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

Here let my Muse the duteous tasks describe
This Bardling bore amongst that haughty Tribe;
The toils—cares—pains, and woes, he underwent,
To earn small comfort, and yield less content.
For tho', with anxious toil, he, daily, strove
To foster Friendship, and conciliate Love;
Kindness to get, or confidence to gain;
Yet every virtuous effort prov'd in vain.

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His Patroness, too, like a wayward Child,
Whom prompt indulgence and endeavour, spoil'd;
Whose light artillery of Wit, and Whim,
And Pride and Petulance aim'd most at Him;
While from sly quiver of her subtle craft,
His wounded Spirit felt full many a shaft.

But grim Suspicion was her greatest Foe,
And bore most heavily on all below;
Which, join'd with Jealousy became her curse,
Set like twin Sentries, to protect her purse,
With every article procur'd by coin,
Fire, food, and clothing, with all shew and shine;
Pimping, with all mean Pow'rs of Wit, and Art,
Lest some low Culprit should purloin a part.

Crispinus was compell'd, with blushing face,
To see her publish, daily, self-disgrace—
To hear her Mind's deluding, maddening, dreams,
Or act a part in plotting, cruel, schemes—
Contemptible, but cunning—basely sly—
Crimes to detect, or characters destroy.

She play'd, besides, unnumber'd paltry tricks,
In the quaint Science of Economics—
Quaint, in her Codes—which, in true Wisdom's found
Are prudent—proper—solid—safe—and sound.

Wisdom ne'er makes true Policy her Tool
To stablish harsh, unreasonable rule—
Ne'er feeds her Families with starving treat
That Pimps, and Flatterers may profusely eat.
Ne'er wraps, with paltry rags, the parts unseen,
That proud exteriors may outstrip the Queen.
Nor e'er forbad sufficient fires to blaze
To furnish glaring flames on gaudier days.

Such were the plans pursued in restless rounds,
Accumulating pence, to squander pounds.
Inferior Vassals pinch'd, or, sparing, fed,
On musty butter, and on mouldy bread;
Compell'd to squeeze a part from Salary small,
To silence noisey Nature's clamorous call:
For they whose fobs are not full-gorg'd with guineas,
Must live like gudgeons—loaches—sprats—and minnies,
Compar'd with pikes, and dolphins; sharks, and whales;
Which murder millions with their teeth, and tails—
Or swallow hundreds at a single gulp,
As Men would mack'rels' roes or peaches' pulp—
Nor matter liberties—or limbs—or lives,
More than when hungry Bears besiege bee-hives—
But irritated bees, tho' small, sometimes
Make despot Bears repent their cruel crimes,
And loudly bellow, pinch'd with pungent smarts,
By fixing poison'd stings in tenderest parts.

This was the general, tho' injurious, plan,
Which, thro' her mean domestic measures, ran,
Except when Fashion sent her cards, and scouts,
For Dinners—Readings—Concerts—Balls—and Routs.
Then Pride would whisper Prudence to relax,
That Vanity might levy larger tax—
For haughty Ostentation rul'd the roasts,
When Luxury rais'd her quick-recruited Hosts;
Nor fear'd Profusion, or the hurt of Health,
When entertaining Taste—and Wit—and Wealth;
But Fancy put in force her fullest pow'rs,
To catch vain Honours those convivial hours—
On all occasions fishing still for Fame,
And laying snares to seize the smallest Game;
Or spread Applause's fire, from feeblest sparks,
Struck by a Tradesman's tongue, or Office-Clerk's.

Full fifty wax-lights round her Temple shin'd,
When 'mid gay worshippers, the Goddess din'd;
And twice ten more, at Routs, full radiance shed—
When Mara warbled—and when Texier read.
About the glittering gates, and dazzling door,
Six brilliant lamps held high their blazing store,
Unqualified, thro' sordid scents, to shine
Near nostrils of assemblies so divine!
Within the walls, pure patent burners, bright,
Like lesser Suns, display'd superior light,
Which, free from nauseous vapours, beams dispense,
Lest Goddesses and Gods might find offence.
Subordinate to both bright lights, and lamps,
Fierce coak-fires burnt, to dissipate the damps,
Each mass so monstrous, so intense the glow,
They rais'd sad thoughts about fierce fires below;
And while foul fumes appress'd their panting breath,
All nearly died with dread from fear of Death!
These constellations tallow-lights enlarg'd,
But far from Presence-chambers all discharg'd;
For such celestial Beings breathing there,
Such sights and smells could not be borne so near—
Deem'd like the common broods of Man, too base,
To fill, or live in, ought but servile place;
With Slaves, like their's, fit, only, to be found
In rooms, remote, or stinking under ground.

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Such, soon, alas! must be, alike, the lot
Of those that haunt the Hall, or crowd the Cot!
This, tho' believ'd by habitants of both,
To entertain that truth alike are loth.
But Death, dire Monster! merciless, and rude,
In each retirement will, ere long, obtrude,
To put out all their lights, with breath abrupt,
And leave their Frames, in caverns, to corrupt!
Meanwhile, should Pomp, as punishment for crimes,
Be doom'd, in future day, to read these Rhymes;
Or blundering Dupe, unwittingly, rehearse,
In courtly ears, such saws, and vulgar Verse;
They'll find no fragrant wax, or softening oil,
To greet their Senses, or their Souls beguile;
But lights, offensive, starting every turn,
Discovering rules cold Conscience loaths to learn:
Like tallow candles tainting every strain;
Tho' grease begone still mawkish snuffs remain.

On calls, like these, so blissful! so sublime!
Economy itself became a crime;
And Prudence hardly for her cause complain'd
While these blest paroxysms thus blithely reign'd
Ev'n Sunday-schools, and Chimney-sweeper-show,
And more low Clients must fair claims forego,
Till costly Concert, and superfluous Feast,
With childish Rout, and cheerless Reading ceas'd,

Alas! what foolish Wit, what frantic waste,
In trite Amusements fly, and foppish Taste!
Each idle Rout's expence in sport, and spoil,
Might rescue some sad Wretch from durance vile—
Relieve some Family from sore distress—
Some Widow cherish, or some Orphan bless—
And bring, from Heav'n, much brighter blessings down,
Than flattering compliments from all the Town!
Returning interest, for such gracious gold,
In Heav'n's unfailing funds an hundred fold;
And Conscience, oft, confer more rapturing meed,
When Memory marks, again, each godlike deed!

But how can Memory 'mid such proud Expence,
Yield satisfaction, e'en, for Common-Sense;
Or Conscience frequent Consolation find,
Among the filth such Follies leave behind!
Will Memory furnish, at each fresh review,
Some pious speech, or moral maxim, new?
Will fond Reflexion, still transported, run
O'er kind, disinterested, actions done?
Or Conscience, when she counts the wanton Cost,
Not mourn o'er Time, Wealth, Talents, worse than lost!

The cost of Texier's short dramatic treat
Might yield some Starveling, monthly Winter's meat;
While his weak efforts can alone relieve
A few Dupe's fancies one dull wintery Eve;
Yet more, for that Night's nonsense monies clear,
Than labouring Hind can earn thro' half the Year;
Without a waste of Strength, or wear of Tools,
In gratifying groups of gaping Fools!

How would their bosoms beat—their eyes o'erflow—
While he rehears'd imaginary woe.
Each rapt with extacy, weeps, faints, or dies,
To hear an apish Proteus trolling Lies.
With time—attention—guineas—eager, part,
To feel mere mimicry o'erwhelm the heart;
Yet never seek for scenes of real grief,
Nor give one groat to yield a Wretch relief!

If Pity such transporting pleasure yields,
Let them explore the thinly-peopled Fields;
Or search the City's or the Borough's, bounds,
For Misery's melancholy sights, and sounds;
In Garrets—Hovels—Cellars', filthy Cells,
With Want, and Woe—Pain—Sorrow—Sickness—dwells—
There might their sympathizing Spirits, find
Complete amusement for each pitying Mind—
Or Huts, and Hamlets, plenty more supply,
Of pining Subjects for such pensive joy.

If mournful Meditation loves to live,
On strongest traits of natural Narrative—
If silent Sympathy would wish to know
Where it may ponder every pain and woe—
A Father—Friend—and Brother, may be found
Who felt each poignant pain from woe and wound!
A Prince—of perfect innocence—and yet
In whom all punishments and miseries met!
Let them the Gospel's gracious truths attend,
The Saviour's blameless Life, and bleeding End!
There, with propriety, their eyes might pour,
As conscious Criminals, incessant show'r!
And while their lids effus'd the copious flood,
Their bosoms ought to burst with streams of blood!
Not looking on with cold, unfeeling, phlegm,
But mourn like those who know He bled for Them!
No! They, unconscious of their deadly debt,

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That Saviour—yes, their sovereign God forget!
With dissipation, wild, indulge each whim
And sacrifice to Sense instead of Him!
Unconscious of their weakness, crimes, and curse,
Judge their own Virtues rise the full reverse—
And, when Friends' foibles—frailties—faults—are shown,
Condemn them—but remember not their own!
They fondly sigh, or swoon, o'er fictious pains,
Or fancied sorrows, told in plaintive strains,
Yet while They weep o'er sinful, silly, Elves,
Deserving death, and misery, like Themselves,
That history with indifference read, or hear
Without one plaintive tone, or pitying tear;
Tho' for their countless crimes, and impious pride,
He sigh'd—and groan'd—and wept—and bled—and died!

When congregated Ton attends the Choirs
Of voices—catguts—tubes—and tinkling wires—
When Mara squalls, and Rubinelli squeaks;
Cramer's and Crosdill's fingers play strange freaks;
With numerous others, of inferior name,
Who get some solid pudding tho' poor fame;
The tweedling Troop will earn in twice two Hours,
More than in Weeks Mechanics' equal pow'rs—
More than in Months by Husbandmen are made,
Or annual profits of a petty Trade;
Beside such cates, and wines, consum'd in waste
As Artists, Hinds, or Tradesmen rarely taste.

On these occasions, all the proud Compeers
Paid for the feast that fed their hungry ears;
Our Hostess only paid for show, and shine,
More than dumb idols rang'd around her shrine;
Except some tasteful incidental cost,
Which Art contrived should ne'er be fully lost;
For kind allusions courtly Wit would raise
In Flattery's incense, or fresh sprigs of praise;
While smiling tributes, from two hundred eyes,
O'erpaid all trouble with tumultuous joys—
But if her ear could catch some courtly sound,
From Dilettanti tongues, thus whispering round,
“What perfect elegance! What matchless taste!
“How fine the furniture! How aptly plac'd!
“How richly group'd the lights! How clear they shine!
“It's quite enchanting! magical! divine!”
Such tuneful accents, thrilling thro' her Soul,
With purest raptures recompenc'd the Whole—
Gave more delight, thus dropping from their tongue
Than all sweet Texier said, or Mara sung!

Some small disbursements hung on Rabble-routs,
More than fine Readings, or full fiddling-bouts—
To grace the triumph, and augment the State,
Each opening portal held a Magistrate,
To stop clandestine Guests, who might intrude,
And check the choice yet motley Multitude—
Quell clownish riot, silence noisey laugh,
With look demure, and talismanic staff,
Whose hieroglyphics pictur'd pow'r and law,
To keep the liveried Charioteers in awe;
While with stern mien, and magisterial tone,
Restrain wild tumults, which were never known—
Plac'd in full Office, to prevent offence,
And crown the whole with airs of consequence.

