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

Ye learned Levites! view not those with scorn
Not bless'd with Letters, or to Livings born;
Should they presume, with simple skill, to scan
God's ministry of Peace, propos'd to Man.
Should they attempt to construe Christ's Decrees,
Explain His Will, and claim as Legatees.
Boast not Yourselves sole Advocates between,
Alone to teach what heavenly Mysteries mean.
May not such Souls approach His Mercy-seat,
And thro' the mighty Mediator, treat?
Will not the pray'rs of Penury reach His Ears,
As well as Priests, ev'n consecrated Peers?
Will He shut up His Presence-chamber door,
With cold indifference, to exclude the Poor;
While You, with learn'd, and wise, addresses, win
Impartial Purity to let You in?
Hath He inform'd You all His Favours flow,
Alone, on Learning—Pow'r—Pomp—Riches?—No!
His Gospel, and pure Spirit, unconfin'd,
Are offer'd free, alike, for all Mankind;
And that blest Gospel clearly hath declar'd,
The better blessing's for the Poor prepar'd.

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Not all reserv'd for learned Priests, alone,
Prelates, or Popes who fill the Stall, or Throne—
Nor for proud Commoners—or Peers—or Kings,
Has Christ appointed all these precious Things.
From such how little heavenly Light proceeds,
Illuminating motives, words, or deeds!
How little warmth to bring forth Wisdom's fruits,
More than in Boors—or Cannibals—or Brutes!
Their Light, fierce flashes, from thick darkness dealt!
Flashes, to fright; and darkness, deeply felt!
Fruits that would flush a Christian's cheeks with shame!
Yea, stop their tongues from offering most a Name!
Produced by graceless Clans miscall'd the Great,
Who spoil this World, and spurn the heavenly State!
As much among the priest-appointed Priests,
Who burden, flog, and fleece, Mankind like Beasts;
And, in return for all their ample pay,
Sit down to eat and drink—then rise to play—
Studying, much more, increase of Tythes, and Stocks,
Than how to edify their ignorant Flocks.

They, once a Week, their cold Assemblies call,
To hear how Clarks can bray, and they can bawl;
Retailing pray'rs, and scraps of scriptural store,
Like close-caged Pies, or Parrots, hobbled o'er;
Displaying Pinions, gay,—or sable Gown,
In Church, and Chapel, thro' the loitering Town.

With dull delay, when Worshippers approach,
By tardy footsteps, creeping Chaise, or Coach—
With cold indifference call'd, assume their Seats,
There to participate their Sunday's Treats,
In gentle slumbers, while the Reader's drone
Lulls them to rest, with many a melting tone,
Till Organ-pipes impel to stretch their throats,
And grunt, or squall, or scream, their scrannel notes,
To measur'd words, if possible, much worse,
Hopkins' and Sternhold's dismal, doggrel, Verse;
Devoid of tuneful cadence—rule—or rhyme—
Oft out of tune, and always out of time—
By which the ear is balk'd—the heart beguil'd—
And David's heavenly Poems doubly spoil'd.

What can Man's natural indolence excite,
But obvious hopes of interest, or delight?
And whence can profit, or delight, proceed,
While hearing Snufflers roar, and Slovens read?
Or, what keep watchful Auditors awake
But blundering slips, and, frequent, foul mistake.

If blest with Knowledge, Taste, in Sound, or Sense,
Such Mind, spontaneously, must feel offence;
While individual Ignorance gapes, and stares,
As Clarks spoil Psalms, and Coxcombs lisp the Pray'rs.

If serious, Heav'n-instructed, Souls attend,
Who fear their Father—love their Saviour—Friend—
How are they shock'd, while shameless Droll recites,
With Driveller's drawling accent, sacred Rites—
But most, when Fop, with emphasis absurd,
Mars Heav'n's blest meaning, gabbling o'er God's Word.
His breast must feel contempt, and pity, both,
To hear such Wretch, who, once, with solemn Oath,
Appear'd by Prelate's Fiat, first approv'd
Swearing the Holy Ghost his Mind had mov'd
To take the sacred office on Himself,
Without regard to honour—pow'r—or pelf—
Was well-enlighten'd with Heav'n's holy Ray,
To teach Mankind Christ's pure, and perfect, Way!
How can such perjur'd Monsters, pertly, stand,
With sacrilegeous lies in either hand—
Mid mimic airs, and attitudes, declaim,
Yet scarce e'er mention their kind Master's Name!
Ne'er preach obedience to His holy Will,
But speak to catch applause for taste and skill—
To prove the strength of intellectual pow'r,
And fill the office of their hard half-hour!
Who, tho' they ne'er devour the Widow's house,
Oppress the Peasant, or the Orphan chouse;
Still dissipate in sport, and spend in spoil,
The Farmer's profits and the Tradesman's toil.
None feels the shame, or reprehension shares,
From Christ's impeachment, for prolonging Pray'rs—
More fond themselves, than starving Flocks to feed,
Each spouts the Forms with most familiar speed;
And, having learnt, “Life's but a span in length,”
They cut each Sermon short, to save their strength;
That all their Heart, and Spirit, may apply,
To reach, and relish, more congenial joy!

The listless Congregation, gather'd round,
Seek not for sense, but only soothing sound;
More pleas'd with folly, pour'd in pompous phrase
Than sad recitals of their wicked ways;
Abhorring solemn Lectures, tho' sublime,
That seriously recount one single crime.
They'd sooner let lov'd sins in secret lurk,
Then wail one fault, and set their Souls to work;

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Yet o'er a little work would feel rejoic'd
Rather than stoop to crave a dole of Christ—
In painful tracks of Superstition plod,
Than own one obligation to their God!
Best pleas'd with Preachers from St. James's mart,
Who trouble not the head, or touch the heart;
But let the quiet Conscience, dormant, doze,
And calm Reflection happily repose.
Ne'er harrass pleasing Hope, or fillip Fear,
But, like their Organ's notes, just stir the Ear,
With dulcet sounds, to lullaby the Breast,
To drown their doubts, and rock their fears to rest;
While sooth'd with Drone's uninteresting Theme
Thro' hum-drum, sing-song, Sermon, doze and dream.

Sometimes rude Beadles, in such sober place
With false officiousness, not genuine Grace,
Fond of their pow'r, and of their office proud,
Or, quite provok'd to see the sleepy Crowd
Indifferent to the Cleric's fine Discourse,
Deliver'd with such prompt pathetic force;
And jealous for his Credit, gently creeps,
Where, in some Dormitory, Dullard sleeps,
Then with a wanton, or intemperate, rap,
Abruptly breaks a comfortable Nap.

But rustic Beadle's, only, now so rude—
In Town, become polite, none, thus, intrude,
But keep due distance, in some snug Recess,
And, like their Betters, let bright Visions bless;
Who here, and there, in Church, or Chapel, loll,
Like molten Image, or dress'd maiden Doll—
Recumbent Devotees—male slumb'ring Saints,
Or deck'd Madonnas, plaster'd o'er with paints;
Each like lone Medal, or Medallion, set
In youthful Virtuoso's Cabinet;
Cloister'd, recluse, in each respective place,
Waiting for other Coins to fill the Case.
There each, distinct, in wide seclusion dwells,
All thinly scatter'd thro' their separate Cells;
And these, sublime Originals! alive,
Like dormant Bees coop'd up in wintry hive—
None like the labouring-Bees, but Queens, and Drones,
Reclin'd and thoughtless, on their timber Thrones.

At intervals, if rouz'd from torpid state
To hear the Piper play, or Preacher prate;
Or, with a vague, insipid, stupid look
Like gibberish, babble pray'rs from gilded Book—
Look round, on all, with Hope, or Envy, fir'd;
With flattering Hope that idol Self's admir'd,
Or Envy, in each glaring glance exprest,
O'er all with brighter charms, or better drest—
Eye crossing Eye, from each thin-peopled Pew,
With frequent turns to look for something new;
Uncouth, or comely; ludicrous, or odd;
The grossest Object superseding God!
None feeling for the Spirit's work, within,
But make mock-Worship a new source of Sin!
Men idolizing Women; Women, Men,
When tir'd, close their dull lids and doze agen:
With Parson's pipe in concert, snuffling, snore,
Till silence tells the twentieth minute's o'er;
Then instant start, and feel their Souls rejoice
To hear no longer Lecturer's vexing voice;
For sudden silence, like all sudden sounds,
Lov'd reveries, or fondest dreams confounds—
But should the numby nerves withstand the shock,
And still continue, like a brother block,
The Organ blows again a brisker blast,
To tell with jaunty Jigg, their Labour's past;
Calling these Dreamers from Christ's dulling Courts,
To Feasts more friendly, and more sprightly Sports.

