.
Just to see Day, distinct from sable Night;
With warmth sufficient, simply, to fulfil
The dictates of her arbitrary Will!
Should ne'er imbibe salubrious breath of Air,
Or Nature's beverage, pure, from fountain, share;
But fetter'd, strong, with grief and grating round,
Contemplate, still, each spirit-piercing wound!

Should stronger turpitude consist in crimes,
Which thwarted Pow'r by penning righteous Rhymes,
No ray should light him o'er the trackless heath,
But blazing lightnings blast his rustic wreath—
No breeze but Wealth's contaminated breath,
Should e'er, one Day, retard the stroke of Death—
No drink, but drips from Fashion's fulsome rooms

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His thirst should gratify in dungeon glooms,
Till tears extinguish'd every spark of Spleen,
Blurr'd all bold truths, and blunted sharp and keen—
Till torment metamorphos'd libell'd lays,
And turn'd each peccant couplet round to praise—
While he whose luke-warm spirit, prone to faults,
Between full freedom and submission halts
Be press'd with weights till Greatness hears his cries
To give some gleanings of the Earth and Skies;
While with incessant sighs, and griefs, and groans,
His deep repentance for each fault atones!
But still each pain and grief to aggravate,
And add fresh curses to the Culprit's fate,
Inflicting all the force of scoff and scorn,
To prove the Bard of humble Parent born,
A crowd of crimes! a base, ignoble, Boor!
And, what's far worse, unpardonably poor!
These form a mass of shame—a gulph of guilt—
Rubbish—on which no merit can be built!
The lack of lustrous Wealth, or badge of Birth,
Precludes all moral, and religious, Worth!
Had he an Adam's Make, an Angel's Mind,
Court Churls could, there, no charms, nor Virtues, find!
Nor must he hope the pure and peaceful right,
Of solar beam, by day, or bed, by night;
But, led by twilight lantern's twinkling pow'rs,
To guard such godlike Creatures' dozing hours,
For crumbs scrap'ed up, and dealt in scanty doles,
Just soldering Bodies, and cementing Souls!
To keep the mere machinery's parts compact,
When call'd, like true automatons, to act—
To move the frame, or head, eyes, hands, and feet,
Or speak, when, what, how, Mistress thinks most meet—
To stand—sit—lie—to walk, to run, to rest,
As such sublime Commanders deem it best!

Should bold Ambition prompt mistaken Swain
To slight soft slumbers on the peaceful Plain—
To quit light cares—fast Friends—and quiet Cot,
And leave laborious, for licentious, lot—
Wak'd by wild Phantasms from delirious dreams,
And led, by Lusts, to try Utopian schemes—
Enroll'd with liveried list; broke in, till tame;
Or, badg'd, like collar'd Cur, feel feudal claim;
He, tho' uplifted more than motley Troop,
Still must his independent Spirit stoop,
Nor perfect Freedom plume her wing agen,
Or think mere Lacquies can be construed Men!

No needy Virtue weaves no web so dense
But Wealth squints thro' at Penury's foul offence—
Nor Erebus can dip so black a dye
But Pride perceives low Life, with half an eye;
Nor Talent so conceal a quondam Trade,
But Spite's exploring look will pierce the shade,
While secret Malice wishes oft to eye,
And winks her Partners to partake the joy!

While, on the plain, poor Crispin's pow'rs were plied,
To trade for Vanity, or tilt with Pride—
To work for whim—with Cunning to contend—
Falshood to counteract, or Truth defend—
Caprice oppose—confront strong Passions' storms,
And fight perfidious Art in endless forms—
These, with supreme Authority's controul,
Suppress'd each sacred purpose of the Soul;
So manacled by courtly Politesse,
Duty repelling Passion's harsh redress—
Debarr'd from firing, and forbid to draw,
By civil—social—and religious Law—
The butt of scorn, for cowardice, at large,
Or sure destruction at the first discharge;
While if his lips one syllable should blab,
His interest must expire with fatal stab.
Yet was he frequently expos'd to fall,
By pointed weapon, or exploded ball;
Or multiplying wounds, and woes, endure,
Hypocrisy's court-plaister ne'er could cure;
Nor unguents heart-aches, or sharp smarts assuage,
But aggravated more their maddening rage!