To give more grandeur to the high intent,
Just at the summit of proud stairs' ascent,
With dainty dress, and much superior mien,
Above the party-colour'd crew, was seen
A Mercenary, hack'd thro' various places,
Well-knowing fashionable names, and faces—
Well-skill'd to take off Lady's muff, or cloak;
And tell how titles were distinctly spoke;
Lest loss of Honours, not pronounc'd aright,
Might rob the Rich of titular delight;
And help that order of domestic Elves,
Who purchase gaudy outside garb themselves;
Banded with household Slaves, above—below,
To help the bustle, and enhance the show.
A motley troop, all intermix'd, attends,
Of liveried Vassals, levied from her Friends;
Who swell the pageant, and the pomp enlarge,
With small addition to the moderate charge,
While nappy porter pays the humble Host,
A gold, or silver, piece, each higher post.

Near the bleak door 'twas Crispin's doom to stand,
Encompass'd, deeply, by the rainbow'd Band,
All influx and all efflux to controul;
And parts inspect, while watching o'er the Whole—
To keep each party in its proper place
Lest Girls confront my Lady—or her Grace—
Lest liveried Clowns might crowd Peers' noble path,
And rouse their Lordships' honourable wrath—
Or cross rich Commons' ambling modish airs,
Athwart the Hall, or up and down the Stairs—

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To mind each Name be bawl'd, distinct and clear;
With all their titled adjuncts—held so dear!
Their tones articulated full, and loud,
Each accent echoing thro' the clamorous Crowd.
For what would kingly courtesies avail,
Could Clowns each lordly adjective curtail?
Or what the privilege of noble birth,
Were Slaves e'er suffer'd to withold its worth.
There Crispin was compell'd to fry and freeze
With hot buzaglo, and East's icey breeze;
The dread alternative each way he turn'd,
One half wind blasting while the other burn'd
The quivered winds, that shot their arrows round,
His tender bosom struck with many a wound;
And colds, and coughs, and hoarsenesses, entail'd,
Till tepid Spring, with balmy breath, prevail'd;
Whose genial pow'r, his faded frame imprest,
And push'd fresh spirit thro' his throbbing breast.

Humanity might hope in these extremes,
Benevolence would shoot some shining beams,
By sympathy to make that bosom bound,
Which, in such service, lost its vocal sound.
But he, alas! no tenderness could boast
From Pride which doom'd him to the dangerous post!
No kind enquiry sooth'd the sufferer's pains,
Or pour'd soft influence thro' his feverish veins,
Nor could all Fancy's pow'rs one look apply,
One cordial anodyne from Pity's eye!

But not alone his heavy-laden heart
Felt fierce Inclemency's corroding smart—
Not barely lungs keen persecution bore,
But mangled intellect was tortur'd more;
Subjected to confront the courtly fleer
Of supercilious Statesmen, stalking there—
The strong contempt the countenances cast,
On all Dependents, as they proudly past.
Nor was their wanton insolence the worst
That poor afflicted Crispin's feelings curs'd—
This might be borne—Plebeians must abide
Their bluff Superiors' overbearing pride,
And all the little, foolish, flippant, pranks,
Of pert associates, from inferior ranks—
Must bear each burden such small Despots bind,
To bend the Body and to bow the Mind,
When all their pow'rs are bought, by paltry bribes,
To serve as Vassals to those haughty Tribes;
But he by sad necessity was fix'd
Where ignorant Impudence with Mockery mix'd—
Expos'd to hear each silly, painful, sound,
Of all the liveried regiments muster'd round—
To all that hard effrontery of face
Whose skulk's deep scandal, and each smile's disgrace—
To mystic puns, each Myrmidon displays,
And jokes quite current in Dan Cromwel's days;
Vile jokes the joy of all such servile Hosts,
Mean puns, like those in all the Morning Posts.
Expos'd to puerile greetings—groveling speech—
St. Giles, or Billingsgate, can scarcely reach—
With such low cunning, and contentious wit,
For gambling-house, or brothel, barely, fit.
Ambiguous hints, impenetrably dark—
Gross innuendo, and obscene remark—
Each phrase so faulty—sombrous, or impure;
Sense could not scan, or Decency endure!
This was repugnant to pure Common-Sense,
And gave his Understanding strong offence;
But still more painful, more offensive, far,
Were taunts intemperate, and injurious jar—
Compounded curses, and audacious oaths—
Which Conscience combats, and Religion loaths—
Blaspheming that blest Pow'r, all Pow'rs above!
Whose curbs are Kindness, and whose Laws are Love!
Offering rewards, and promises, to win,
But threats and thunderings to deter from Sin.
Who, tho' His presence fills all Time and Space,
He marks the meanest of the human Race,
Whose greatest guilt makes no Perfection less,
Nor best obedience helps His Happiness;
His Nature subject to no change at all,
Tho' Saints apostalize, and Seraphs fall!
But vengeance waits on Angel, and on Man,
Whose black rebellion strives to spoil His plan—
All who despise His Love—His Laws profane,
And boldly dare to take His Name in vain!

When Luxury's costly Banquet was decreed,
And Titles—Ribbands—Stars—must richly feed—
When foreign Counts, and diplomatique Corps,
Must grace the gates, and dignify the doors;
And dainty Dames, with prodigal array
Wardrobes, and Caskets, wealthiest stores display
Their lengthen'd skirts, broad'ning like silken brooms,
Each carpet swept, when rustling round the rooms—

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The richest odours fill'd their fragrant hair—
All faces look'd alike both fresh and fair;
And thus, while fond Gallants each Fair ador'd,
They perfume spread, and blush'd about the board.

Garrets, and Bookrooms, now, each bolt unlock,
Emancipating long-imprison'd stock—
Mutton and Veal completely tender grown,
And Poultry, long ago from perches flown—
Turkeys, oft cramm'd, but now had long kept Lent—
And Hares, tho' not pursued, improv'd in scent—
Pheasants, for weeks, of woods and brakes bereft,
Look'd grassy-green, with full effluvia left;
And Partridges, tho' thus from fields confin'd;
The Dog's nose must be dull which could not wind.

As chief Purveyor of the kitchen store
The cheapest market Crispin must explore—
Must stretch his legs, with long pedestrian toils,
About Sev'n Dials, and by broad St. Giles—
Must round St. Paul's remoter precincts roam,
To buy cheap bargains, dearer than at Home.
For not the ravin, only, but the rout
By Madam's Prudence must be pointed out,
He ne'er could hope to judge, with proper pow'r,
Whence Meats might come, which Deities devour.
No Chick would charm the taste, or please the eye,
Nor Guinea-fowl, but Brentford must supply—
Green Geese, young Ducklings, and the plump Poulard,
If not from Miles's were both tough, and hard;
Which Crispin found from Lead'nhall oft took flight,
Or neighb'ring Westminster, the former Night.
From Peto's barrell'd Oysters must be had—
All, in the vicinage were vilely bad.
No Fish was nice not purchased from afar,
From distant Billingsgate, or Temple Bar.
In Thames Street, Fruits, and Cheese, were cheapest bought—
And Groceries in the City must be sought;
Nor would one dainty thing, with gust, go down,
If oft procur'd from any place in Town.
Suspicion whisper'd Interest was at stake;
And Jealousy still kept her Mind awake,
Lest some sinister project should be play'd,
Betwixt base Steward and the Rogues of Trade—
Such plots to counteract, or circumvent,
And check the chousing Plan of Five per Cent.

'Twere wise and wholesome so to counteract
A venal Vassal's most immoral pact;
His vicious heart's cupidity controul,
And stop his perquisites to save his Soul.
But such was ne'er her Christian-like design
To save his Soul, but to secure her Coin.
So prompt, and selfish, was each secret plan
Which thro' her conduct, regularly, ran,
That Tradesmen from such practice were forbid,
And, when found guilty, oft severely chid;
Tho' if such pence had help'd the Servants' purse
Her Wealth had not been found one fig the worse;
Their laws, like Medes' and Persians', stablish bribes,
Betwixt the trading and the servile Tribes;
That if such vails no Vassals' cares requite
Employer profits not one single doit;
For, if the Servant must forego his claim,
The Tradesmen's items still will stand the same.

Fashion and Wealth, to help their shine, and show,
Contrive to keep each Scoundrels' stipends low,
And, with the same disbursements, as before,
Manage to hire one Mercenary more;
Each Wight oblig'd, but much against his Will,
From such resources fair finance to fill—
But Crispin ne'er partook such proffer'd pelf,
Till first encourag'd by her crafty Self;
And, frequent, after placed the poor amount,
With conscientious care, to her account;
Tho' he'd but little cause to boast the gains
Conferr'd on all his cares—and toils—and pains!
Had righteous Beings, of blest heavenly Race,
In her proud household, fill'd inferior place,
And pure Archangel had supreme controul,
Still dreams and doubts had harrow'd up her Soul,
Lest ev'n such sinless Spirits should purloin
Her Bread—Meat—Books—her Candles—Coals—or Coin.

Crispin's next care was, warily, to look
For some clean—clever—economic—Cook.
St. George's—James's—Marybone—must range—
Along Cheapside, and all about the 'Change,
To find a Man of prudence, and of parts,
Well-skill'd in all the culinary Arts—
A Man of management—of taste—of sense,
To dress large Dinners at the least expence—
To spread abundant plenty round the board,

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Yet spare prolific Larder's endless hoard;
That every Guest much gewgaws might, behold,
But still be tender of the Giver's gold,
Domestic troops were then employ'd, complete,
Exerting tongues—ears—eyes—arms—hands—and feet—
All exercising utmost strength and skill,
At high behests respective parts to fill;
Full intellectual, and corporeal, pow'rs,
With heavy drudg'ry thro' a dozen hours,
Just to indulge a dozen Appetites,
For one short hour, dull animal delights;
While tried Artificer, who fram'd the feast,
With sport, and spoil, the cost, and crime, increas'd—
Whose wanton task, demanding little toils,
With waste preparing roasts, and bakes, and boils,
In eight hours earn'd, with comfort, near the fire,
As much as labouring Hind by three Weeks' hire,
Who cultivates the fields for various use,
To furnish Luxury for such base abuse;
Expos'd, in want, to suns—rains—frosts, and snows,
When Summer burns, or wintery Boreas blows.

Stuck, like a Strand, or Fleet Street Form of Wax,
Whose Joints, or muscles never once relax;
Or a tall Soldier, on dramatic boards,
Amidst the clattering sounds of tragic swords,
Oblig'd to face about at armed host,
Nor budge one pace from his predestin'd post—
Not suffer'd to assist in fierce affray,
Nor share the forage of the sharp-fought day;
And, whether fancy frisk, or bosom boil,
The formal figure must not frown, or smile;
Constrain'd to keep both form and phiz erect,
Or feel keen flogging for each gross neglect:
So was the Bard oblig'd to hoist his head,
Hard by one sideboard, when the Mighty fed,
While finer Butler, tho' inferior Brother,
In fuller office occupied the other.
Thus Crispin fill'd his inefficient place,
Not deem'd a post of honour, but disgrace;
To him who oft had sat, in former years,
Feasting with Peeresses and friendly Peers.
Like Statue, perch'd, or Criminal impal'd,
While Demigods, and Goddesses regal'd—
Or, as a dumb Automaton, to stand,
And move, by mandate, foot—or head—or hand—
For every deviation doom'd to smart
And learn fresh lessons to complete his part.

It ne'er had furnish'd cause for such complaints—
To wash the feet of Pilgrims—Seers—or Saints—
Nor weary, or unwelcome, task, to wait,
Had all been gracious, there, nicknam'd the Great—
No test of temper so to make amends,
To honourable—honest—faithful—Friends—
Nor held it much unmeet, if summon'd forth
To wait on Genius—Learning—Wit—or Worth—
But to be Tool to every Child of Chance,
To flippant Pride, and ignorant Arrogance—
Subject to Fop's and Blockhead's beck, or nod,
Who needed tutors, and deserv'd a rod—
At every Hypocrite's, or Scoundrel's, call,
That curse a Country, or disgrace a Stall—
But most a Despot's, once in amplest pow'r
Whose machinations drew a kingly dow'r,
While crimes, official, Conscience never reach'd,
Till now, before his Country's bar impeach'd.
This was an office Common-sense must scout;
Make modesty refuse, and Meekness flout—
A base Associate loathsome, and absurd;
Sunk the vain Hostess—low'r'd the Servile Herd.