When first the scatter'd few appear at Church,
And cross the threshold, each eye sends a search,
With strict attention every face to scan,
Of Friend—Relation—Stranger—Woman—Man.
Now, eagerly, intenser glances, darts,
Swift circling round, thro' all remoter parts,
With keen pursuit Acquaintances to trace
And catch responses from each speaking face—
While on each side are seen the simpering lips,
Low bow, or curtsy; slighter nods, or dips;
Degrees of Rank, and lower shades, to suit,
With due devoirs, where friendly looks salute.
Nor only practis'd thus, ere Priests' approach,
By pompous Worshippers, in Chair, or Coach;
But each, low Creature the mix'd mass compose
From introductory clause till Sermon's close:
Yea, Priests, themselves, who ought to feel, and know,
The fullest interest of their flocks below,
Will, from their desks, tho' devilish vain, and proud,
Oft ape the conduct of the polish'd crowd—
Look, with a formal face, and humbly bend
To compliment some Courtier—Patron—Friend—

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Or more familiar smile, or slightly nod,
With some kind token greeting all—but God.
So, when this false religious farce is o'er,
And the mute Organ swells gay trills no more,
Like salutation passes round the spot,
And Heav'n—and Hell—and God; are all forgot!

Is this Religion? this the reverence, pure,
Man ought to render? or his God endure?
The God by whom he was to being brought?
With Sense supplied, and wonderous pow'rs of Thought!
Whose Will impels those mental pow'rs to move,
And all Things round to spurn, or to approve.
The God who, every instant Life supplies,
With all the objects of its Hopes and Joys;
The fount from whence all pains and pleasures flow,
That exercise the Soul of Man below.
Who, when Man forfeited His favour, strove
To gain his heart, agen, by Acts of Love.
Love, inconceivable! too vast for Man,
Or all created Intellects to scan!
Who His own, only, Son, to Death, could doom,
To rescue Rebels from eternal Tomb!
Yea, from a Sentence, infinitely worse
From boundless wrath, inflicting endless curse!
And will such hypocritic Worship stay
Christ's dreadful Verdict, at the Judgment-day?
Or bring the best delights of Life beneath,
From Him in whom we live—and move—and breathe?
Is this the Incense Rebels ought to bring,
And offer up, to Heav'n's eternal King?
These the fresh fumes, sweet-smelling, which ascend
To greet a God? a Father? and a Friend?
Such as Heav'n's Mediator may present
Before that God, when Prodigals repent?
These the best fruits fall'n Creatures can afford
For such forgiving Father—Friend—and Lord?
The Mind's pure perfumes, that should, fervent, fly,
To the great Governor of Earth and Sky?
The Soul's sweet aloes, frankincense, and myrrh,
That Sovereign will to slaughter'd beasts prefer?
The Heart's free Gifts that Father-God receives,
While in the Saviour not a Soul believes?
Are such fit Sacrifices for the Son,
Whose gracious Goodness hath such wonders done!
For all His Love the Spirit's best return,
Which makes pure Cherubs chaunt! bright Seraphs burn!
Rejoicing o'er a sinful Race, forlorn,
For whom Heav'n's Best-belov'd on Earth was born;
And, what should wake all praise—suppress all pride
For whom that best-belov'd Redeemer died!
And will His holy Spirit well respect
Such offerings as just Mortals must reject?
Who, yet, stands ready, still, to help their Pray'rs,
And make them meet for Heav'n, as holy Heirs!

Oh! mock not God! mock not His heavenly Son!
Without whose Death your Souls had sunk, undone!
Nor mock that Spirit, who, with special Grace
Is ready to restore Man's wretched Race!
God is a Spirit! Hear it, Age and Youth!
And will be worshipp'd both in Heart and Truth!
Not mere lip-labour, and unmanly yell,
Which Birds would sing, or, speak; Beasts act, as well;
Much less with idol lusts, and needless lies;
Which while Heav'n spurns—all honest Men despise.

Mortals, attend! hear what the Scriptures speak—
“Such Worshippers Christ condescends to seek,”
And will bestow, on such blest Souls, alone,
The richest Comforts flowing from His Throne;
While all beside, proud—obstinate—and blind,
Shall ne'er in Earth, or Heav'n, such Comforts find!
Consider who your trifling tongues address!
Your mouths thus mock! Your lying lips confess!
Tho' with your ears unheard—Your eyes unseen—
God marks your words—your actions—manners—mien!
Can each close purpose, and pursuit, explore,
And see Thoughts—wishes—motives—long before!

Think Ye that Being, Holy! Just! and True!
Can welcome what such Self-deceivers do?
That One who Martyrs, blest, in Heav'n, obey,
Regards what graceless Hypocrites can say?
One to whom high'st Archangels humbly bow,
What Profligates confess, or Liars vow?
Will He whom heavenly Hierarchies laud
Accept the praise of Fools? The pray'rs of Fraud?
Will not His boundless indignation burn,
Such mockery punish, and such mummery spurn?
From His blest Seat, of purity sublime,
Thro' all the past, and all approaching Time;
In all Man's reasoning Race, from first, to last,
Such crimes condemn—such base endeavours blast!

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Would temporal Prince, from any Knaves He hires,
Admit such Services? such dull Devoirs?
Be pleas'd with those he clothes, protects, and feeds,
For such indifference? such unduteous Deeds?
Such slothful, such inert, returns, from those
On whom He Titles—Wealth—and Pow'r, bestows?
Be pleas'd with mere formality, and phlegm,
Were He a deep Dissembler, such as Them?

Should such attend a Drawing-Room of State,
Before the Throne of earthly Potentate?
How anxious would each Worshipper appear
To prove profoundest adoration there.
All circumspect within! all wing without!
Lest faith, or fealty, such Dupe should doubt.
How all punctilious Devotees observe
To shine each compliment, and shape each curve!
No phrase—no emphasis—no look, neglect,
But yield their mortal Monarch prompt respect!
To fellow-Sinner—upper-Servant—show,
How much they honour, and how much they owe,
But lounge, and loll, and slumber, at the shrine
Of Pow'r, supreme—and Majesty, divine!
Still with feign'd praise, and false petitions, call
On Him who ever lives the Lord of All!

How dare Fools, thus, with pharisaic face,
And graceless Pride, approach the Throne of Grace;
With sinful, sacrilegious lips, to lie,
Forgetting God, the blest Omniscient's by!

How would it wound a King's, or Prince's, pride,
To note, at Court, such negligent outside—
Each Minister would feel the fault immense,
To see such apathy—such poor pretence;
And Peers, and Pensioners, would name it Sin—
Thro' treachery, or treason, hid within.
And will rank Hypocrites presume to bring
Base mimicry before all Nature's King!
Presume to gaze and giggle; yawn, and nod,
In Presence-Chamber of Almighty God!
Within His Drawing-Room play Apish pranks,
Instead of gracious thoughts, and grateful thanks!
Present such counterfeited praise, and pray'r,
To Him who gives them all they have, or are!
To Him, for all, pert mockery repay,
Who, instantly, could call each Life away;
And what's far worse, their false respects repel,
By sinking Soul and Body both in Hell!

Such are the Wretches that surround a Court—
Whom childish Princes deem their chief support—
But pious Christians give much clearer proof,
The qualms of Conscience keep them far aloof—
For Piety and Truth feel no delights
In false professions, and mere idol rites;
Yet, by pure pray'rs, from Heav'n's supernal Throne,
Whence earthly Kings derive all pow'r, alone;
Their pow'rful influence brings more blessings down,
Than all the Courtiers that adore a Crown!

On mere externals Man's opinions rest—
On what adorns the brow, and decks the breast.
His ear can catch the flattery floating round
But not perceive the Soul that prompts the sound.
His eye may mark the fashions, and the face,
Yet ne'er can dark desires, or motives, trace;
But God's deep glance discriminates the Whole,
The devious Deed, and all the secret Soul—
The latent thoughts that feed the fostering roots
Whence every look, and word, and action, shoots.
The ghostly sap, by which the branches grow,
Producing fruits for use, and flow'rs for show.
Sees cunning Courtiers act their specious parts,
And set up Idols in their Sovereigns' hearts;
To make each Monarch deem Himself a God,
That they may share his rights, and shake his rod—
And while these Panders, thus, approach His Throne,
They nurse the like delusion in their own.
He notes these Knaves, beneath fair Friendship's mask,
Endeavouring to atchieve some selfish task—
Why springs the flattering speech, the fawning smile
Which these deputed Gods, on Earth, beguile;
And why such Worshippers with views as vain,
Debase Christ's favours, and debauch His Fane.
But he reviews, and will revenge, each feint,
Which tends to hurt His Truth; His Honour taint;
In public practice, or in private sport,
At Church or Chamber; College—Camp—or Court—
That injures Happiness, or Grace aggrieves,
In hordes of Hypocrites, or throngs of Thieves—
For His pure Spirit must as much abhor
The craft of Courts, and wickedness of War,
As crimes of Crowds assembled in His Name;
Whose impious hearts ev'n decency disclaim.
Eternal Truth and Love, alike, must hate
The Falsehoods—Crafts—and Cruelties, of State—

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His Laws, true Justice must alike, maintain,
O'er Taught and Teacher—Sovereign and Swain!

Will Pow'r supreme so condescend to scan,
And rectify the Ways of Man with Man—
Weigh with His balance, and inflict His rod,
Alike, on Beggar, base, and golden God—
The Clown that ploughs, and Prince who claims his Coin,
And yet forego His own just dues divine?
Will boundless Love with cold indifference, look
O'er gross blasphemers of His gracious Book?
Let ostentatious profanation lurch
Within the boundaries of His blessed Church?
His perfect purity feel no disgust
Address'd by Drunkenness, or mock'd by Lust?
Truth, uncontaminated, ne'er despise
Fictitious sentiments, when leagu'd with lies?
Will Wisdom, infinite, affect those Walls
Where Pride petitions, and Vain-glory bawls?
No! all His Attributes must needs unite
To punish Traytors, and support His Right!

But if the mingled Multitude offends
The best of Fathers, and the best of Friends—
If Lawyers—Scribes—and Pharisees, pervert
Both Law and Gospel to their endless hurt—
How can the Priesthood possibly escape
His heaviest vengeance in the sharpest shape?
How shall they 'scape His Pow'r with vengeful Sword,
Who grieve His Spirit, and despise His Word?
Who by vain babblings, and by impious Pride,
Degrade His Glory, and His Truth deride;
And by licentious Lust, and Passion, still
Refuse His Favours, and withstand His Will!
How shall their Souls receive His offer'd Grace
Who fling back Mercy in their Maker's face?
How shall they deprecate eternal blame
Who thus expose Him to an open shame;
How find acceptance at Christ's Judgment Seat,
Who thro' His Followers wound His Hands and Feet?
How 'scape pure Conscience's perpetual smart,
Who every Sabbath pierce the Saviour's Heart?
E'er hope to shun the sharpest pangs of Hell,
Who every Hour against His Grace rebel?
Or, when become Court Parasites, and Pimps,
Find any Company but Fiends, and Imps?

Are those the blest Ambassadors of Heav'n,
Whose Lives are lumps of sour Satanic leav'n?
Who their pure Saviour's Love, and Wisdom, spurn,
Too good to be forgiv'n—too learn'd to learn?
At clear credentials of their Captain, scoff,
And, from their Lord, throw all allegiance off?
Their Prince's orders proudly disobey,
And simple Subjects draw a devious way?

Are those Enforcers of Heav'n's holy Law
Whose faulty Conduct's one continual flaw;
With grievous burdens make their Neighbours groan,
But furnish not one finger of their own?
Who close up Heav'n from poor uncultur'd Elves
Nor e'er attempt to enter in Themselves?

Can such dead Salt corruption's pow'r prevent—
And save Men's Lives from all unsavoury scent—
If oft applied make every Soul secure,
And keep their Consciences, and Spirits, pure?
They rather make some foul miasmus fly,
To taint their Bodies, and their Souls destroy.
Do their Examples shine both bright and clear,
Like Cities, that on hills their turrets rear?
More like some Pagan Temple, fall'n, forlorn,
The Owner's scandal, and each Christian's scorn!
Are They not like false ignis fatuus' light,
Which leaves Believers bogg'd in Nature's Night
More than blest Morning's bright celestial beam,
Which wakes the Soul, and drives each senseless dream?
Or like some burning Beacon seen from far,
Inviting Friends to join religious jar;
To kindle Choler in each natural Heart,
And call Pride—Envy—Spite—to take a part—
To light their firebrands at the bickering Pyre,
And set the Church, yea, all the World, on fire!

They show not Conscience where all evils lurk,
That stir foul Hearts and set frail Tongues to work,
Nor try from heav'nly stores to furnish stocks,
Of perfect knowledge, for Themselves and Flocks;
But still bewilder'd in dark, dangerous Way,
They lose Themselves, and lead their Flocks astray!

Unfaithful Stewards of Christ's Heritage!
Graceless expounders of the Gospel page!
Who keep cold Hearers in their darkling State
Till both lie buried in the Gulph of Fate!
Still stretching far prerogative, and pow'r,
The Widow's house, and Orphan's hopes, devour;
Nor ev'n the Pharisees' pretension share
Of lengthening out one dull, cold, pow'rless pray'r.

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Keep not their conduct with a clean outside
But each bold act's debas'd by Lust or Pride—
Not white without, like tombs, while foul within,
But each external stinks with filth and sin.
In this unlike that base, but strenuous Band,
They neither cross, nor compass, Sea, nor Land,
To do what Wisdom deems most meet and right,
By labour to procure one Proselyte;
But leave untutor'd all the ignorant Race,
To grope their way to Heav'n by special Grace,
From consecrated Fanes all work withhold,
And view the virtue only in the Gold.
No merit in the sacred Altar own
But look for Graces in the Gifts alone.

Ye wilful Fools! ye obstinately blind!
In Heav'n's pure Temples is the Gold refin'd.
And would your Mind each Scripture mystery sift,
You'd find God's Altar sanctified the Gift—
For, if Man's Heart no purity supplies,
All pray'r and praise is loathsome Sacrifice!

Such are too many Priests in modern Times.
Vile, vipery pests! long catalogues of crimes!
In whom each Sin receives its grossest growth,
Begins in Perjury, and proceeds in Sloth;
Full-fed with Lust, and Luxury, ripens fast,
Then ends in deep despondency at last!

How dare their lips pronounce that impious boast
Their Hearts feel influenc'd by the Holy Ghost!
Have they ne'er heard, or read; or, now, forgot
False Ananias' and Sapphira's lot?
Who, for like falshood, felt Heav'n's wrath severe,
Nor found a time for one repentant tear;
Warning Blasphemers, in all future days,
To shun such shameless—wicked—impious—Ways!

How dare they touch the emblematic Bread
For fear an angry God should strike them dead!
Or how the blest, symbolic liquor sip,
Lest Christ, with wine, tho' cold, should scald their lip—
Strange! that their perjur'd Conscience ne'er appals,
Till trembling plate, and quivering chalice, falls!

Have not their Nurses taught, or Parents told
What fates befel the spurious Priests of old?
Or have not Tutors, in the times of Youth,
Taught them these Lessons from the Tomes of Truth,
How Aaron's Sons, by God's displeasure, fell,
Who dar'd against His order'd Rules rebel;
Offering strange Fire before their holy Lord,
In vile inebriate state, by Heav'n abhorr'd?
Not that pure Fire the Deity pours down,
To consecrate the Priest—the King—the Clown!
That warms the human Heart with due desires;
And kindles up pure Songs of heavenly Choirs,
But such false flames as graceless Minds misguide,
And Hearts impel by sacrilegious Pride;
Till, led, at length, by deep, delusive, glare,
They stumble—fall—and fell destruction share!
Or did they never hear some Friend relate
That other instance of alarming fate,
Penn'd by some Preach'r, in the sacred page,
As warning, full, for every future Age,
How Reuben's rebel Offspring felt the Rod,
Made Priests by fleshly Self, but not by God!
Who dar'd, in company with Friends, profane,
Alike presumptuous, insolent, and vain,
Against the Statutes of their Maker, strive;
Earth opening, large, and swallowing all, alive—
The gaping Glebe, with wide-extended jaws,
Avenging Heav'n's sublime and broken Laws!

Tho' wonders now ne'er interrupt His plan,
Still God's pure Spirit strives with maniac Man,
While Justice waits for Time's departing hour,
To testify His Truth, and prove His Pow'r—
Then must such ingrate minist'ry sustain
More than Chorazin's, or Capernaum's, pain,
And all such congregations undergo
Worse than Bethsaida's misery and woe!

What numbers, now, on pow'r, and plunder, bent,
Live, pamper'd, by profuse Establishment!
Extending far and wide its iron sway
To make Mankind an universal prey.
Their Bodies, and their Souls, becoming Slaves,
From opening matrices to closing graves;
Yet, while they wallow in their illgot wealth,
They ne'er regard Men's Souls', or Bodies', health.
Rest not on Learning—Diligence—or Skill—
Their Flocks' Appointment—or their pure goodwill—
But hoisted to their place, for private Ends,
By Infidels, in Pow'r, or partial Friends.

Establishments might prove of pow'rful Use,
By helping Worth, and branding wild Abuse,
Did they on Merit, or on Morals rest,
Instead of lying tongue, in legal Test—

230

On Learning—Knowledge—Gravity, and Grace;
And only patronize the pious Race;
But then, how few, among the modern Host,
Would keep their credit, or maintain their Post!

Deceptive Teachers! who, devoid of sight,
Affect to lead, and guide all others right!
Presume to show the track to Shiloh's dome,
Yet never went one furlong from their home.
Far worse than finger-posts, which fairly show
The way all ignorant wanderers ought to go;
While these ne'er point the proper path-way out,
But teach their followers wrong, or far about.
In this they're like, with neither wit, nor will,
While teaching others they themselves stand still—
But, if they move, their notions clearly say,
They're wandering round, a devious, downward, way.

Mere quack Physicians! who can scarcely tell,
Whether Themselves, or Friends, are ill—or well—
Unable to pronounce, or yield relief,
When heart, or Conscience, feels regret, or grief—
Discern no symptoms of a Soul's disease;
Completely skill'd, alone, in forcing fees,
Scarce one, among the high, doctorial, Tribe,
Knows when they're sane, or can, when sick, prescribe—
Untaught the troubled Spirit's pulse to try,
Which beats too quick, or slow, too low, or high—
Trace no distinctions when they note the Tongue,
Or when its aspect proves it right, or wrong—
How then can Understrapper-Clerks declare,
What Minds' chief maladies and med'cines are?
For thro' each College scarce can two agree
What mental sickness, pains, and troubles, be;
Much less point out, to Sinners, or to Saints.
Right recipes for Spirits' cramp complaints.

Presumptuous Pilots! who, with Learning, blind,
Consult not Seasons—Climates—Tide—or Wind.
The use of Chart, or Compass, never know,
Or which way Nature's secret Currents flow;
Yet, impudently still attempt to clear
What Track untutor'd Sailors ought to steer—
Still make mere theory their paltry plea
Who never went one single knot at Sea.

Can they point out the Course to distant Parts
Who keep no Reckonings? nor e'er conn'd their Charts?
Ne'er tried to understand their Captain's plan
Nor, in His track, one single furlong ran?
Can they show how to shun shoals—rocks—or shelves—
Who ne'er got grounded—bulg'd—or wreck'd, Themselves?
But Sailor-like, on Land, in spoil or sport,
Spend all their pence, nor care for King, or Court.

What Soul would make such Mariners his guides,
To steer his Vessel safe, thro' treacherous Tides?
Where, not alone, the stormy Winds, and Waves,
May raise misfortunes, or dig watery graves—
Where Scylla and Charybdis wildly roar,
To stop his progress tow'rd the promis'd shore—
And secret Current—Sand—Rock—shifting Shoal—
Distract—endanger—or ingulph the Soul!

Can such point out the Saviour's perfect path?
Or teach poor Pupils how to 'scape Heav'n's Wrath?
Such lov'd Disciples of the holy Lamb,
Whose chief attention's but to clothe and cram—
Race—hunt—and gamble; Run to Operas—Plays—
Balls—Routs—Fêtes—Concerts—ev'n on Sabbath-days!

Did e'er one fathful Follower doat on Dress?
Seek Goat's indulgence, or Dog's gross excess?
Like Dives live, luxurious—deck, and dine—
And suck expensive swill, like sordid Swine?

Did They indulge in frantic Fiend's delight,
By urging Beasts, beyond their force, in flight?
Lash their lank sides, and pierce the spouting vein,
Till sinking, prostrate, on the sanguine plain?
On prancing Steeds patrole each fertile Farm,
To risque Limbs—Lives—and work their Neighbour's harm—
Despite of decency, and sober Sense,
Break down dead barrier—leap thro' living fence—
Destroying Crops, in part, like Maniacs, wild,
Then taking tenths of all the parts unspoil'd;
To murder Animals for sport, or prey,
More harmless, and less hurtful, far, than They!

Did They poor simple Females' faith trapan,
Their Vanity to feed, or Lusts to fan?
Or darken darkness with a Lie, or Oath,
To gain Men's persons, and their purses, both?

Did They, 'mid Crowds, frequent dramatic Schools,
To hear their Fellows stigmatiz'd as Fools?
Men branding brother Men as Dupes, or Knaves;
As Clowns, or Coxcombs; Tyrants, Tools, or Slaves?
Not with an honest, open, true intent,
To purge their foibles, or more faults prevent,

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But to amuse an Evening's murder'd hours,
To laugh at Weakness—weep o'er prostrate Pow'rs—
Pow'rs, peradventure, making misery groan,
And mocking other's crimes, much more their own;
Despising every weak, and wicked Elf,
Compar'd with wise, prudential, upright, Self:
Spending their precious time in base abuse,
Neglecting Life's best End, and happiest Use,
Instead of counteracting all the crimes,
And monstrous trifling of these modern times?

Did they fair opportunities neglect,
To rectify mistakes, or crimes correct?
Each gracious ordinance of God despise,
And break His Rest with levity and noise?
Pursue vain fashion and procure vile fame,
Then mock at sin, and glory in their shame?

Did e'er their coadjutor, humble Paul,
Attempt to climb a Primate's princely Stall?
Did He in pomp, and Luxury, idly lurk,
And leave weak Underlings to do his work?

Did Timothy, or Titus, quit their charge,
To loll in idleness, and live at large;
And proud Archdeacon, or poor Dean depute,
While they enjoy'd rich rent, and fat first-fruit?

Did Whitfield, or did Wesley lounge at ease
Their pride to pamper, or their flesh to please;
And send their Understrappers far from home,
To find some field, or providential dome,
Where they might preach to ignorant Age and Youth,
Christ's gospel doctrines, back'd by moral truth?
Can any Christian, like these lazy Clerks,
While Conscience keeps alive Heav'n's holy sparks,
Appoint Inferiors to fulfil their trusts,
While they indulge their idleness and lusts;
From Primates, downward, to the very least,
Town-starving Curate, or pinch'd country-Priest?

These are the Shepherds prophecies foretold,
Who watch the Sheep, and strongly fence their Fold;
Not to secure flocks' happiness, or peace,
But, to devour their flesh, or shear their fleece!
Not entering in, by Jesus Christ, the door,
To nurse the feeble, and to feed the poor—
To tend the Lambs, or bear them in their arms,
Protecting all from prowling Wolves' alarms;
But climb to Office any other way
To make the whole, or any part their prey—
Like Thieves and Robbers, legally to steal,
Regardless of the Christian-Commonweal—
Aspiring still to some superior Post,
In spite of Father—Son—and Holy Ghost!

Behold them, white, or sable, wings, expand;
Like Magpies, Rooks, and Crows, o'er all the Land!
Devouring tenths of all kind Nature yields,
In Forests—Woods—cropp'd Meads, and cultur'd Fields—
Whate'er, from Providence, spontaneous flows,
And all to care and toil Creation owes—
When Woods or Forest's fall, or Meads are shorn,
Or labour'd clods produce their crops of Corn—
All that grows up from Rain—and Sun—and Sweat—
All Orchards bear, or Garden-plats beget—
The plough—the spade—the sickle—and the scythe—
Enlarging lazy Rectors' cruel Tythe.

Mark the proud Parson! fed on dainty fare—
Enlarg'd from labour and excus'd from care—
Anxious, alone, like each unhumbled, breed,
How he may propagate—clothe—fence—and feed—
To ascertain his rents, and hated rights—
To add new livings, and find fresh delights—
Alike on working days and days of rest,
In costly broad-cloth—silks—and beaver—drest—
Complete provision, fully fix'd by Law,
To clothe his carcase, and to cram his maw;
And, for his offspring, clear of care, and toil,
Amassing fortunes from the teeming Soil.
Whene'er his Reverence wanders round, on foot,
In aldermanic style behold him strut!
If he, in Carriage, or on Steed, approach,
His Person, and his Pride, load Horse, or Coach;
While, well-replenish'd with his Neighbour's store,
His Belly, boldly, travels on before,
Proud Courier-like! where'er he walk, or ride,
To tell his needs with notice to provide.

He lives in Paradise, at less expence
Than Adam, in his state of innocence;
Who was commanded His Domain to dress;
And keep, with care, that He might still possess.
Not with a flaunting, fashionable, Eve,
The benefits, as bounties, so receive;
Idling, each day, amidst his lawns and bow'rs,
Collecting chiefest—fairest—sweetest—flow'rs;
Or wandering, gaily, in each grove, and wood,
To gather every fruit, fair—choice, and good!

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On wine, and oil, and milk, and honey, feed,
Yet neither plant, nor prune, nor watch, nor weed—
But, heedless as a Pagan—Jew—or Turk—
Appoint some Hireling to his watch, and work.
Those Dupes thus doom'd to till the sacred soil,
Share little comfort for continual toil;
But labour, endlessly, with anxious care,
For scanty clothing, and for starving fare!
Still try to propagate all useful plants,
For self-necessities, and neighbours' wants,
To banish noisome broods; ply spades, and hoes;
Yet gather scarce one esculent that grows!
They press no cluster, tho' they prune the vine,
To nerve their frames, and make each feature shine;
But, while their hands their Master's vineyards dress,
Scarce earn fig-leaves to hide their nakedness!
They may associate with mere birds, and beasts—
On herbs and fruits, found wild, make summer feasts;
But, in the winter of their weary Lives,
With puny Offsprings pinch, and weakly Wives—
May sip the springs of Eden's fourfold stream:
Of Gold—of Onyxes—of Bdellium—dream;
But ne'er see Havilah's delightful Land,
Nor get one grasp of Pison's pleasant sand!

Such is the Rector's, such the Curate's, lot,
In lordly Dwelling, or in cribbing Cot,
These, for a sparing pittance, strive—and starve—
Those in proud ease recline—on plenty carve—
Grow red, and bloated with rich blood of grapes,
And share all Earth's delights, in all their shapes;
While these, weak milk-and-water-beverage quaff,
Tread out the corn, yet chew but straw and chaff—
Like labouring Cattle, every Season, seen
In endless duty—shabby, lank, and lean—
Those from each useful occupation loose,
Degenerate into sloth and base abuse;
Like fattening Oxen, doze, and drink, and feed,
In rankest clover, or in richest mead—
Rambling, at large, or stretching in their stalls,
Till Time's dread butcher, Death, unwelcome, calls;
And with resistless—sharp-wet—slaughtering knife,
Soon puts a period to such useless Life—
Thence to their graves each glutted Corpse consigns,
On which Corruption daily sups and dines—
While the loath'd worms thro' heart, and entrails, creep—
Make banquets on their brains while fast asleep,
And every moulder'd bone in atoms lies,
Till Christ's loud clarion calls the Dead to rise;
To show how gen'rous loans, thro' Life enjoy'd,
Were portions well improv'd—and well employ'd—
How all the great and gracious talents lent,
Were idly buried, or were basely spent—
Then will His sentence awfully decide
The endless lot of Poverty, and Pride;
That endless Blessing, or that endless Curse,
No Sovereign can prevent—no Pope reverse!
Meantime each Mortal who will watch, and pray
May ward off Evil from that fateful Day—
May husband, so, Will—Talents—Wealth—and Time—
That Virtue may avoid condemning Crime;
Which, carried on, by Christ's forgiving Grace,
Their Love must long to see the Saviour's face.
But—ah! how few, among deprav'd Mankind,
Can hope that Judge's face in smiles to find;
Or in His sentence look with certain trust
While here so selfish—impious—and unjust!

Could heav'nly Love establish partial plan,
To destine Man a Despot over Man?
Could Providence enforce as fix'd decree
One Soul should be a Slave, another free?
Much less that Millions of the human Race,
Should be excluded from Christ's saving Grace;
And when His Will recalls their temporal breath,
Consign their Souls to everlasting Death;
Or, infinitely worse, make all remain
With serpent Spirits, in eternal pain!
He who looks down on all with equal Eye,
That sway proud Sceptres, or, in dungeons die,
With all the numerous intermediate Ranks,
Which, for small doles, yield unreserved Thanks,
Or prodigally spend each ampler Loan,
Nor e'er the gracious Gifts, or, Giver, own!
Can He, with calm complacency, behold
Foul Scenes which Vice, and Villainy, unfold?
Or, with cold, heedless, unconcern survey,
Proud Hypocrites make honest Need their prey?
The hard oppressions practis'd, every hour,
On prostrate Penury, by Knaves, in pow'r?

Could He appoint each Potentate should reign,
With cut-throat Thousands in His haughty Train?
In Gold and Gems to swagger, strut, and shine,
While Misery dug materials from the Mine?

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With waste the products of the Earth consume,
While Want must urge the plough, and ply the loom;
Still reft of half their earnings too support
The domineering Dolts that crowd a Court?
That Nimrod Monarchs should so madly ride,
In supercilious Pomp, and trampling Pride;
Surrounded by their fawning, flattering, Bands,
To spoil the produce of the labour'd Lands;
While the sad Vassal sees, with watery eye,
Such noisy Centaurs his best hopes destroy!

Did He design a proud imperious Race,
Devoid of every Christian Gift, and Grace,
Should all His Church's wealth—pow'r—honour—seize,
To live in vicious Luxury, Lust, and Ease?
Grasp large Revenues for their sole delights,
Where thousands throng'd before for equal rights;
On which both Piety and Penury fed,
And Age and Infancy found needful Bread?
Claim tenths of produce from the manag'd sod,
The forest, fenc'd, and cultivated clod,
With all that graze the irrigated soil,
Without one moment's care or muscle's toil?
No! tho' awhile He suffer Fools or Knaves!
To cheat His Children, make His Offspring Slaves;
Distress a Rustic, or disturb a Realm,
He sits supreme at Providence's Helm—
Steers Earth's vast Vessel and commands the Crew,
With every individual full in view;
And will, at length, with retribution, just,
Condemn each Culprit who betrays his trust!

The moral Muse, thus deviating, long,
Discussing, warmly, maxims right and wrong;
Neglects the Object of her varied Lay,
Thro' Piety, and Politics to stray—
Leaves persecuted Crispin in the lurch,
To scan the State, and scrutinize the Church:
And, while she so survey'd Christ's Commonweal,
Wish'd Wit, and Pow'r were equal with her zeal,
That she might influence Freedom's common cause,
To fetter Tyrants, and reform their Laws;
And, with an ardour, like her sovereign Lord's,
Could cleanse His House with Her small scourge of cords.

The Cause of Heav'n still strengthen'd Crispin's heart,
To fill, for Conscience-sake, his duteous part,
Made him submit to many a task, unkind,
Caprice express'd, and Jealousy enjoin'd;
With numerous arbitrary Whims beside,
Compell'd by Passion, when propos'd by Pride—
Well-knowing it was God's explicit Will,
That faithful Servants Masters' tasks fulfil,
Till He stretch forth His providential Hand,
To bring out Israel's Race from Egypt's Land—
But when the despot Dame's commands infring'd
The moral rules on which His honour hing'd,
His conscientious Mind would, meekly, dare
To speak his scruples, and his doubts declare,
And, rather than kind Heav'n's behests abuse
The Creature's fiat, for Christ's Faith, refuse.

Thus did our Hero, when the Case was clear,
Withstand weak whim, or mandates more austere;
But, while he dared this duteous part perform
His Vessel was involv'd in many a storm.
A feeble skiff, in maddening Ocean moor'd,
With all his Friends, and Stock-in-Trade aboard—
His anchor and his cable, feeble hopes!
Made up of rusty iron, and rotten ropes;
Subject to snap with every squally breeze,
And forc'd, again, to try uncertain Seas;
Amidst wild waves, and secret rocks and sands,
Without a prospect of approaching lands;
With leaky bottom, and weak-boarded sides,
Unfit for conflicts with strong winds and tides;
And when the Pilot gain'd a prosperous gale
Still prone to urge too great a press of sail—
But Heav'n the rudder held, and show'd the rout,
Enabling him, each hour, to ride it out;
And thus, 'mid treacherous foes, and trying fears,
Kept the poor Crew at Sea, near sev'n long Years.

When blythe Scintilla, at her Dome, sublime,
To pass away her Evening's tedious time,
Form'd private parties, so, collusive, call'd,
When twenty—forty—sixty—Names were bawl'd,
By frequent summons, on dull Sunday night,
To put all frightful things, and thoughts, to flight—
Things of eternal—infinite—concern!
That all should show, in Life, as well as learn.
Thoughts Grace induces, in God's holy Day,

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On pious hearts, which simply watch and pray—
Thoughts all should seek—and, thankfully, receive;
Not quench the impulse, and pure Offerer grieve—
Promis'd for all, to furnish fuller joy,
Which Time ne'er taints, nor Accidents destroy—
Which Pomp should ne'er prevent, or Pride repel,
In splendid Circle, more than private Cell;
Pleasure ne'er drown, or Dissipation drive
From the frail heart of any Soul alive.
But such vain Triflers urge their strenuous toil,
The heavy hours, of Sabbaths, to beguile;
While with egregious nonsense and grimace,
They grieve kind Conscience, and the Day disgrace;
Expending precious talents, time, and breath,
To drown ungrateful thoughts of God, and Death.

Do They, who, thus, with mad, mistaken, Taste,
These desecrated Evenings weakly waste—
Still, with their utmost efforts, mutual, strive,
To keep their momentary mirth alive—
With fulsome flattery, circling round, to raise
Self-love's fix'd glow to Vanity's full blaze—
Or Pride, with idol-adoration, swell,
Which springs from Satan, and which points to Hell!
Do They experience permanent delights
Like those who spend their hours in holy rites?
Who elevate, with Love, their humble hearts
To Him who every gift, and grace, imparts?
All sinful Passions—Lusts—and Pride, repress,
And look alone to Him for Happiness?
Who prompt each Virtue—pious Vows renew,
And give all Honour where all Honour's due?
Do such the silent Night, and Darkness, dread?
The lone retirement? or the sleepless bed?
God's Omnipresence—Justice—Truth, and Pow'r—
The day of Death, and Judgment's awful hour—
Like those, with Wit—Rank—Riches—Birth—unblest,
Who thus profane the Eves of sacred rest?

Will such pursuits, 'neath fashionable roof,
With foolish laughter, keep such fears aloof?
Those thoughts, like Spectres, Fops, and Flattery, spurn,
But will they not in soberer times return?
Will not the dread of Death, and God, intrude,
In times of silence and of solitude?
Or, in sequester'd hours of nightly gloom,
Reflections on the Grave, and day of Doom?

Can They with flights of Wit, or force of Will,
Repel such thoughts—keep such reflections still?
Tear Conscience from her fix'd retreat within,
And quite ungraft all sense of guilt, and sin,
Make void Heav'n's Laws? all Virtue's dues disown?
And force the Saviour from His sovereign Throne?

Alas! such Follies not ev'n Fools suffice,
Nor yield the Spirit pure and genuine Joys;
But like lit thorns that crackle round a pot,
Just for a moment blaze, and then, are not;
So may such frail amusements flaunt awhile,
Inflame fall'n Souls—make sinful Bodies broil,
But soon such fuel with a flash consumes,
And mocks its furnishers with murkier glooms;
While, in each Mind, some rankling thorn remains,
To rouze remorse, and pierce with lasting pains!
But Heav'n's blest Worshippers, who live below,
Experience pleasure's, still increasing, glow;
Pure, genuine pleasures, while they sojourn here,
And bliss unbounded in celestial Sphere!

On such occasions Crispin had no call
To occupy an active post, at all;
Yet would his heart rebel, his Conscience burn,
To mark immortal Creatures' unconcern;
And, in the fervour of his faithful zeal
For Christ, and for the Christian Commonweal,
Oft urge on all the servile train around,
Their breach of duty, and his bosom's wound!

How could he countenance the daring deed,
That broke the Law, his Lord, and their's, decreed;
Or reconcile such conduct with the phrase
Of keeping holy Heav'n's appointed Days!

Contempt and pity, both, disturb'd his pow'rs,
At thus perverting Heav'n's most holy hours
Contempt, that Courtiers were no better taught,
And, pity, for their want of wiser thought;
Considering such blind Souls must die unblest,
For each bold breach of Heav'n's most high behest,
Should they their God and Saviour so offend,
Without repentance, till Life's fatal end.
The only plea pure Charity could urge,
To stop the sentence, and restrain the scourge,
Must be Christ's caveat o'er His murderers' Crew,
“Father—forgive! they know not what they do!”

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But how could this be argued, when the herd
Was headed, oft, by Guardians of God's Word?
Not its true Ministers; their hearts would dread
To find their Souls to such temptation led;
But those High-priests who rank with temporal Peers,
The Church's Chiefs! Christ's Household-Overseers!
These ought, by greater trusts much more engage
To guide and govern Heav'n's fair heritage;
And should, with shine, supreme, transcendent stand,
Like Suns, sublime, to light a cloudy Land—
Or, like fix'd Pole-stars, permanent, and clear,
Teach Christ's true Sailors how their course to steer.
And tho' too rich—too idle—and too proud,
To teach, by precepts, the profaner Crowd,
Yet should their sanctity, each Sabbath, shine,
To prove God's Mandate, and His Day, divine—
Not let their living, like their silent lips,
Spread o'er cold Consciences a dark eclipse—
Tho' not by Sermons, by Example, say,
“Remember Thou keep holy Heav'n's own Day!”

Had only common, paltry, Clerks appear'd,
In Playhouse oftener seen, than Pulpit heard—
Who, in the Fox-chase, more than Closets, toil,
And lay their Bibles by to study Hoyle—
Who flatter Folly—ignorant Dupes endure—
Catching all interests to obtain a Cure—
Presumptuously neglect Christ's public Courts,
For sacrilegious schemes, and private sports—
Mix with the idle—volatile—and vain—
In quest of Pleasure, or in hopes of Gain—
Pursuing both by flattery—folly—lies,
This ne'er had caus'd one symptom of surprize—
But for the sake of such low fame, and lust,
Gave Crispin's Conscience pain, and deep disgust.
How then did secret indignation swell,
Beholding Bishops point the way—to Hell!
Misleading Laics, and poor priestly Elves,
By wandering downwards tow'rd the gulph themselves!
Breaking that Law by levity and pride,
With which Man's countless mass ought all be tied!
Not separately confin'd to humble Cots,
To regulate, alone, mean Mortals' lots;
But high imperial Rule, subjecting all
Who wear a Crown, or occupy a stall,
As well as Boors, who to the Sceptre bow,
Or, at a Prelate's feet confirm their Vow!
A Statute paramount to all the pleas
Of Canons' Conclaves, or dread Pope's decrees!
Which constitutes a Part of that pure Code,
That circumscribes each reasoning Creature's road;
A perfect Part of that most perfect Whole,
Which stamps the Duties of each deathless Soul!
'Tis like all Heav'n's unfathomable Arts—
Like God, Himself! one Whole, compos'd of Parts!
One adamantine Chain! all Agents, Yoke!
Whose force is lost if but one link be broke!
Thus every Soul that breaks this single Clause,
Incurs the curse that lies on all its Laws;
And all that keep not every Clause entire,
Must meet Heav'n's frowns; may feel Hell's endless fire!
None but true Saints can hope the blest reverse,
Who look to Jesu's Cross to 'scape the Curse;
As Israel's legions, in their journeying state,
View'd brazen Serpent, to reverse their fate.
What hope, then, can such Culprits entertain
To shun the penalty, and 'scape the pain?
Who not alone on Sabbaths break Heav'n's Laws
But every hour infringe with numerous flaws!
Ev'n in their dull Devotion's public Parts
By cold affections, and with heartless hearts;
While not a true Believer, now, below,
But sees, and sorrows, o'er these Ways of Woe:
Nay, not a Saint, who now inhabits Heav'n
But mark'd, and mourn'd, on Earth, this fleshly leav'n!
Each, now, must find, tho' fix'd in bliss, above,
Some imperfections in his filial Love,
When looking back on blest experience, here,
And what God's Grace is still bestowing there!
Ev'n the pure Cherubim that chaunt on high,
Must feel some symptoms of their Love's alloy,
While, fill'd with wonder, each sublimely sings,
And hides his face with wide-unfolded wings!
How then shall those dire condemnation 'scape,
Who break Love's holy Bonds in shameful shape?
Who quench Heav'n's fires with sordid, selfish phlegm,
And spoil its Rest with puerile sports like them!
This is a theme demanding deepest thought,
Which Laymen may discuss, but Clerics ought—
Some small return for what they deem their rights,

