University of Virginia Library

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!

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?
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!