Nor these, alone, put Patience to the test,
Superior's pet—suspicion—jibe—and jest;
But Vassals, copying their Employer's crimes,
Afflicted, and perplex'd, this Man of Rhymes;
The leading maxim of whose moral Mind,
Was the meek wish for peace with all Mankind!
Much was he forc'd to meet remarks, and frowns,
From daring Coxcombs, and domestic Clowns,
Contriv'd by crooked Policy above,
To bend Endeavour from right line of Love!
There placing ignorant Pride in order, next,
With Envy, by subordination, vext.
Combin'd with black Malignity below,
Alternately each Man's, and Woman's foe;

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In turns by each strong Lust, and Passion, sway'd,
Which Demons damn, and Mortals most degrade.

To counterbalance all this Hate and Strife,
And help him on thro' that loath'd state of Life,
Frail were the comforts that reliev'd his Lot,
In that unpleasant, tho' Arcadian, spot;
Where Pride, and Spleen, and Spite, curs'd every Class
Which form'd that motley, that unsocial Mass;
Encourag'd or connived at by their Chief,
Who judg'd each Member Miscreant, Jade, or Thief—
While to confirm her rule, and fix her reign,
She strove to tear each fond and friendly tie in twain!

No tender Daphne bless'd his bosom there!
No Child to comfort, and no Friend to chear!
And tho' much fresh Acquaintance might be found
No Friendship flourishes on graceless ground,
Nor grateful fruits of Love e'er fully grown
With pure and perfect flavour near a Throne!

His happiest hours, while far from earthly Friend,
Were, what the conscious Christian still attend;
When Wisdom could from Fraud, and Strife, retire,
To hold calm converse with celestial Sire!
While Fashion's Wretches far from reason run,
Their Maker's righteous claims, with care, to shun;
Or, Conscience's indignant calls to drown,
Mix each mad Folly thro' this frantic Town!
To silent shades he'd oft, sequester'd steal,
Ere Eve drew o'er the vales her dusky veil;
When Summer's milder beams and balmy Air,
Call'd forth to calm the heart and peace repair—
To tell his pains to Heavn's pure Advocate,
Who grants all furloughs, and who guides all fate!
To Him with prompt, and simple soul to pray,
For growth in grace, and food, each future day—
Or, when, at intervals, repriev'd from pain,
With chearful accent chaunt some sacred strain,
Humbly presented to that Parent's ear,
Where none, beside, but Angels listen'd near—
Weak, gentle, cadences, of Waters, join'd,
And breezey whispers of soft breathing Wind,
While Nightingales, and Owls, oft strove to raise,
In trills, and shoutings, their Provider's praise!

This was a Concert spiritual, and pure,
Which Saints admire, and Seraphs might endure—
Such as the pitying Saviour's Soul approves,
Which neither Lust, nor Pride, nor Passion, moves,
But such pure Passion, free from Lust, and Pride,
That thoughtless Folly, and lewd Vice, avoid.
Here were no studied strains—no manag'd notes,
From senseless things, or self-delighting, throats;
Nor, from immortal Mind, licentious lay,
For Flattery—self-applause—or sordid pay—
But Spirit, wing'd with flame, to Heav'n still flew,
With praise, delightful, where all praise is due!

When Autumn's frowns, and frigid breath, forbade
To dare disasters, in the gloomy glade,
He sought the skreen of those once holy walls,
Which, now proud feasts profane, and bustling balls—
Where once the Priest perform'd religious rites,
Now noisey scene of impious lust's delights—
Again to glad the roof with sacred Song,
But lately left by Bacchanalian throng—
Again to hail with hymns the sacred space
And purge, with pray'r that oft-polluted place—
Now fill'd with foul idolatrous devoirs
Instead of humble hearts, and echoing Choirs—
With all false compliments and flattering lies,
That Fancy's pow'r performs, or Wit supplies—
To peccant Creatures that full worship shewn,
Which all belongs to God—and God alone!

What rapture did his heart experience, there
From adoration deep, and love sincere!
From praise—thanksgiving—penitence—and pray'rs—
No Epicure conceives, or Sceptic shares!

Ye sensual Souls who wish for bosom bliss,
Could ye once find felicity like this,
To every darling Lust you'd bid adieu,
As dull deceptions—transient, and untrue—
Bid every base indulgence full farewell,
Which plagues you here, while plunges down to Hell!

What comfort can immortal Spirits feel,
While Conscience wounds with whips, and stabs of steel!
What pleasure prove in chaffy, childish trash,
While Heav'n chastises with its waling lash?
What in mad ramblings can calm Reason find,
To fill, or satisfy, Man's famish'd Mind?
What, in mere paltry mess one Wish to move,
Or Understanding, Reason's pow'r to prove?
With Objects, so jejune, impel the Will,
Pure Spirit charm, or Heart's affections fill?
How stir-up genuine intellectual joys,
Like Swine, to swill, or Dogs to gormandize;

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Or bring forth bliss from foul and carnal, Cause
While counteracting Heav'n's kind, holy, Laws?
Can all frail Creature-blessings found below,
That Peace procure—transporting bliss bestow?
Will Nature's Wealth, with all the Works of skill,
E'er satisfy the faithless human Will?
Did e'er each poignant and expensive dish
Prove paramount to Man's unwearied wish?
Could e'er the deep intoxicating draught,
To full frutition wandering Fancy waft;
Or all dull fleshly pleasures e'er dispense
Full satisfaction to Man's mental Sense?
Did reasoning Soul e'er say—“I'm satisfied!”
When transient raptures jaded Joy supplied?
Did Spirit e'er declare—“I've quite enough!”
When Sense had swallow'd all its temporal stuff?
Was ever Eye, or Ear, thro' Nature's rounds,
Sufficed with tasteful Sights or tuneful Sounds?
Was e'er the eager, hankering Heart content
With gaudy Dress, or glittering Ornament?
Was ever Mind, immerg'd in stateliest Dome,
Completely pleas'd with what it found at Home;
Or Cramm'd, till cloy'd, by Providence's dow'r
With Honour—Influence—Fame—Wealth—Pomp—or Pow'r?
Could tyrant King e'er Tracts of Earth acquire
Commensurate with his Heart's enlarg'd Desire!
No! could his greedy Wishes grasp the Whole,
It ne'er could match the measure of his Soul,
Without those pleasures of superior Kind,
Pure joys, congenial to immortal Mind,
Which spring from heav'nly Spirit's pow'r alone,
Thro' Faith—Hope—Love—to Novices unknown—
Beyond all soar of Pride, and proofs of Sense;
Christians, alone, can prove, and Christ dispense!

Who shall the doubtful disputation state
Which long involv'd the World in deep debate;
And, while dark Understanding winds the Will
The doubting mass of Man's divided still.
Who shall some competent solution trace
To fix the Faith of every reasoning Race—
Shall stablish strong unalterable Rules,
To show who's Wise, and who are shameless Fools—
One whom no Rank, or Station, well can grudge,
With frank acknowledgment, to meet as Judge—
Betwixt the rich and pow'rful Courtier-Crowd,
So vain—so envious—insolent—and proud—
And Christians thinly scatter'd thro' Mankind,
So meek and humble both in Heart and Mind—
Betwixt pure Minds, where true Contentment springs,
And restless Hearts of Conquerors, Priests, and Kings!

Philosophers endeavour'd, long, in vain,
Imperfect systems, proudly, to maintain;
But not an individual understood
How to obtain the universal good—
All wander'd widely, each, in different rout,
Some seeking it within, and some without—
From all Mankind the secret's still conceal'd
Till the mysterious truth Heav'n's love reveal'd.
Tho' now reveal'd so clear, in heavenly light,
Mankind still reason oftener wrong that right.
A Brood of proud, perverse, rebellious, Elves,
Consulting silly Things much like Themselves;
Continuing still, a wretched Race, to live,
Without those comforts God, alone, can give;
But look around for pleasure—peace—and rest—
In temporal objects, hoping to be blest!

Let Him the long-disputed doubt decide,
Who all the wide extremes completely tried;
The full indulgence of gross Appetites,
With all that Pomp and Pride can call delights,
All that Man's wild Imagination warms,
That Passion e'er pursues, or Fancy forms;
Compared with Conscience's religious Joys,
Himself a King—by Wisdom counted wise.
He shows the shameful, mortifying fruits,
That fools partake in fanciful pursuits;
Those transient Means to which weak Mortals trust,
Who look for bliss from Pomp, and Pride, and Lust,
While from experience past he strictly tells,
Where permanent delight supremely dwells!
Tells, that on moral and religious ground;
Content and happiness, alone, are found!
In Wisdom's ways what clustering comforts grow,
To chear her Children in this World of Woe!
And rivers flowing, from the fount of Grace,
Dispense Peace—Health, and Pleasure, every pace!

This was the Way our Hero strove to tread,
Which, from the Wilderness, to Salem, led;
To feed on Honey, and fresh Milk, that flow'd,
For strength'ning Combatants thro' Canaan's road.
These was his heart oft strengthen'd to partake,

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To chear his Spirit, for the Saviour's sake;
Sent from the sacred source of bliss, above,
Performing faithful promises of Love;
His Soul to solace, and that Strength sustain,
'Mid labours—griefs—and ponderings—on the Plain!

In Town fresh toils, and troubles, were his fate,
Among the graceless Mobs misnamed the Great—
The real Great can ne'er, of such, consist,
As fill proud Fame's, and Fashion's, motley list—
Who, obviously, subvert the prudent plan
Which Providence ordain'd for moral Man;
And set blest Revelation's rules aside
All counterparts of Pomp, and Lust, and Pride!

On mere externals Greatness ne'er can rest,
But dwells with Duty, in each noble breast;
Not nominally so, from fickle claims,
Of paltry notes, and prostituted names!
Of noise and nonsense; pertness and parade;
Folly's pretence, and Fashion's futile trade!
In public Grandeur, or in private glare,
Which prove to wiser Spirits what they are!
But they who most their Master's path pursue,
Meek, merciful, and temperate; just, and true—
Who make Christ's character their highest aim,
And feel self-love, and social, much the same!

Greatness ne'er can on paltry gifts depend,
On ought that finds a bound, or fears an end!
To Riches—Honours—Influence—ne'er confin'd,
But Meeter Graces of a godlike Mind—
In fleeting Frame, or temp'ral Titles, lies,
Which drop when once the proud Possessor dies.
For what is Wealth—and what are large Domains—
When puny spot of Earth each Corpse contains!
Can it consist in Pomp's imperial Domes,
When Coffins form their noisome, narrow Homes?
Or—can it be compriz'd in princely Mess,
In boasted Beauty, or in gaudy Dress?
For soon a Shrowd that Beauty shall embrace,
Then form a feast for Worms unwelcome race:
Yet such false Greatness graceless Souls absorbs,
And stimulates Mankind's most stately Orbs,
Which whirl, like Comets, with a wild career,
In strange ellipses o'er Earth's frantic sphere!
Now, thro' all parts, dispers'd, eccentric, run—
Now, circling round St. James's central Sun;
Or, blazing, on subordinated Throne,
Form little central Systems, Moons, their own—
But, most like Meteors, frail, a moment fly,
And light, with short-liv'd rays, their nether Sky;
So, soon, their proud combustibles they spend,
Then, like a transient flame, Life's frailties end!

But shall such exit close their final fate,
And Soul and Body both annihilate?
Shall such false Greatness never undergo
New consciousness of shame—or pain—or woe?
O'er talents all misspent ne'er wail, nor weep,
But sink in senseless, everlasting, sleep?
Shall He whose Mercy lent the large amount,
In Justice ne'er enjoin a clear account;
Tho' He commanded those high-favour'd Elves,
To love their Neighbours as they lov'd Themselves?
Yes—He who issued such sublime behest
Will bring those talents to their aweful test,
Unerring test! and, at His righteous Bar,
Prove what their Merits, and Demerits, are!