236

Dues, privileges, pow'rs—all dear delights!
A subject proper for each priestly place;
But Bishops, chief, should shun such deep disgrace,
While God allows them Life's uncertain Lease,
For present welfare, and for future peace—
To fix affiance in each doubting Mind,
Securing Heav'n's best gifts to all Mankind!
This is a most important paradox,
The Priesthood should explain to all their Flocks;
A paradox that ought still prompt their pow'rs
To studious toil, each Morn's and Evening's hours;
But most in days ordain'd, by Heav'n's Behest,
For Faith's reflections on its holy Rest—
Should knowledge—learning—reason—exercise,
To clear its judgments, and secure its joys!
Instead of mad frivolity and mirth,
And wit, and eloquence; all but little worth!
The God of Grace, with warmest ardour, urge,
With heavenly light their mental pow'rs to purge,
That each those Truths, and Mysteries, may discern,
All Pastors ought expound—all People learn!
By comments clear, that seeking Souls may find,
Full satisfaction for their thoughtful Mind;
Deliver'd from all doubt, and dreadful fear,
And feeling genuine joys, while wandering here;
With full assurance of eternal store,
When, with their Life, their labours will be o'er—
But by their blind misleadings all may miss
The way to earthly peace, and heav'nly bliss!
While views and visions of infernal dread
Must haunt their daily path, and dying bed,
For thus neglecting their eternal trusts
To feed their follies, and indulge their lusts!
Heav'n's Truths, and Mysteries, many a Soul can solve,
Whom labour, care, and poverty, involve—
Whose heads no learning bear; no knowledge boast—
Ne'er mix'd with cleric herd, or courtly host;
But constant Courtiers round God's gracious Throne,
Who makes to such His Truths and Mysteries known—
While King, and Priest, yea, ev'n prelatic Clerk,
Purblind with Pride, grope daily in the dark.
Not only this perplext poor Crispin's breast,
On days ordain'd, by God, for sacred Rest;
But more intense emotions hurt his Heart
When Pow'r compell'd to take an active Part.
On Sabbaths, oft, were splendid Tables spread,
That Sycophants, and Courtiers, might be fed.
Furnish'd with costly, and with curious, fare,
Where Crispin was oblig'd his lot to bear:
At side-board bound to take accustom'd stand,
As mighty Marshal of inferior Band,
Endeavouring there to dignify the Place,
With looks of Gravity, and airs of Grace;
Lest Pimp, or Parasite, with seeking eye,
Should mark a careless look, or limb awry,
And make some spurious criminal report
Before his Queen's inquisitorial Court.
This harrass'd, sore, his philosophic Sense,
But aching Conscience felt much more offence,
To see so many Souls' immortal Pow'rs
Urg'd hard to labour thro' those holy hours—
Such Pow'rs, all capable of bliss, sublime;
So sacrific'd to things of Sense and Time;
While all those mental Pow'rs should find employ,
To fit them for that bliss Heav'n's hosts enjoy!
Compell'd to occupy such carnal Posts,
In lieu of worshipping the Lord of Hosts;
Merely that Troops of Epicures might taste,
Pernicious pleasures, of an hour's repast!

Crispinus 'mid the common motley Crowd,
Fondly profane, and dissolutely loud!
Was forc'd to tread a tedious length of street
To get ingredients for the fleshly Treat,
Of choicest kind, but yet of cheapest cost;
While Heav'n's lov'd opportunity was lost,
Of joining thrilling Souls, in solemn Throngs,
To greet their God with thanks, and sacred Songs;
Or, with confession, holding conference, high,
With Him whose Goodness governs Earth and Sky!
But tho' poor Crispin's Body was withheld,
The Spirit's absence could not be compell'd;
For his devoted Soul, with warm desire,
Accorded well with each adoring Choir,
While, elevated high, his pious heart,
In every pray'r, and blessing, bore its part—
And let this consolation soothe the Souls
Whose sacred wish some Tyrant's will controuls,

237

That while the Mind, with sacrilege laments,
No sin's ascrib'd except the Heart consents:
Yet should each pious, virtuous, Soul avoid
Such ostentatious haunts of impious Pride,
Or from such scenes of Vanity escape,
Where Satan tempts in each seductive shape.

Nor did this Despot-Governess engage,
With Heav'n's behests, alone, base war to wage,
But forc'd the Bard, by parsimonious plan,
To break the mutual Ties ordain'd by Man.

A female Relative, to save her Pelf,
Disclos'd a scheme she realiz'd herself;
And, with a Sister's feelings, fondly taught
Where smuggled goods, with profit, might be bought—
But, chief, pure Coffee, might be purchas'd thence,
Fresh, as in shops, at greatly less expence.

To cloke this commerce, and the crime conceal
Cunning contriv'd to spread her specious veil,
By vending legal goods, for virtuous gold,
That needed not in secresy be sold—
Where every purchaser, if not too proud,
Could buy such bargains, in a common crowd,
As might securely curious gazers greet
On all the public pegs in Monmouth Street;
Or deck the pavement at the daily Fair,
Where Israel's tribes, in dirty troops, repair,
And every danger, every fear, defy,
Midst Tyrants of the Customs, skulking by.

There might be bought, expos'd for paltry gain,
The quondam trappings of the queenly Train;
There Beaux and Belles might make each beauty shine,
By decking backs, heads, limbs, for little coin,
And, thus bedizon'd with each royal Thing,
All fancy Self, Prince—Princess—Queen—or King!

There, thrown in splendid heaps—not hung on pegs,
The Hose which whilom press'd lov'd Princes' legs—
There, gayly flashing gold, or silver, flame,
What once fond hugg'd most sacred Monarch's Frame;
Each varied sort of silk, or velvet, Vest,
By clothing kingly body doubly blest!
Which, long reflecting Sovereign's solar light,
Had dazzled, while they drew, each servile sight!
Dear Linen, rich with aromatic dews,
Which pores of Potentates, alone diffuse;
And nameless robes, tho' bald, both sweet and fair,
Each cringing Courtier would, as nosegays, wear!
There, plac'd, with secret rapture, rich, were seen
Habiliments, once clasping Britain's Queen!
With curious darns, by regal fingers drawn,
Which rais'd their worth, to purchase, or, to pawn—
The flounces furnish'd with sweet-scented dust,
And precious metals, richer for the rust;
Which promptly might, at much remoter time,
Give greater brightness to each shred sublime!
There, too, each graceful garment might be found,
Whose envied foldings, erst, so fondly wound
Round lovely female Frames, of royal Race,
Not giving beauty, or bestowing grace,
But boasting fairer fame, and choicer charms,
From heavenly faces—necks and breasts—and arms,
With other sweet, and pure, celestial, parts,
Which win all clownish eyes, and courtly hearts!
And tho' some little tarnish might be trac'd,
Around the borders, or below the waist,
Yet all angelic Princesses transpire
Could only help to claim their value high'r—
And tho' some keen, discriminating, Eye,
Might here, and there, Economy descry,
The needle's labours, or proud pencil's touch,
No Lady deem'd one stroke, or stitch, too much—
While wrought by royal industry, and skill,
The Vesture's value was increasing, still,
In wonderous ratio! tho' the wardrobe, all,
Were one close patch-work, or one painted scrawl;
There Clothes were on shelf, or floor, or bench,
In which fierce York and Clarence scar'd the French;
Or other Princes shone, with warlike show,
Whose skill and courage frighted every Foe!

These once ordain'd, in happier days, to shine
On Prince, or Princess; Queen, or King divine!
And, like their Wearers, more than mortal view'd,
By Courtiers, they; both by the Multitude.
Now, like neglected Greatness, in disgrace,
Deeply degraded from the first embrace;
Which, when it can support mock Pomp no more,
Is turn'd, contemptuous, from the Palace door,
For ever banished from the smile of Kings,
And rank'd, as refuse, with inferior Things!

238

With grosser garbs, as they that wore them, must,
Like meaner Mortals all be lodg'd in dust,
So were these royal reliques doom'd to dwell,
In the cramp'd sections of a Smuggler's cell—
By filth emboss'd, and fleecy cobwebs bound,
Where various vermin hunt in hourly round—
Mix'd with foul frippery, ev'n of Sisters frail,
Like selfish Courtiers, all expos'd to sale;
So to abide, no longer blythe and gay,
Till some new buyer bring them back to Day.

Such situation still may be compar'd
To that shrew'd office, which, before, they shar'd;
To hide beneath their dazzling gold's disguise,
Slight peccadillos, such as courtly Lies,
Avarice, and Lust; Hypocrisy, and Pride;
And some few foibles, of like sort, beside—
Thus, now, they serve, as coverings, to conceal
All kinds of Knavery, under virtuous veil,
While, in antique, but courtly, pomp display'd,
They cover Villainy with shining shade,
Exhibited abroad, in brilliant heap,
All puff'd to chafferers, now, as choice and cheap;
To jilt the judgment by their gaudy glare,
And offering specious proofs of traffic, fair,
As legal curtains cloking lawless ware.

But, Crispin, Agent, in this plot employ'd,
By that fair Trader might not be denied,
'Twas now requir'd some written document,
From well-known Pen's full sanction, should be sent,
By trusty Bearer, craftily convey'd,
To stablish such a noble branch of Trade;
And, like Ambassadors, of brighter fame,
Still urge, with cunning craft, obnoxious claim,
Lest Foes of deeper skill should counteract,
And stop the progress of intended pact—
For, in such lurking traffic, always lies
Much room for doubt—suspicion—and surmise—
Lest mischief might the Vendor's views impeach
And level all to Law's opprobrious reach:
For oft the heart, which Conscience never curbs,
Some crabbed Statute cruelly disturbs;
And every contraband endeavour awes
By the stern aspect of some penal clause.
So compacts carried on, by courtly Foes,
Are full of treachery, and tricks, like those;
While, muffled up, in Cunning's mimic mask,
In spite of Justice, ply their specious task;
Making both Morals and Religion bend
To gain, by dangerous guilt, some dirty end.

That this advantage nothing might defer,
The manuscript must be supplied by Her
Who this clandestine Commerce long had plied,
To prove her skill, and save her pence, beside,
In types well-ascertain'd as soon as seen,
By the sharp glance of shamefaced Mrs. G---n.

Tho' different doctrines Crispin's Conscience held,
Yet, here, supreme Authority compell'd;
Which, for a moment, silenc'd moral saws
To fit him for the breach of binding Laws;
And, by those base credentials, thus contrive
To break the business, that such Trade might thrive;
Deputed as a Man of words, but wary,
To manage every apt preliminary;
Becoming, while he fill'd this office, so,
His smuggling Patroness's Plenipo.

When Crispin went, and hung the Signal out,
His awful Form suggested fearful doubt,
Whether he might not, from his sex, and size,
Be some insidious Traytor in disguise.
Negotiations, of that subtle kind,
Are mostly manag'd by some female Mind;
For, e'er since Eve perform'd her smuggling part,
Her Daughters are most dext'rous in that Art,
But more egregiously the Sex transgress,
In smuggling articles for fig-leaf Dress.
He well might Woman's panting heart appal,
His frame so formidably stout, and tall!
And, tho' few faces less bespoke design,
Yet all who deal in counterfeited coin,
Scan with a cautious, scrutinizing, care,
To shun each sly, insinuating snare;
And Women most suspect all mortal Elves,
Fearing those weaknesses they feel Themselves—
But, having circumstantial notice took,
With nicest scrupulosity of look,
And after many a speech—and many a pause—
While weighing Lucre with rash risque of Laws—
No longer led such Suitor to perplex,
With modest meanings, like the softer Sex,
Deign'd to insinuate, with soft words and airs,
She had, occasionally, sold such wares.

239

Thus, having wander'd thro' each winding curve
Of squeamish qualms, and feminine reserve,
And fully frustrated each prudish plea,
The immoral mart was, now, unfeign'dly free.

Audacious traffic! dark and dangerous Trade,
So near the spot where penal rules are made,
By Pow'rs combin'd of Commons—Lords—and Kings,
Prohibiting such untax'd, thriftless, Things;
All Subjects to coerce, low Rogues restrain
And give great Villains, only, hopes of Gain!

Tho' thus obnoxious, Crispin was engag'd,
And witless War, 'gainst Law and Gospel wag'd,
But, much embarrass'd, loads, illicit, bore,
By monarch-Magistrate's deep-guarded door—
Full well aware he'd poor excuse to plead,
In mitigation of the shameless deed;
While frail Employer's wealth might well afford,
With costlier legal cates to crown her board—
And tho' his Will complied, in evil hour,
To gratify such Avarice, Pride, and Pow'r;
Yet, he, like all Offenders, felt, within,
Conviction, sore, the constant curse of Sin!
He fear'd a full refusal might offend
A fellow-Mortal! much-professing Friend!
Tho', while he occupied a different post,
His Spirit had defied an armed host!

For several Seasons did this commerce last,
To chosen Friends affording cheap repast—
Still to the prompt Provider doubly sweet,
It sav'd some coin yet gave accustom'd treat.
But Crispin's breast, thro' all this tedious time,
Felt burden'd, sore, with consciousness of crime,
Till, knowing how his anxious heart was pain'd,
The deprecated practice Heav'n restrain'd—
In course of this accurs'd, illegal, Scheme,
Against all rule, both civil and supreme,
At length, unmeet for fashionable Dame,
A base, abominable, cargo, came;
A musty, filthy, mass—and far unfit
To offer Friends of Wealth, or Taste and Wit—
Ev'n far inferior to some paltry trash
Fair Traders cast away, with loss of cash.

Here was a dire dilemma! how could cost
Be now secur'd, and not the value lost?
Long lay the coarse commodity unus'd—
The knavish Vendor much, meantime, abus'd—
While Crispin oft was urg'd, with taunt austere,
By fair exchange his character to clear;
And Reason said, while he receiv'd his pay,
His Will was bound, and Duty bid obey—
But Conscience pleaded, paramount command,
The Laws of Heav'n, and of his native Land.

This was a thought that sway'd his pensive Soul,
Beyond a mortal Mistress's controul!
Resolv'd no more strict Justice to degrade
By thus engaging in this graceless Trade;
But all commands, with fortitude, refuse,
Which robb'd Society of social dues;
And firmly now defy a Despot's nod,
Who bade him thus wage war with Man—and God!

Among Delinquents; who, thus, lawless, deal,
So inconsistent with the common Weal!
The callous Conscience ne'er is over-nice
About the rules of Virtue, or of Vice—
For Earth's or Heaven's Codes but little care,
While they can safely purchase cheaper Ware;
Careful, alone, with all their wicked wiles,
To shun the punishment, and share the spoils—
Grasping at all their greediness can get,
For all is favourite fish that comes to net.
But how can Christians e'er prefer a claim
To gospel-grace, or own that noblest Name!
How hold a close communion, when alone,
With One to whom all frauds are fully known!
Whose piercing Eye the deepest plot can scan,
Which Cunning may conceal from moral Man?
How can they look tow'rds Heav'n's lov'd Mercy seat,
Or hope for pardon, tho' their pray'rs, intreat,
While their iniquitous clasp'd palms contain
Such unjust savings?—such ill-gotten gain?
Much less a blessing from Heaven's righteous Lord
Whose rank dishonesty deserves a Cord!

How can that being who is boundless Love,
And holds Heav'n's perfect balances above—
Whose hand the sword of Justice still suspends,
E'er view such vile offenders as His Friends?
How can such Conscience His pure Throne approach,
Whose treacherous tricks on civil claims encroach?

240

To Christ's tribunal daringly appeal,
And no remorse, fears, nor forebodings, feel,
But tempt the tryal of that awful test,
While counteracting Heav'n's most high behest?
Spoke thus, in thunder, from dread Sinai's heights,
“Man, like his own, shall hold all other's rights!”

How can such crafty Miscreants Neighbours face,
With calm composure, in a public place?
Confront a Fellow's look devoid of fear,
Convinc'd they cheat each honest creature there?
Or shake right hands, without the blush of shame,
While the left holds, conceal'd, that other's claim?

Let not Delinquents, thus, themselves deceive—
By such base practices both Parties thieve!
In each such secret, such injurious, job,
Each faithful Tradesman, thus, they foully rob!
While still is stolen, by such vile, peecant, plan,
Some property from every honest Man—
Thus all who basely join such unjust band,
Become vile Nuisances in every Land!

End of First Uolume.

	CHAPTER 12th. The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse