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

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!