Nor this, alone, hurt Crispin's honest heart,
While acting, here, his prostituting part;
His Mind more struck with wonder and surprize,
To see such Wretch caress'd before his eyes.

Now all with haughty, self-sufficient, airs,
And shameless unconcern, assume their chairs;
Then, eagerly, divide the dainty feast,
Devouring all, like savage bird, or beast.
No grateful Guest, nor, ev'n, domestic Dame,
E'er prais'd that Cause from which the plenty came!
He marvell'd most when Bishop join'd the Band,
Close chair'd beside Scintilla's dexter hand;
To mark, ev'en He, whose words and acts should shine,
To stamp his rights to adjectives divine;
Who should such pure, exalted, pattern show
To Suffragans, and Seculars, below.
Should worship Him, with rev'rence most profound,
Who rais'd Him to Preferment's topmost round—
That he should so forget that gracious Pow'r
Who fill'd his purse with Faith's most plenteous dow'r;
Much more the honour of his Lord maintain
Than meanest Servants in that Master's train!

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Poor Crispin's nerves experienc'd shameful shock,
When, like an Image, or mere Barber's-block,
His frame was fix'd, in every limb, and joint,
And dar'd not deviate from the zenith point;
But, like a powder'd Puppet, stand stock still,
Till put in motion by Show-Woman's will—
Or, more, as mute East Indian Figure stands,
Ready to move at Governor's commands;
Prompt to obey Proprietor's desires,
Its eyes, and limbs, all turn'd with springs and wires,
Each trembling part long-quivering in its place,
As dreading castigation, or disgrace.
But, chiefly, when Scintilla's high behest
Decreed that head and limbs must all be dress'd
Supremely nice—superlatively neat—
When, midst the grand; the nominally, Great,
Surrounded with the fullest show and shine,
That Culprit and proud Consort deign'd to dine.
A Creature, who, were all the charges mov'd,
By damning proofs and depositions prov'd,
Deserv'd to sit in Dungeon's darkest Cell,
Where none but Robbers—Murderers—Demons—dwell—
With scanty pittances, unfrequent, fed,
Of Pain's worst water—Sorrow's bitterest bread!
For tho' the lenity of England's Laws
Allows no Sentence in Delinquent's Cause
Before the facts and arguments are heard,
Yet, in this Case, such glaring guilt appear'd
Which ought to shut him out from honour'd Board,
Till crimes were clear'd and character restor'd.
But where such Pride, and Ostentation, sway,
They put out Reason's pure, prudential, ray;
While Vanity, still scorning Common-sense,
Bounds boldly o'er just Judgment's feeble fence,
And, blundering blindly on, in rapid Race,
Forgets propriety of time, and place.

Could human Nature at such claims connive
With smallest spark of Spirit left alive?
Could Understanding truckle, mute, and tame,
Nor puff that spark, and raise a fervid flame?
See Tyranny all Virtue's Laws invert
And Justice, Faith, and Honour, feel unhurt?
Could Sensibility still hold her breath
While Despot pinch'd poor Innocence to death?
Could Judgment in her seat supinely sit,
And solemnly conclude such conduct fit?
Should Reason trim her lamp of heavenly light,
To show such shameless, rash, example right;
Or Honesty—Truth—Honour—hold their peace,
Nor dare thro' dread of wrath in silence cease.
No! Truth would interpose her upright plea,
Unaw'd by Wealth—or Pow'r—or Pedigree!
And right Ambition rouz'd that Son of Song,
To see, and say, such abject act was wrong.

This was not Pride's unwarrantable whim,
Tho' that, by actual Pride was charg'd on Him,
But the pure impulse of an honest Mind,
Not by caprice, or prejudice made blind—
'Twas genuine Justice hous'd within his heart
By that bless'd Pow'r which built his outward part,
And, in his Age, as well as early Youth,
Lodg'd there the love of Equity and Truth.
His inmost Soul base Characters abhorr'd,
In fellow-Clown—your Honour—or my Lord;
Loathing, in all, each mean immoral Thing
Still impious Conduct more in Prince, or King.
Yes—he was such a rigid, Stoic-Elf,
He loath'd each low propensity in Self.
He knew his Heart, like all the ruin'd Race,
Was weak—deceitful—vile—devoid of Grace,
He knew his Nature—selfish—vain—and proud—
Felt each foul impulse—but no fault allow'd.
This Understanding saw, by heavenly light,
And, when beheld, abhorr'd the dev'lish sight.
For still he found the Spirit's feelings burn,
By Heav'n inspir'd, all turpitude to spurn—
And whether Whim, or Passion, Lust, or Pride;
Each Vice, each day, endeavouring to avoid.
Still labouring to expel that pristine Breed,
And in its place to plant celestial Seed.

Why should a Man who felt true Honour's flame
Stand, like a Stock Oaf to grace a guilty Name?
Why should a Man, celestial Freedom's Friend,
To any Despot bow, or Tyrant bend?
Or why the sacred Rights of Souls infringe
To fawn on Cruelty?—to Cunning cringe?
Why stoop to Wealth, when view'd the Villain's Lot,
To Wealth, by Force, by Fraud, by Rapine, got?
Why dread Accusers, like a coward Elf,
Thro' fear of Poverty, or hope of Pelf?
Why gifts of lov'd Humanity forego,
For dull Dependence, and penurious Show?

186

An honest Heart—sound Mind—Health—Parts—complete,
In fetters lie, and lick a Tyrant's feet!
Still deprecating Pain, and shock'd at Need,
While Want and Woe made mangled Bosom bleed!
A Man, of full-tried Fortitude, dismay'd,
Lest Knaves might find Offence, or Brutes upbraid!
Should shudder at Reproach, or feel false shame,
Lest Passion should impeach, or Blockheads blame!
Still dreading Danger—still afraid of Fate—
So us'd to Hardships; and in Life so late!
A Man, so tried, thro' lengthen'd lapse of Time
By Neighbours ne'er accus'd of actual Crime!
Ne'er call'd to answer at his Country's Bar,
For sly Injustice, or uncivil Jar;
Much less for public Fraud, or butchering Strife
A foul Delinquent pleading for his Life!
Ought Crispin then on wicked Culprit wait?
The Scourge, and Scandal of vast Eastern-State!
In Vassal-style, with calm composure, stand,
Before the Troubler of his native Land?
His prostituted Frame, in Fashion, stretch
To please the leering looks of such a Wretch?
Looks that proclaim'd, aloud, to simple Sense,
The Soul's confusion, and the Heart's offence!
Telling, in obvious terms, to every Eye,
Without the gifted pow'r of Prophecy,
The plain depicturings of some grievous guilt,
Of Rapine wrought, or Blood unjustly spilt—
The rankling wounds of wretchedness within,
From scourge of Conscience and rank sores of Sin!
Those hollow cheeks, and haggard eyes, declar'd
That Peace was banish'd—e'en dull Hope despair'd!
Like the vile Visage of the Miscreant, Clive,
Who felt infernal torments whilst alive;
Glaring, around, astonish'd! shock'd! aghast!
As dreading human bann, and Heaven's blast!
For Conscience prints, on Man's external part,
The strong contortions of the riven Heart—
Reflecting, full, each trait of mental stripes,
In colours, and characteristic types.
The quivering lips wax pale—the eye-balls roll,
When torturing agonies convulse the Soul—
For tho' no sentence, then, touch'd Limb, or Life,
Each feature figur'd intellectual Strife—
And tho' no penal mulct cashier'd his Cash,
Reflection shook her knotted, ninefold lash.

Would Innocence at accusation shake,
Fame—Fortune—Liberty—or Life—at stake?
Feel Hell's infernal Vipers bite the Breast,
And glare as tho' grim Legions, then, possess'd?
No—She sits tranquil on internal Throne,
All knavish Vice, and Villainy, unknown!
She always looks with simple smile, serene;
With placid brow—soft eye—and quiet mien—
Extends Her views beyond mere mortal ken;
Sees Heav'n in smiles, and, fears not frowns of Men—
By Faith and Hope, with Love, beholding Christ—
And, thus, o'er Death, and Judgment, looks rejoic'd!
But conscious Guilt distorts the fluttering Frame,
Thro' shocking fears of punishment and shame!
While Memory's eye with retrospection aches
The visage lengthens and the fabric shakes!
Imagination, glum, with magic glance,
Sees trooping Spectres glide and Demons dance!
Beholds, in prospect, Heav'n's avenging rod,
Grasp'd in the right-hand of an angry God;
Seated, supreme, on Time's extremest bourn,
Who needs no witness—suffers no adjourn—
Whom bribes ne'er blind; nor Kings, nor Councils sway—
Whose herald, Death, allows no long delay;
But soon will summon to that Judgment-seat,
Whose Doom will make all Miscreant's woes complete!

Such Scenes appear'd to seize his piercing Eye;
To drink Life's juice, and drown convivial joy.
Seem'd strongly to impress each vital pow'r;
Make all the meats unsavoury—wines all sour.
No kindness look'd—no compliment exprest,
All sunk, absorb'd, within his billowy breast;
For Fiendlike glances, rolling frantic, round,
Prov'd his proud Heart no Peace, or Comfort, found;
But, maugre flattering Guests, with Madam's grin,
His Front still glow'r'd and show'd the guilt within.

This made the Bard look back to humble Birth
As Heav'n's first blessing on this bedlam Earth;
Felicitating, fond, his lowly lot,
His quiet Conscience, and his tranquil Cot!
With consolation ken'd pleas'd retrospect,
O'er all the scenes of calm, tho' cold, neglect!

187

In Life's low Vale sequester'd long secure;
Hedg'd round with Ignorance—kept by Penury, pure!
Exempt from fleeting Honour—fretting Care—
And all the guilty pangs of Pomp, and Glare—
Content with Piety, and virtuous Love,
The pure preparatives for bliss above!
For, now, tho' Time, and Talents, all, were plied,
Mid impious Trains, and ostentatious Pride,
His jealous bosom bade him not rejoice,
Among such Mobs of Vanity and Vice—
Made him all ill-got Wealth, and Pow'r despise,
Which ne'er yield perfect Peace nor genuine joys;
But still embarrass, and embrute, the Mind,
Till Folly's frantic, and Ambition, blind—
While all such Dupes of Riches—Pow'r—and State,
Rush headlong on to meet their desperate Fate!

With such a trembling, tortur'd Wretch in view,
Still pity strengthen'd while abhorrence grew;
Aware that Wealth the wish for Wealth extends,
To gratify ten thousand graceless ends—
Beneath whose weight each bending Virtue bows,
In spite of patriot views, and pious vows—
That Pow'r depends on Pow'r's dread exercise,
While in its dangerous jaws weak Justice dies—
How Counteraction heightens its career,
Till Cruelty completes the course of Fear—
How spurious Honours buttress holds of Pride,
Till Passion sets Humanity aside—
How weakness from Applause new nerve acquires,
And Villainy's advance prompts dark desires—
As show'rs and sunshine nourish native seeds,
And, more than Corn, encourage noxious Weeds.

He knew like Seeds are sown in such like Lands,
And stronger grow till Grace their growth withstands—
Like tangling Tares, spontaneously, would spread,
And raise base Rabbles o'er bless'd Order's head—
Make specious Virtue a convenient prop,
Till Pride o'ercomes Heav'n's pure, and pious, Crop—
While Men to Men become both swords, and rods,
Since Satan taught them, “Ye shall be as Gods!”

As Pow'r and Wealth with Wealth and Pow'r increase,
Lust, Pride, and Passion, war with social Peace;
And, as Mankind all, mutually, aspires,
The World's convuls'd with conflicts, feuds, and fires;
While all ambitious Mortals madly dream,
Each Will should legislate some Law supreme.
Man—Woman—Child—would choose, without controul,
And Lust—Pride—Passion wish to rule the Whole.
Lust, with continual impulse, prompts the breast
To grasp each pleasing object not possess'd—
To make all Property, and Pow'r its own,
Wealth—Beauty—Fame—a Government—a Throne!
Pride ever estimates its own desert,
Above true standard—to all Other's hurt;
While Passion proffers weapons to the Will,
Each purpose to enforce, each plan fulfil!

Thus Tyrant's Pow'r still strives with Tyrant's Pow'r,
And Despot's Wealth would Despot's Wealth devour;
Each Individual seeking sinful prey,
All scheme—cajole—supplant—oppress—betray!
The Great endeavouring to devour the Small,
While, in mad conflicts, countless millions fall!
All fashion'd in frail Nature's crooking schools,
Become base Tyrants, or abandon'd Tools;
Villains, or Victims; Plotters, Dupes, or Pimps,
And, aiming to be Gods, grow downright Imps!

In this confus'd and hostile State of Earth
Which Satan's machinations brought to birth,
And, to this hour, hath diligently nurst,
By which Mankind still, constantly, is curst;
The Christian character's, alone, exempt,
While Pride and Lusts allure, and Demons tempt—
For, tho' in His debas'd and brutish, Heart,
Corrupted Nature occupies a part—
Tho' World, and Devils, are expell'd the Dome
Still hateful Tenants claim it for their Home;
For, finding Satan, like Themselves, so poor,
They crave rich Christ to drive him from their door.
No Christian can be rich, or peace obtain,
Except that Sovereign o'er the Spirit reign.
Compar'd with His, Earth's Wealth's mere dung and dross!
The loss of His—incalculable loss!
Could all Earth's Wealth—Pomp—Honour—Fame—or Pow'r—
Deprive the Soul of such celestial dow'r,
No compensation could that World supply,
To yield Life peace—Death hope—or Judgment, joy!
Better to risque, like Crispin, precious health,
At wintery portal, of imperious Wealth—
Better before the servile sideboard stand,

188

Obedient to the beck of impious Band;
To slice the Mutton and to serve the Wine,
Than with proud Fops, and priestly Deists, dine—
Better, like him, of Confidence bereft,
Than boast profusion from foul spoils of Theft.
Glean the scant ears that greedy gatherers drop,
Than reap, with Rapine, Plunder's plenteous crop.
Rent a low Hovel, void of envied Fame,
Than build a Palace with the price of Shame.
Better with stinking tatters cover'd o'er,
Than richest robes, begrim'd with human gore,
To join the futile converse Clowns afford,
Than glare with Guilt beside the learned board;
Or share the shreds of Penury's rough remains
Than feed with Pomp, and feel Pride's martyring pains.

It was but bits of every broken dish,
Mammocks of Meat, and fragments left of Fish,
Refuse of Orts the Steward's table spread,
For mortal folks when Angel-hosts had fed.
'Twas not the patriotic Spartan Treat,
Where, with the Rich, each poor Plebeian eat—
That needed no Confectioner, nor Cook,
And all, as Friends, the temp'rate Fare partook—
Where no distinction was in diet known,
Betwixt mean Tenant's humble Hut and Throne.
There true Philosophy contriv'd the plan,
Intuitively feeling Man was Man;
And when wise Christians first assum'd that Name,
Their precepts, and their practice taught the same.
Now no such practice, no such precept's found,
Most Christians now are Christians but in sound—
With modern manners no such notion suits;
The Rich are more than Man—the Poor but Brutes;
At most but Monsters, or mere chattering Apes,
Moulded a little more like human Shapes—
Devoid of Manners—Knowledge—Common-Sense—
To Man's proud Species showing poor pretence;
Without one proof of Wisdom—Parts—or Wit—
For Courtiers' company how far unfit!
Like them they neither see—hear—smell—taste—feel—
Such Dolts could ne'er enjoy their gen'rous Meal.

The firm remains of nice, and costly, cates,
Were most reserv'd for Friends of medium rates,
All delicate productions kept apart,
Which tasted of expence, or smelt of Art,
To keep Appearance up, yet spare the Coin,
That Subalterns might, elegantly, dine.
Spoonfuls of Soup were closeted secure,
No clownish crop such dainties could endure,
Prudence witheld the Venson and the Lamb,
Lest gross Hobgoblins might to mischief cram;
For if such vulgar appetites should pick,
The savoury bits might make such Booby's sick.
The flesh of Poultry—Turkeys—Guinea-fowls—
Were all unfit for sordid Swine, and Owls—
Rich larded Veal—sweet Pies—and luscious Pats,
Were never cook'd to diet Dogs and Cats;
And Fruits, preserv'd, or raw, in perfect shapes,
Ne'er meant for Monkeys or meet food for Apes.
Unpinion'd pigeon—undissected game—
By new ordeal prov'd, preferr'd fresh claim;
While Pastry, 'scaped without a deadly wound,
Was oft, again, in front of battle, found—

Sometimes, alas! quite shocking to relate!
Dread Weapon wielded by one Friend of Fate;
Determin'd each opposing Dish should die;
All infant Patties, and each full-grown Pye;
It's desperate point, deep in each bosom plung'd,
From fighting Lists, for ever, now, expung'd,
Each made a Skeleton, or murder'd Corse,
Without compassion—or the least remorse!
Yea—Crispin was inform'd, that Friend, untrue,
Who all Vanessa's narrow foibles knew,
With playful Fun, mixt with a spice of Spite,
In such Assassinations took delight—
To frustrate every vain, yet niggard, view,
Poulards—Chicks—Pigeons—Game, and Pastry—slew.
Meanwhile the Hostess, harrass'd with chagrin,
Thrill'd thro' with horror—split with wedging spleen—
Her features, and her Frame, all seem'd to feel
Each fatal stroke of immolating steel—
In spite of politesse was seen to grieve,
Unable to procure one hour's reprieve.
She hop'd some might have miss'd each plunderer's prey,
And liv'd to face the Foe some future day.
If 'twas a Maccaroni found, by Art,
Well dress'd, and deck'd, o'er all its outer part;
Could it escape without an injur'd skin,
Tho' robb'd of all its weak contents within,
Insipid brains and bowels were replac'd,
To greet again each eye, and Trifler's taste.

189

No scraps of Poulards, and no chips of Chick,
The Steward's tools, or Menials' teeth, might pick—
Light Meats with lusty stomachs ne'er agree—
Beside they'd help a future Fricasee—
Help to augment the Patties minish'd group,
Or serve to strengthen upper-bodied Soup.
Blanc-mangies, Jellies, or St. James's Cake,
No mean plebeian Monster must partake;
Nor would one foreign, or domestic, fruit,
With any clownish constitution suit—
Ev'n purchas'd herbs, and plants were hurried thence,
No Servant could be kept at such expence.
They, daily, must, poor Devils! eat and drink;
For tho' their empty noddles ne'er could think,
Their beastly bodies stood in constant need
Of helps, for health, for labour, and for speed;
But might, most certainly, be fully fed
With long-palm'd luncheons of brown home-bak'd Bread—
Might common, lukewarm, vegetables eat,
And ragged remnants of the mammock'd Meat—
Such Cormorants' craving appetites, might share
Puddings, and Paste, no Cookery could repair—
Mere Skeletons that Pride would pick no more,
And Kickshaws mortal Skill could ne'er restore—
Oysters, no art could close, which Cooks had cleft—
Fish-bones, heads, tails, with some few fibres, left—
But if some single, sweet, and handsome, Sole,
Had scaped with skin, and bones, and sinews, whole;
Or ev'n a dainty, undiminish'd, Smelt,
No trowel, or impaling fork, had felt,
Both must be match'd, with comrades of each caste,
To eke out some subordinate repast.
All else remaining on the list of life,
In spite of spoons, and miss'd the murderous knife—
Whate'er their place, their office, or their name,
Must risque, again, their fortune, and their fame—
Again, predestin'd, at command must move,
With water—fire—and foes, their prowess prove;
In rank and file, again, ordain'd to stand
Before a fiercer, and more barbarous, Band!

Immur'd, meantime, 'midst barrack's bolted stores,
To shun the murders of marauding Corps,
These, ere their ultimate commissions close,
Must pass the strictest scrutiny of nose,
Or march, distinct, according to their class,
For proof of spectacles, or single glass;
Muster'd, and marshall'd, in their new array,
To triumph, or to fall, next dangerous day:
But little hope could any entertain
One single Warrior could escape unslain;
Tho' well-embodied with some bold Recruits
Clad in their new accoutrements and suits.

Fierce, in their front advanc'd a valiant Chief,
In France, well-known, by name of Bouilli-beef.
The centre crowded with a motley crew,
Stale volunteers, and mercenaries new;
Whilst loose detachments of light troops appear,
In feebler bands, to form reserves, in Rear—
Assembled in battalions, weak, and small,
To fight, at last, and, like their Fellows; fall!
Each Troop, dispatch'd upon a hope forlorn—
Lose life, or limbs, or get their garments torn;
For on all parts, redoubled dangers press,
Their Enemies increas'd, their squadrons less.
Not Plenipos, and Peers, in Sport, employ'd,
To face and view their fair outside;
Nor Lady-Consorts, who, with tender hearts,
Scarce scratch Birds breasts, or sound poor Patts, or Tarts!
Not General's, or Field-marshal's, mock review,
But Combatants to cut them through and through!
Not Foes encountering with mere Fencers' pranks,
That skirmish'd, slightly, but scarce broke the Ranks—
Nor reconnoitering Corps, unfit for fight,
But Women-warriors, and tried Men of might!
Heroes, and Heroines, never known to yield,
While one opponent kept the open field,
But, right and left would thrust—cut—slash, and slive,
Till no fish—flesh—paste—fruit—was left alive—
Not meeting at their posts in mere parade,
But well-instructed in the tactic trade—
Not striplings who with mimic strokes assail
But Veterans who contend with tooth and nail—
And if their valour seem'd one moment slack,
They prov'd full triumph by a fresh attack.

They ne'er once gave unfinish'd conflict o'er;
Ne'er found each regiment was half-beat before—
Ne'er deem'd such dastard weakness was betray'd,
That show'd unskilful hands, or hearts afraid;
Nor scorn'd the combat, or despis'd the prey,
When summon'd forth to fight that second day.

Their Talents to such feats were not confin'd,

190

They'd skill, and courage of another kind—
With equal Art could other weapons wield,
Besides those brandish'd in that fatal field.
With Tongues could tilt, or cudgel with their Quill,
Legions and Cohorts to defend, or kill.
Not only conquer Hosts of Meat, and Drink,
But fight their way to fame thro' floods of Ink.
From bitter fountain large libations pour,
Or make Tongues merit what dread Teeth devour—
By flattering Pen, or Speech, those Treats to earn,
Who ne'er could furnish Feasts for like return.

Anxious all honours, and respects, to pay,
Each look'd ambitious, debonnaire, and gay.
In proudest trappings, from small stocks, attir'd,
Admiring, each, in hopes to be admir'd—
But tho' their wardrobes thus display'd their best,
No Carriage show'd their 'scutcheon'd arms, or crest—
Compell'd to travel, each, in number'd Hack,
And trudge, by lamplight, on their ten toes, back.

Such were invited for mere selfish ends,
To fix the old, or fetch new, flattering friends.
None ought, on promise, future prospects raise,
Not skill'd in compliments, or prompt in praise,
The conscientious Christian, or dull Dunce,
Unvers'd in eulogy might victual once;
But those that puft not pomp, or taste, or pride,
Like year-old Almanacs were cast aside;
While all who clever things would pen, or speak,
Might hope kind invitations once a Week.

The Characters that, thus, composed the Throng
Were liberal of applause in prose or song—
Proclaim'd, by speech, or literary arts,
Her viewless Virtues, and her peerless Parts—
Her Wisdom, visible—her Knowledge, vast—
Her wonderous Genius, which all praise surpast!
Strung pearls of Prose, or form'd fresh wreaths of Rhyme,
To make her mental Pow'rs appear sublime!
Told, in some Dedication's dulcet sound,
What matchless Merit was in Woman found;
Then, with a soft, insinuating, tone,
Prov'd her that Phœnix—Nonpareil—alone!

Some in heroic, or in lyric, lies,
Dubb'd her Jove's Child—strange Monster of the Skies!
Proclaim'd, in sweet, and soft, but stupid strains,
Her pow'rs obstetric, and their labour pains;
At length, with many a hard, and heavy, throe,
Brought forth another monstrous Birth below—
Then fed with nectar, and ambrosial pap,
While Pallas dandled in her learned lap.
Made Venus o'er her face and form preside—
Gave Juno's glorious pomp, without her pride—
Show'd shame-faced Dian form'd her pure, and chaste,
And all the Muses taught her Wit and Taste.
Apollo learnt her two transcendent Arts,
To heal, and ornament internal parts;
But gave not kind, irrevocable, word,
His gracious Godship would confer the third—
For, to prevent confusion, Fate confin'd
To Med'cine, Speech, and Prose, her pow'rs of Mind,
Lest Man the modern Goddess might adore,
And worship Him, and His Compeers no more!
Her skill in Physic ne'er increas'd her pelf,
She only puk'd the Poor, and purg'd Herself.
As for pure Song her Spirit was too terse;
It could not condescend to drawl in Verse;
Nor frame her fingers, or exert her throat
To thrum, or tweedle out one tuneful note.
They made her, tho' a Mortal at her birth,
A Paragon—a Phœnix, now, on Earth!
With sounds bewitching, and expressions warm,
A heavenly Seraph in a fleshly Form!
Some her stupendous Taste, and Talents, show'd
Her Wit, and Wisdom, in a modest Ode—
With Fancy's flatulent endeavours, woo'd,
In saccharine Sonnet for some fleshly food;
Or, that indulgence might more frequent cram,
Gave salt and pickle in an Epigram—
Each, offering fame, still grasp'd at sprigs of bays,
Or pence, or pudding, while they hymn'd her praise.

But ne'er can Poesy perfection reach
In twist, or turn, or point, or pun, like speech—
Can ne'er accommodate itself to all
The nice occasions that in converse fall;
Nor ought sweet Cadence condescend to tell
What silly, simple Prose can word as well;
For Folly's best explain'd by speech, or letters,
As Monkeys frolick most without their fetters.
No Muse degrades her charms to chaunt, in Song,
What's better told by title-tattle tongue.
'Twould ill bespeak her spirit to rehearse
Such vacant nothings in sonorous verse;
Or weakly waste immortal strength to strow

191

Light shafts of feathers from Apollo's bow;
To take His nobler Lyre, and strain to sing
The charms of butterfly's, or beetle's, wing!
To hitch in measure how moths subtly lurk
And make such mischief in fine feather-work!
In rythmic numbers labour to reveal
The wares in which such haberdashers deal;
Nor could the conscientious Muse recite
The monstrous fibs in which such Folks delight!
Ev'n pure prose-writers, of true modern stamp,
With quirks and quaintnesses would scorn to cramp
The flowing periods of their flowery pen;
Much less repeat such ribaldry agen:
But flippant jabber, and familiar joke,
Unmeet for print, or paper, may be spoke—
Spite's poisonous fruits, with Fancy's flowery pips,
May fully flourish on colloquial lips.
In such gross soils, and situations, grow
All seeds that Vice, or Vanity, can sow.
In such uncultur'd hearts, productive, spring
Lust's embryo buds, and ev'ry envious Thing;
While Pride's hot summer sun profusely feeds,
On Luxury's dung-heaps all wild crops of weeds.
Scandal, too curious for the common ear,
From secret hints of Folly's foster'd there;
And pestilential progenies of Lies,
Increas'd in number, and enlarg'd in size;
Like Thistle-seeds, well-wing'd, fly far and wide,
Each baneful breed's increas'd and multiplied.
Flattery too fulsome, ev'n for vulgar taste,
Most promptly scatter'd, spic'd each rich repast;
And Wit, too coarse, and harsh, for Critic's eye
With fungous growth might there expand, and die.

Among the members of such humbler Host,
Were Pimps, adapted to each destin'd post.
Some Family-connexions, close Allies!
Prompt, at low politics, or apt, as spies;
With every hypocritic art endu'd
To plan a plot, or personate a Prude—
Would, warmly, christian characters abuse,
Or, like train'd spaniels, fetch and carry news—
In quest of scandal beat each thicket through,
Knowing what game would give the highest gout.
Scoop every puddle—net each nasty pond,
To catch coarse fish, of which their Friend was fond;
And bring salt—spice—and vinegar, to dress,
To make, of sordid meat a savoury mess.

Some, Assentators, of her frowns afraid,
Whose daily drudgery some snug pension paid;
And such convenient income so secure,
Would every slight, and slavery, endure.

One, without Sire begot, or Mother born,
Tho' not for that deserving scoff or scorn,
From consanguineous germ spontaneous sprung,
Who liv'd by labours of the active tongue,
Or prostitution of the patient ear
To catch each tale in her contracted sphere—
With cunning skill each circumstance extend,
Thus bring it home, with interest, to her Friend—
Or, perch'd at table, exercise her eye,
To mark when poor Crispinus loung'd awry,
Or look'd atwist from his important post,
To furnish wrath a sacrifice to roast—
Or watch each whisper—note each idle nod,
To bring the Culprit to his Tyrant's rod—
Seem struck with trifles—o'er her foibles blink—
But look alert whene'er she caught the wink—
From each dull hint some sapient inference draw—
Hold mere opinions Medes and Persians' law—
With rapture hear each quondam anecdote,
Which listening Servants long had learnt by rote;
Hammer'd, on every ear, whole evenings through,
Still construing all oracularly new;
Tho' all those Servants tittering stood the while,
To mark her grins, and egotistic toil—
Tho' doubts perplex'd, her face must feign content,
Certain 'twas petit-treason to dissent;
Or sit, whole mornings, like a mummy, mute—
'Twas death, or degradation, to dispute!

Some Sycophants, to show their great regard,
Disgorg'd stale Wit, for gluttonous reward;
Or brought to birth their own base mental brood,
As some small recompence for corporal food—
Where Ladies needed not much skill to carve,
And Gentlemen might literally starve.
A well-known Lord once look'd chagrin'd, and bluff,
When soups and sauces were not half enough;
The rest, by flattery, favour to engage,
To screen the dinner prais'd the equipage,
The refectory—linen—fires—and lights—
Whate'er she dictates—or, whate'er—indites—

192

All, aiming to produce their full effect,
Attempt the puff oblique, or puff direct.

Among the topics touch'd on, great, or small,
Morals, not much—Religion, not at all!
Much saccharine compliment—more Scandal's leav'n,
But not one sound transpir'd like Hell—or Heav'n.
That, made them gloomy; and this, never glad;
They seem'd best satisfied with what they had.
Possess'd of plenty for so long a space,
And knowing nothing of the gifts of Grace;
They labour'd still to lengthen out their time,
And dreaded to desert so sweet a Clime!
Accustom'd to deny no calls of Sense,
They deem'd it dreadful to be hurried hence.
What dear delights in heavenly grounds could grow,
Compar'd with those they boasted here, below!
Ne'er tasting genuine intellectual joy,
They knew what Earth could yield, but not the Sky.
Could they conceive Mohammed's Heav'n was right,
They would not much refuse to take their flight,
When Age depriv'd them of all pleasure here,
And Pain and Sickness prov'd their Exit near—
But Prejudice had held their Souls so long,
That Hypocrite's fond Scheme they fear'd was wrong;
And, lest that fear should prove the real case,
They'd rather choose to keep their present place.
Of Earth's accommodations grown so fond,
They found no relish now to look beyond.
The present was well known—the future, not—
They wish'd such subjects could be quite forgot.
Such disquisitions made each Miser scoff,
The Great ne'er guess'd they should be better off.
Capricious Heav'n to prove its tyrant State,
To Needle's eye compar'd its entrance Gate;
And how could they whose grossness daily grew,
Ev'r hope, so hamper'd, they could struggle through—
At least they must conceive it most unkind,
To order Pride and Lust both left behind.
None, here, appear'd so humble, meek, and poor,
But what must needs require much wider door.
Self-love felt too averse from such low views,
To call such waspish Notions welcome News.
In well-beat path true pleasures were bestow'd,
They loath'd such Christians' solitary road.
Nor could they keep their independent Souls
To Pilgrims' patterns, or Christ's harsh controuls—
Morals made mopish—Piety austere—
'Twas wiser to partake true pleasures here—
Morality that laid such strict restraints
Was only fit for Fools—or, snivelling Saints.
Such Piety with great Ones ne'er agrees,
It levels Lords with vulgar Devotees.
To deep humility would Kings condemn,
And make Archbishops pray, and pinch, like Them—
Sure heavenly Pow'r prerogative must stretch
To make the Rich like each poor loathsome Wretch!
To make each Priest—and Prince—become as base
As Dregs and Rubbish of the human Race!

Such crabbed converse would be drear and dry—
What's worse, reminds the Great that God was by!
In such grave Company who could be gay?
They wish'd such Tyrants, and restraints, away!
They knew His Eye would penetrate their Hearts,
And still condemn all dark deceptive Parts.
Would all black Vice, all Vanity behold—
All frailties, fallacies, and faults unfold—
Whose Wisdom—Justice—Judgment ne'er were sway'd
By Wealth, or Wit, with Pomp or proud Parade;
Who, piercing thro' the dark, pries deep within,
And sees them Dupes of Satan—Death—and Sin!
Whose moral Government enacts those Laws,
That make them fractures which Self-love calls flaws;
And whose Religion will not once admit
Of Falshood—Flattery—or licentious Wit.
Its Truth so simple—Piety so pure—
No Passion—Lust—or Idol, will endure.
A Code, so clear, all subterfuge defies,
All spurious Charities, and specious Lies;
All meretricious Prudery puts aside;
Frail Passion—Pomp—and ostentatious Pride.
Thwarts all wild thoughts, and weighs each idle word—
Brands Mirth as madness—wanton Wit absurd—
Marks every motive—keeps a strict account—
And, firm in memory, notes the nett amount;
To bring the balance fair, in future day,
And prisoning all who found no Friend to pay.

Would Wits then wish to spend their sportive hours
In the known presence of such searching Pow'rs?
Mirth seek society, at festal times,
With One who makes mere crotchets mortal crimes?
Would Wealth, or idol Honour, e'er unite
With Him whose Eye would damp each dear delight?

193

Or bow before the footstool of His Throne,
Who claims those tributes they deem all their own?
To trace their faults all those reflections tend;
Their base beginning, and their hastening end—
To place dependence for their all below,
On One they view a fierce, inveterate Foe—
Their Lives unleas'd—their Frames but crumbling clods,
Tho' Self, and Satan told them they were Gods!

To keep their Maker from immediate view,
These groveling Ingrates yield no honours due—
No blessings beg, true Gratitude requires,
But quirks, and compliments, and dark desires.
Far more ungrateful than the grossest Clown,
Wealth—Pomp—Wit—Learning—squat, indifferent, down;
To all indifferent but the darling prize
That greets their nostrils while it glads their eyes—
And when, on dainties, they've indulg'd their fill,
No thanks return—cold, and indifferent, still!

How much unlike the Hind who earns his bread,
By Nights of care, and Days of labour, fed;
Who, in the school of Christ his lesson learns,
And, for few morsels, many thanks returns;
But, They, like thoughtless, thankless Birds, and Beasts,
Perceive no Power which furnishes their Feasts—
Yea, like mean Reptiles, or more hungry Sharks,
With graceless greediness, prelatic Clerks,
Right Reverend, or most Reverend, seize their prey,
Nor praise the Friend that feeds them day by day—
By Conscience, and by Custom, unimprest,
Unmindful of their Maker, like the rest,
Their heavenly Father, rather, thus offend,
Than wilfully affront that fickle Friend!

All knew, like them, She dreaded loss of breath;
The stings of Conscience, and the stroke of Death—
Loath'd cold ideas of a bed of clay,
And Christ's appearance at the Judgment-day;
That blest Appearance which pure Christians love,
Delightful prelude to the bliss above!
Such hateful thoughts and humbling themes to waive,
Age, pain, and sickness; guilt, and sordid Grave;
The loss of health, and strength; the close of Time;
And retribution for each baleful crime,
Must needs be objects of extreme offence,
To all who sought, alone, the joys of Sense.

To give their own embarass'd bosoms ease,
And dear, indulgent, Patroness to please,
Each strove to give more grateful subjects birth,
For gay amusement, or more gladd'ning mirth—
Something that gave indulgence greater gust,
To drive the thoughts of darkness—and of dust—
All that could banish Death's ideal gloom,
Archangel's trumpet, and tremendous doom!
With smiles they mock'd, with accents mimick'd truth,
From memory tracing images of Youth,
Flatter'd her juvenility of face,
Her sprightly look, and gaily moving grace—
Told how her Spirit still of Spring partook—
Prov'd by epistles, and her peerless Book—
And, fully to enchant her cheated Soul,
Poetic turn some Plagarist had stole
To prove her Steed's epistolary pace
Each Female's Courser distanc'd in the race;
Yea, when with critic-pow'r she claspt her pen,
Longinus-like, o'er-match'd congenial Men—
More than all other Shakespeare's genius knew,
And was, herself, the great sublime she drew!

Poets and Painters fill'd her first-rate seats
As Men most skill'd in flattery's cleverest feats.
Their fertile Wit, with Fancy's rich resource,
Could compliment her form and mental force;
And, tho' they carefully forgot her face,
Could puff her virtues—gild each personal grace—
While she, a like adept, in flatteries learn'd,
Like spurious debts, and pseudo-drafts return'd;
Calling each Dauber bold—each Bard sublime—
Who launch'd a liberal brush, or link'd a flatt'ring rhyme.

Such as had Learning, tho' but little Nous,
Were always welcome to her honour'd House;
And had they Science, tho' but little Sense,
They found but little call for Eloquence—
Placed by the President, or seated near,
They needed but one pow'r—the pow'r to hear;
With painful patience to continue mum,
And find her tongue an auditory drum.
This passive quality would recommend
And gain the proud appellative of Friend.
'Twas quite sufficient, without words, to sit
And smile at shrewdness, or laugh loud at Wit;
While all were sure her great good-will to win,
With bow approving, or applausive grin—
To hear her eloquence with nodding grace,

194

And bear her boasts with fortitude of face.
Nothing so certain fill'd her with offence,
As rival Knowledge, or obtrusive Sense—
While Envy wak'd, and whisper'd in her ear,
Competitors were dangerous creatures near.
The poet might possess unrivall'd fame;
To laureat-crown she ne'er advanc'd her claim;
But quite unpardonable crime to balk
Her Pegasus, when tittuping in talk.
No child of Man that hobby-horse might check,
Tho' prancing on with peril of her neck.
She ne'er forgave the temerarious guide
Who told her when to stop, or how to ride.
She hated every argument that glanc'd
A doubt of dogmas her clear views, advanc'd,
Or when her Fancy wild ideas fir'd,
'Twas death to judge her Genius not inspir'd.
Those highest in her estimation stood,
Who call'd her judgment great, and reasonings good;
But fondliest lov'd that favourite He, or She,
Whose flattery reach'd infallibility.
Without that Art no Pander long could please;
No Friend find favour; nor a Hireling ease.
A wonderous Art! transforming frowns to smiles,
And making Rustics talk in Courtier styles—
A sweet ingredient! mix'd with rankest mess
Gives daintiest gout to dishes Scullions dress—
A rich amalgam, courtly Chemists mould,
Which turns the grossest metals into gold.
A Coin which may for current mintage pass,
Of choicest Silver—tho' its base is Brass—
All counterfeit by Christian's hearts confest
When brought to Conscience's, or Scripture's, test.

In deep decline the climacteric Dame
When Time had pluck'd her flow'rs, and pinch'd her frame,
All might indulge that never-dying lust,
In filthiest form, nor give the least disgust;
Yea—this disease was grown so great a height
The grossest Flatterers gave the full'st delight!
Tho' Time had stolen the lily—robb'd the rose—
Might speak of sparkling eyes, and sapient nose.
Tho' none presum'd to prove how tall—or strait,
Kind Guests might compliment her sprightly gait—
Tho' outward charms, now, challeng'd not those arts,
Still ample scope was left to praise her parts—
Tho' Cupid ambush'd not about her face
He still might sharpen shafts with Wit, and Grace—
Tho' breasts, nor neck, were fair, nor full the skin,
Yet Sense, and Wisdom kept their Court within—
And tho' her head was grey, her Wit was green—
Her Understanding clear—Her Reason keen—
Her Fancy brilliant, as when years were young,
While Eloquence with Rhetoric tipt her tongue—
Might boast each lively Virtue under Heav'n,
While Time's crook'd finger points half past eleven!

When Pimps would wish to quit this beaten course,
Arch Adulation scents a new resource—
In every adjunct scans a copious text,
From personal property, or place, annext—
Divining Vanity's adoring dream,
In every object finds a fruitful theme—
Will praise her palace, or each matchless mess;
Her plate—her porcelain—her tasteful dress—
Urge, Princesses or Princes, Queens or Kings,
Would sigh for such incomparable Things.

How more than Music would such sounds allure,
While praising wealth, fine rooms, or furniture;
Or, set at table, flattering inference draw,
From all they tasted—touch'd—heard—smelt—or saw.

Before the Parasites possess'd their seats,
From each glad mouth a mimic rapture greets;
While all exclaim with fond-affected air,
'Tis Paradise! 'tis Beauty, past compare!
Repeating still the hypocritic roar,
Tho' iterated fifty times before.

When chair'd, in stately order, subjects, choice,
Engage each eye, and sound from every voice.
How charming—how superb—the polish'd plate!
More sumptuous than Ambassadors' of State!
From hand to hand proud Porcelain is turn'd,
To look what legs it stood on when 'twas burn'd.
What joy to hear the chyming accents join,
'Tis exquisite! superlatively fine!
Still more extatic was the tuneful sound
When Connoiseurship sent the secret round,
And, loud, from tongue to tongue rapt echoes ran,
China? tis genuine! true! antique Japan!

Some puff'd the bread—most beautifully brown!
Richer than best french rolls when bak'd in Town;
Yet One, who seem'd most partial in its praise,
Invited frequent on those festal days,

195

When half a loaf his flattery had obtain'd
His grumbling Slaves the flouted favour gain'd.

Some call'd her country Mutton charming, sweet,
Tho' bought but just that Morn from Oxford-Street—
In Fish, and Fowl, pure freshness could explore
Tho' blown on by their betters days before.
Yea, found each other Viand vastly nice,
Tho' pass'd thro' fingers—fire—or water—twice.

Her Cloaths must not uncomplimented pass,
But every eye becomes her looking glass—
And tho', at present, Pomp was set aside,
Something might still be found to flatter Pride—
'Twas neat, tho' plain—'twas charming, tho' quite chaste,
Judgment adjusted—all prov'd perfect Taste—
Materials, matchless—Fashion fair, and new;
'Twas, somehow, more than other folks could do.

Finding such offerings, such poor offals, prais'd,
Black eye-brow's-bend to prouder pitch was rais'd,
While full-exciting force, o'er such remarks,
Struck, from her lucid eyes electric sparks—
Attractive sparks! that fiery flash unlike,
When Anger's flints each steely spherule strike,
Repelling all offenders, who refuse
To tell the Hall's, or Kitchen's, curious news.

On these occasions Blockheads could observe
Her unbent Body lose its common curve,
And, growing gradually tall, and starch,
To line direct reduc'd each antient arch;
While mumbling mouth with quicker motion mov'd,
To chew the charming praise her heart approv'd.
How fond affection simper'd, smirk'd, and smil'd,
Till all the antiquated traits were spoil'd;
And every feature, of her haggar'd face,
Assum'd a youthful grin, or maiden grace;
Each limb—each motion—smiling air, and mien,
Intensely strove to look like sweet Sixteen!

It seem'd unsocial—felt a little hard—
To hear old Friends enquire about the Bard,
With whom, at table, oft, before, he'd sat,
Exchanging chearful smiles and cordial chat—
To be by proud Employer pointed out,
While, “There he stands,” was utter'd with a flout.
Felt more intense, when, station'd, as a mark,
For miscreant shafts to shoot at, in the dark—
A butt for blasting tongues and base-born eyes,
His outlines, and his acts, to criticise—
With poisonous spiders' mask'd malevolence,
Sucking their noxious food from Innocence—
Or with a Dauber's pencil, dipp'd in spleen,
Caricature its motions, air, and mien;
Then with dire Serpent-sycophant's address,
Place the crude sketch before false Patroness;
Who, with a Dilettanti's dexterous skill,
Completely colour'd what was etch'd so ill;
Then plac'd the picture in so foul a light,
That artless Nature look'd a loathsome fright.

He felt still more to aggravate such smart;
Enough to stir a Dutchman's torpid heart,
Enough to rouze a Stoic into wrath,
Or turn a Pilgrim from his purpos'd path—
Enough to melt a Savage into tears
To see the spurnings of experienc'd Years—
To hear a Woman with intemperate rage
Dissect the sensibilities of Age—
The undisputed truths of Childhood told
A Man much more than half a Century old;
The shallow lessons of a Tyro taught,
By seventeen years of bondage dearly bought—
Taught the fantastic rudiments, and rules,
Fashions, and forms, of Ladies' Boarding schools—
Instructed in his types, and how to spell,
Tho' told, long time ago, he'd learnt so well;
And conn those elementary lessons, o'er
Prais'd, as possess'd, full twenty years before,
By one whose Soul possest the purest parts
Of Learning, Knowledge, and all courtly Arts.
Not kind instruction mildly meant to teach,
To mend his manner, or improve his speech—
Not soften'd down with gentleness, or joke,
But fierce, with Pride, or flaming Passion, spoke;
Clothing each cutting look with pow'r, and right,
Words mark'd with malice, and each spoke in spite.
One never deem'd a dastard, or a dunce,
To be degraded from his rank at once—
One who'd long strutted in true Captain-style
Reduc'd to drill with rubbish Rank-and-file—
To try manœuverings with mere raw Recruits,
Attain'd by many Apes, and humbler Brutes.
Push'd lower far than when he first began,
Propp'd on two legs, to mimic monkey Man.
A stern Commander's mandates strict observe,
And keep his body free from awkward curve;

196

While Crispin's frame, from curves, and angles, free,
Tho' tall, was straight, as straight as Bard should be—
Must feel fresh consequence when call'd to wait,
And bridle, perpendicularly straight—
Yet not to bristle when he ought to bow,
But learn pure etiquette, and practise, now;
Standing, and studying attitudes, and airs,
While Puppies—Pimps—Fools—Churls—fill'd all the chairs.

Musician never met those juntos there,
But why? because the Hostess had no ear.
Her Heart, discordant, too, ne'er felt desires
For troubling strings, or violating wires—
To rival vespers on the vernal spray,
Or pledge Apollo in one tuneful way;
Yet every courtly custom still to ape,
And vie with Peacocks both in voice and shape,
Mere Ostentation Concerts must partake,
Not for a tuneful Taste's but Fashion's sake.
Her Soul would pompous sights to sounds prefer,
For chords and discords were alike to Her.
In her some secret heresies were hid,
Which all the bliss of harmony forbid—
Some pow'rful schism pervading head and heart,
Which warp'd both Frame and Mind in every part—
Tho' she had legs to walk they would not dance:
Ne'er, out of pace, with Niece and Nephew, prance—
Risqu'd not her honour, or e'er hurt her ease,
Adopted Son and Daughter so to please.
Not that she judg'd it joyless, or jejune,
But, like her Lugs, her Limbs were out of tune,
Nor could her Intellect, whene'er it list
Prevent its faculties' unnatural twist.
She had two Ears' external parts, 'tis true,
Where Pride exhibited vain toys to view,
Which, by the ostentatious burdens borne,
Each overloaded cartilage was torn,
Till, by the frequency of Folly's fits,
Their lappets both were sliced in bloody slits.

Such sacrifice will Vanity sustain,
And buy importance at the price of pain.
To gratify its gust will undergo
All shapes of shame, and wickedness, and woe—
Will toil and study, ev'n thus bear to bleed,
That Pride, Promethean Vulture! still may feed!
With countless comforts, endless pleasures part,
To foster that foul Harpy in the heart
Impale true peace, impoverish fertile purse,
To heighten carnal Nature's heaviest curse!

Wealth's the warm Sun that gives that Serpent birth,
Conceiv'd in every sensual heart on Earth;
And flattery's oft the pamp'ring, poisonous, food
That gives full vigour to the vipery brood!
Flattery from Self, and all the sordid Troops
That gather round the Rich, in graceless groups;
Where Wits for Self-applause vend all such hoards,
The sinful badinage of social boards!

But let not Candour utter false decrees
By saying all were Sycophants like these—
Nor let the Muse, with random rhymes, exclaim,
Each segment of each circle's just the same.
Skill may discover some few grains of gold
In large collected heaps of common mould.
Among a gather'd mass, on stoney ground,
A magnet may, by diligence, be found—
Experienc'd eyes may some small pearls explore
Among the shells that shine on every shore.
Some star with steady light may hold the eyes,
Among the twinkling troops that crowd the skies—
Ev'n in Judea's most abandon'd times,
When idol worship hatch'd all other crimes,
Still seven thousand, from profaneness free,
To Baal ne'er had bent their honest knee—
So some were scatter'd thro' this cringing Throng,
Who dar'd espouse the right, and spurn the wrong!
Who gave to creatures nought but creatures' due,
Distinct from all the trifling, scraping, crew!
Politeness shar'd, but no devotion show'd,
By robbing Him who all, on all, bestow'd!
Confus'd not objects, like such flatt'ring Fools,
The Artists' honour tendering to his Tools—
Nor let such weakness 'mid their wisdom lurk,
The Workman's glory giving to the Work!
Who knew that Wealth, and Wisdom; Pomp and Pow'r;
Were all unmerited—all Heav'n's free dow'r!
With manly Reason—Judgment, more refin'd,
By mere externals never measuring Mind!
To human Make, or golden God, ne'er knelt
But Christian-character's full import felt!
Weigh'd well Heav'n's truths, and Man's eternal weal,
Nor mock'd, nor marr'd, kind Conscience, for a Meal!
Still, still the many, neither good, nor wise,

197

Offer their Souls a free-will sacrifice;
In foolish Fellow-Sinners' eyes to shine,
Or, that foul flesh, more daintily, may dine!
Let Conscience get deep stab, or lasting stain,
For frail indulgence; fame as vile, and vain.
Commuting Reason's, and Religion's, right,
For visual lusts, and pamper'd appetite;
Nor spurn content and temp'rance which ne'er cloy,
For abject bliss of kennel, stall, or stye!
Or leave Religion's joys, and Virtue's void,
For ideot Pomp, and diabolic Pride!
The whispering plaudits of pure Conscience quit,
For noisey crowds, and worthless claims of Wit!
From Wisdom's pedestals profanely stoop,
To fill frail niche in Fashion's pagan group!
Heav'n's holy lectures—Christian's converse, leave,
To flatter other Fools, and Selves deceive!
Fly Truth's rich treat, at fickle Custom's calls,
For chat that cheats, and pleasantry that palls!
Nor this the worst—in all their weak pursuits,
While reason rises not—above the Brutes',
Yet when Death calls, and Consciences condemn,
They'll find they cannot feel, and fall, like them!

If, in such second conflicts ought survive
And, by strange Chance choice Dishes left alive,
From cruel carnage, hapless pillage, 'scap'd,
With teguments untorn, nor much misshap'd,
Repeated proclamation still forbids
To lib'rate such spruce corps of Invalids,
But still preserve them for a better fate,
Ordain'd for many a day to stand in state,
Till every Veteran, overcome with Age,
Must strut no more upon their mortal stage.
Meantime, again, must garrison the shelf,
And keep close sentry for their Sovereign's Self;
For tho' not number'd with the heaps of slain,
They're ne'er thought fit for serving third Campaign.
Tho' mid such dire, tremendous, wasteful wars,
They may have met with numerous cuts and scars,
Yet, thus improper for a public fray,
May fill such office in more private way:
And She, thro' fondness, for such faithful Slaves—
Would gladly rescue them for common Graves;
Desirous to bestow distinguish'd doom
Would fain inter them in her native Tomb.
Quick hue and cry would flee from post to post
Should servile hands dislodge one single ghost;
And strict court-martial try those miscreant Souls
That hid her Favourites in their vulgar holes.

Such precious morsels Pride would not produce
For Steward's table, Hall's, or Kitchen's, use.
But let them rest, and rot, from day to day,
Mid must, or mould, vile mites, or maggots, prey,
Till only fit to feed some hungry hog,
Some starving vagrant, or stray beggar's dog.

Deem not the Bard those delicacies crav'd,
Or envied her the shreds lov'd luxury sav'd,
Such costly cates were not his wish, or care,
He ask'd but milk, and vegetable fare—
He sought not so to gratify his taste,
But griev'd to witness such ungracious waste.
It hurt his heart to see such constant cost—
Such labour, and profuse expences, lost—
It pierc'd his Spirit thro' each part, to think
How Thousands moan'd, meantime, for meat and drink;
While something whisper'd his wak'd pow'rs, within,
Such Pomp—such Selfishness—such waste—were sin!

But let not Censure's lungs her screams confound,
With Panegyric's lute, of Lydian sound;
Or squinting Calumny, with twisted eye,
Thro' half-hid pupil turn pure Truth awry—
Blind Prejudice, with daubing pencil, trace
Philanthropy, with Ostentation's face,
Or gracious Gratitude attempt to hide,
With pious mask the lineaments of Pride;
But honest Satire, with distinction, true,
Limn every action in its native hue;
Unvarnish'd o'er with Vanity's disguise,
That looks like Charity in Children's eyes.
Let not my partial Muse relate, alone,
How Phrenzy frolick'd, or how Fashion shone,
But here pourtray far different festal Scene,
Alike in motive, but unlike in mien.
Not a commercial feast for barter made,
By prouder feasts, or flattery, over-paid—
Not for rich Neighbours, or some fawning Friends,
But mimic'd what the Gospel recommends,
Where Faith's pure eye looks up for God's regard,
And hopes, and only hopes, for Heav'n's award.
Where meekness makes no boast—Zeal fears no blame,
While entertaining deaf—and blind—and lame—
Love opening wide her hospitable door

198

For all descriptions of the helpless poor—
Not to attract a Mob's admiring ken,
Or hoping for applause from fickle Men;
But to achieve true Charity's design,
Faint imitation of Christ's Love divine!

Here, faithful Muse, the matchless feast describe,
That, yearly, entertains, the sooty Tribe;
And, with triumphant strains, the pomp display,
That ushers in the joyful month of May!
Record the rapturous day in deathless rhymes
And show its features to all future times!
Let all its attributes come forth, unfurl'd,
Before the fancy of a wondering World!
How glossy beams of gilt Beneficence,
Charm'd Ideots' eyes, and dazzled simple Sense!
How ostentatious Pomp disburs'd vain pelf
To show good works, but glorify itself!

Behold, Ye modest, but mistaken, Rich,
Who spend much substance in sequester'd niche—
Obscurely wandering round, from Cott to Cott,
To learn, and to relieve, each Abject's lot—
Dealing out bounteous doles to craving Clowns,
That publish'd, thus, might much astonish Towns.
Come forth unfashionable, shame-faced few,
And make the World see what such Wealth might do,
Or hide for ever your diminish'd head,
And, silent, still deal out unblazon'd bread!
You who make hungry Souls, in secret, eat
Unpublish'd portions of kind Mercy's meat—
With blindfold wisdom obstinately wink,
While offering to the Poor their daily drink;
Or, when dispensing Heav'n's imparted dow'r,
Repay the glory where you get the pow'r!
With foolish faith, so fancifully loth,
To let the left hand know what right hand doth.

Would it not tend to aggrandize your Name,
And trumpet thro' the streets your fondled Fame!
Make smother'd kindness burst in open blaze,
And fill each famish'd mouth with frantic praise?
Bring forth to view your charitable bits,
And make a bonfire of your benefits?
While thus condens'd, your charitable doles,
When shown abroad, may shine to both the poles!

Why will you thus, like weak fanatics, wait
For reimbursements in a future state?
The weakest Tyro, in a trading way,
Sees vast advantages in present pay.
What Dunce would trust his Debtor till he dies,
Tho' heightening stock in Heav'n's clasp'd ledger lies,
When he can principal and interest find
By issuing instant cheques on all Mankind?
The Satyrist may sneer, with envy vex'd,
And silly Christian sigh, and quote a text—
His Conscience may not see such reasoning clear,
And o'er the dangerous inference drop a tear—
Far different logic such self-love employs
To keep in countenance its present prize—
Feeling twice paid, let who will weep, or laugh,
By Morning-paper's rapturing paragraph.

But lest frail Fame, should, like ephemeron Fly,
At midday flutter, and, at evening, die,
Muse! every striking circumstance relate
To save her glory from such grievous fate!
Tell how the chearful Chimney-sweeper train
Fill'd her front garden's newly-polish'd plain—
Tell how large pyes and puddings, were prepar'd—
How bread—beef—mutton, merry Shouters shared—
While rattling choruses, both long and loud,
The Giver gladden'd, and convuls'd the Crowd.
Oh! 'twas the solace of her heart to see
The splendid group! The pompous Jubilee!
Of richer relish, tho' of grosser gout,
Than when Dependents wait, and Poets woo!
Than when fond, titled, Foreigners attend,
Or British stars bow down, and ribbands bend!
They only in a narrow boundary blaze
Shoot forth, in Rooms, confin'd, their feebler rays—
Like lamps, and waxlights, tho' serene, and clear,
Can spread pure fulgence but thro' puny sphere;
These, more like Light'ning's glares, or Meteor's gleams,
All round the bright Horizon shoot their beams;
Or, mass'd, in motion, Glory, full, unfurl'd,
Like solar Light, illuminate the World!
Grand Fête! where gazing throngs, all wide agape,
Charm'd with proud Charity, in public shape,
In mighty Multitudes, stop—stand—and stare—
Crowding the corner of the squeezing Square.
Where penetrating eyes might well behold,
Among both males and females, young and old,
The different passions of the Soul pourtray'd,
In vast varieties of light and shade,
In every feature, every air, and mien,

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While marv'lling wonder eyes the mimic Scene!
To see the brilliant Bands pursue their sports,
From cellar'd Cells, in Alleys, Lanes, and Courts,
Conven'd by Vanity, as Love avow'd,
To gain fresh glory from a countless Crowd.
Where all in one refulgent focus glow,
Spangling the glebe before grand portico,
While, in a motley mass assemblies bright;
Friends and Acquaintance throng to see the sight,
And, to accommodate that monstrous tide,
Each ample Outlet yawns with opening wide;
Windows, and doors, and parapets, replete,
To see how Sweep's can dress—and dance—and eat—
That not an eager eye, or heart, might miss,
The splendid Spectacle! the bounding bliss!

Speak not of Pomp, ye Ladies, and ye Lords,
See! how your Pomp's eclips'd by climbing Hordes!
Nor bridle up your heads, ye Beaux and Belles,
But mark how much this tinsel Tribe excels!
Boast not, ye Beaux, your poor external pride,
Thus by this sable Brotherhood outvied!
Nor deem, bright Belles! your Garb, supremely fine—
See how the sooty Sisterhood outshine!
Ev'n Kings and Queens, in brilliant Birthday Courts,
Compare not with poor Sweeps, in Pomp, or Sports—
Nay, Milton's Pandemonium scarcely vies,
In bright Assemblies, with these Climbing Boys!
Note how the sparkling, sportive, Troops advance,
In grand procession, or in glittering dance!
With gayer Garb, and Equipage, approach,
Than Courts in Chariot, Vis-à-vis, and Coach!
On Steed, caparison'd in Armour, bright,
Mounted, like modern Chief, or antient Knight;
To show, while waiting on their Lady's will,
The days of Chivalry existing still,
More proud than Prince's Chair, in conic skreen,
Majestic stalks pedestrian Jack-o'-th'-Green;
With ivy wreath'd, and fairest vernal flow'rs,
Rich as a Peer's parterres, and noblest bow'rs,
Thick-ornamented round, with massy plate,
More than rich sideboards in proud rooms of State!
Lordlings might leave their shabby Cloaths for shame,
The blythe bedeck'd Coquette, and courtly Dame;
While oft the Milliner, and Taylor, sneers,
Conscious their Bills, and Books, hold vast Arrears—
Musicians might, with Dancing Masters, blush,
Before their shovels, and quick-tabbering brush;
Wild antic attitudes, and feats of foot,
Among the smiling, smutty, Sons of Soot!
The feather'd Crests of Queens ought humbly stoop
Before mock Females in each gaudy Group,
When Madam Sweep her May-day-dress assumes,
Of crapes—foils—tissues—ribbands—lace—and plumes—
And pompously puts on high courtly Airs,
More natural—noble—graceful—oft than Theirs!

This pantomimic Puppet-show, most sure,
Wore all the features of Caricature—
Was plann'd, and modell'd, by that very rule
Most fitted to excite strong ridicule;
Exhibiting those artful looks, and acts,
That Cunning coins, or Fallacy refracts.
But Common-sense, with intuition clear,
Distinguishes what's simple—what sincere.
Discriminates what's clever—what uncouth—
Deception's muffled tricks from naked Truth.
Can sever solid Corn from hollow Chaff—
Feels what's important—what provokes a laugh—
What merits Approbation—wakes Disgust—
Wins kind Affection, or instils Distrust—
What looks liks Perfidy, and what like Pride—
What Justice should reject—when Faith confide;
From obvious marks the latent motive learns,
And, spite of Art, the Spirit's drift discerns.
Thus this Phenomenon so strange! so new!
That look'd like Charity to Children's view;
In riper Minds far different feelings rais'd,
Tho' Weakness wonder'd, while Expectants prais'd.
To Wisdom's eye Hypocrisy appear'd—
While simple Sense, with true discernment, sneer'd;
Meantime the Patroness with heaving heart
Survey'd the whole, and dwelt on every part;
And with a wild, enthusiastic, glow,
Thrilled o'er the shouting throng, and shining show;
The screaming fiddle, and the scrannel drum,
Till raptur'd Sense, thro' sounds, and sights, o'ercome,
With witching sympathy, at every glance,
Thro' glass, diaphanous, was seen to dance—
While Vanity and Pride were clearly shown,
To view the Pomp, and lov'd Parade, alone.
Without one secret sentiment of Love,
That hopes approval from blest Pow'rs above!
Thus while these images her Fancy fir'd,

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And Fools, and Infants, in the Mob admir'd,
The pensive Poet blush'd, and look'd askew—
The Butler grinn'd—Housekeeper quite withdrew—
The Groom stood grumbling—Coachman growl'd a damn,
And Maids and Footmen felt it all—mere Sham!

Nor only here did ostentatious Pride,
Assume celestial Charity's outside,
But stalk'd with Vanity and weak Parade,
Amidst recesses of the sylvan shade;
Erecting altars in the sacred grove,
For offering sacrifice to fond Self-Love—
To snuff the fumes Mobs' incense might afford;
In throngs assembled round the social board;
And catch the bliss of bows, and crooking knees,
Like Baal's Priests beneath their shady trees.
There, ampler crowds of Votaries she invites,
Herself Chief-priestess of the festal rites.
Sends out full summonses to Sunday-schools,
To trap mistaken suffrages from Fools;
Whose wild imaginations ne'er surmise
Such mighty gifts from graceless motives rise—
That Pride will spend its Wealth in Christian cause,
And only look for popular applause.

Did e'er true Charity appear so proud,
As look for low conjees in vulgar crowd?
E'er institute parade, and pomp, and sport,
And make to Clowns, and Children, anxious court!
Or, mixt with Mobs, expose mere childish pranks!
Collecting retail curtsies—bows—and thanks?
Parading round, a spectacle of praise,
Thro' thirsty ears to drink Dolts' harsh huzzas?
Or eager gape, thro' all the ignorant throng,
For honours that, alone, to Heav'n belong?

Pure Charity, the Heav'n-taught Paul declares,
Assumes no vain, or ostentatious airs—
Is ne'er puff'd up with false affected Pride,
But empty Pomp, and Vanity's denied—
Of bounteous Benefactions never vaunts
In private circles, or in public haunts—
Ne'er acts indecent, while it gives its dole,
Impell'd by selfish purposes of Soul;
But, like disinterested Pow'rs above,
From purest principles of heavenly Love!
Devoid of that may open wide each door—
Give all its goods to feed the famish'd Poor—
Devote the living Frame to funeral fires,
Yet want that grace the Word of God requires!

'Twas not a heart impenetrably hard
Struck sparks of Envy from the steely Bard—
'Twas not a moping, melancholy, head
That Fancy's phantasms, Maniac-megrims, bred—
Passions denied, or prejudices dark,
Engendering Malice, or morose remark—
Blank'd expectation, or benighted hope,
Transform'd the Man to frantic Misanthrope,
Whose agitated bosom, robb'd of rest,
Wish'd every bosom, like its own, unblest—
No—none of these his intellect could cramp,
His Heart and Conscience felt far different stamp.
He ne'er on rags and wretchedness could look,
But peace and comfort his pain'd soul forsook.
To mark the miseries that oppress'd Mankind,
Was deep affliction to his feeling Mind.
Reflection fixed a thorn in every thought,
Contemplating immortal Souls untaught.
When human Misery met his anxious eyes,
It damp'd the dawnings of his brightest joys,
To see such flocks of Fellow-creatures born,
Condemn'd to drudgery 'mid the scoffs of scorn;
All hopes of peace and competence denied,
By wanton Wealth and supercilious Pride!
Made Slaves to Dissipation—Pride—Sloth—Lust,
Till worn away—then drop into the dust!

Could Crispin, Brethren—Sisters—thus, behold,
With dead indifference, or affections cold;
Oppress'd with poverty, and torn with toil,
The Worthless feasting on their fruits the while?
And such his heart conceiv'd was every Elf
Who look'd, and spoke, and acted, like himself!
He ne'er could meditate such human smart
But icey cold collected round his heart;
Nor spy oppression Fellow-sufferers spurn,
But indignation made his bosom burn!
When Infant-ignorance caught his aching sight,
He panted to impart his twinkling light;
Or youthful folly fell within his way,
He labour'd to bestow his borrow'd ray—
When Vanity display'd her painted wings,
His Spirit wish'd to whisper better things—
When Gluttony or Drunkenness were seen,
Lust's flaming look, and meretricious mien;

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Or profligate Prophaneness hurt his ear,
He sigh'd, or groan'd, or dropt Compassion's tear,
Impatient to point out some happier path
To save their Souls from God's most righteous wrath!
How was his Spirit griev'd, with gracious pain,
When Love allur'd to visit Heav'n's fair Fane,
To see such peccant Crowds, in every place,
Neglecting Mercy's offer'd means of Grace;
Provoking Justice by rebellion, rude,
And angering God with gross ingratitude!
If, to his pity, Want, or Woe, applied,
He breath'd a blessing—dropt his mite—and sigh'd;
Lamenting deeply, through his inmost Soul,
That Poverty forbad more bounteous dole!
Could He, then, mean to stop the plenteous meed,
From Sons and Daughters of disastrous Need?
Attempt to intercept bright Learning's beams,
That serve to rouze the Soul from Folly's dreams?
Extinguish in their hearts Religion's glow,
The noblest blessings in Man's lot below?
Could One, who wish'd the happiness of All,
With feeling bless'd, about this earthly Ball,
Shut up his bowels from his Fellow-brood?
Wish to deprive them of their destin'd food?
Or strive to damp such Equals' warm desire
To rise in Rank, or Estimation, high'r,
By cultivating those vast pow'rs of Mind
That Heav'n for Truth, and happiness, design'd;
And bar blest Hope's, and Understanding's, door,
Against his Partners, ignorant, and poor?
Wish Pearls amidst the waves might ever dwell,
From every eye shut up, in rugged shell?
Wish Diamonds condemn'd to unwrought Mine,
On human heads, or bosoms, ne'er to shine?
Or buds, denied all nurture, die unblown,
Their virtues, and their beauties, both, unknown?
No! while he bless'd the God who gave him bread,
He begg'd the Poor to fullness might be fed—
And, while he search'd His Book, besought His Name,
That every deathless Soul might share the same:
But when he saw the plenteous board prepar'd,
Tho' hapless Indigence the County shar'd;
Yet, while Hypocrisy the treat display'd,
For impious purposes of mere parade,
Disdainful Conscience every claim refus'd,
That Pomp set up for boast, and Pride abus'd.

How could a heart with holy ardour warm'd;
How could a reasoning head, by Heav'n inform'd,
With ignorant crowds in acclamations join,
Conferring on a Creature dues divine?
With warm approval such weak plaudits pledge
And injure Conscience with such sacrilege?
He saw, instead, with pity, and surprize,
A Mind, by Friends, and Fashion counted wise;
Well read in Books and bless'd Religion's laws,
So greedy grown of puerile applause.
To flightier Minds, that form'd her motley train,
'Twas truly ludicrous to view how vain,
With pageant pomp, she stalk'd three toilsome hours,
Thro' the throng'd covert of her clamorous bow'rs,
To gather nods, and curtsies, as they grew,
While grasping bubbles fawning Flattery blew,
To gratify false taste, for noise and glare,
And feed, Cameleon-like, on frothy air.

	CHAPTER 10th. The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse