University of Virginia Library

Long did Crispinus duteous tasks discharge—
And proud Scintilla's train, and pomp, enlarge—
Her pow'r support—her property protect,
And none accus'd of crimes, or lax respect,
Obedient bending to each harsh behest,
Yet less and less he mark'd his cause caress'd.
Still cutting Taunts, and Petulance, conspir'd,
And full, at Friends, their light artillery fir'd,
While many a cruel Scheme, and wicked Whim,
Were, like mask'd batteries, levell'd all at Him;
And levied forces, with their lighter arms,
Disturb'd his days, and nights, with new alarms.

He thought such acrid, hostile, conduct strange,
Yet ne'er predicted thence the destin'd change—
Feeling his heart was faithful, true, and just,
And, careful, still, to execute his trust,
He ne'er imagin'd Mischief could be near,
Felt not, nor fancied, either doubt, or fear;
Nor deem'd disaster ever could arise
From what gave Justice claims, and conscience joys.

No glorious prospect of augmented store
Could disappoint her Fancy as before—
Nor, as before, to stir her subtle Soul,
With specious plea, a sly Supplanter stole,
To skulk about the place with specious art,
Till taught to plan and act his compound part,
Who, with a shabby Partner, could not shift
To fill Crispinus place when turn'd adrift.
At home, when Crispin view'd the servile Host,
He found no rival who could fill his post—
No empty Puppy of her treacherous Train,
His multifarious tasks could e'er sustain—
While, to her narrow schemes a constant Slave,
He strove each economic sous to save.
Thus, looking round, with philosphic eye,
He saw no prospect of expulsion nigh;
No hook where Jealousy could hang a doubt,
That Cruelty, so soon, might cast him out—
That he, like any Demon might be drove
While bent to imitate blest Hosts above.

Had he been conscious his base heart conceal'd
Atrocious tricks, or Vices, which, reveal'd,
Must stamp a stigma on his noisome Name,
And hold him up to Time's perpetual shame—
Or had he perpetrated devilish deeds,
O'er which a Christian's Conscience burns, and bleeds;
And, ruminating o'er each foul offence,
Had fear'd some judgment from just Providence,
Condemning Conscience had foretold disgrace,
With lasting loss of Patronage, and Place.
Then might his heart have felt prophetic dread
Of heavy vengeance hanging o'er his head;
Of poverty, and shame, and pain, and woe,
Embittering all his hours, of Life while here below!
But how could he expect such dire desert,
Who wish'd from Earth, all evil to avert?
How doubt, or danger, e'er disturb his Mind,
Who sought the happiness of all Mankind?
Who ne'er contriv'd perfidious plot, or plan,
Against the interests of one mortal Man;
Not even his greatest Enemies, much less
Against his cruel, once kind, Patroness!
No! he besought the God his heart ador'd,
And, as her highest good, His Grace implor'd
To fill her, here, with Faith and Hope, and Love,
And guide her Spirit, safe, to bliss above!

Borne down with trouble, and harsh taunts, he bore,
His heart would oft, his present lot deplore,
And, spite of threaten'd woes, from thorny want,
Again for glad emancipation pant;
No longer forc'd fair Liberty to stake
But hazard every ill for Freedom's sake.
Freedom, with want of bread, were better, far,
Than thus, with plenty, wage continual War—
Better than stoop a voluntary Tool,
And learn harsh lessons in a Tyrant's school—
Better to wear out Age in endless Work—
Than bear the stripes of arbitrary Turk—
Better to leave this labouring, anxious, Life
Than live in Scenes of endless hate and strife;
For not alone the Ruler of his hours
Convuls'd his Spirit by her vengeful pow'rs—
His nerves still harrass'd with new toils and cares,
But sought to trap his heart with soothing snares—
Still practising the Serpent's cunning wiles,
With winning Words, and soft familiar smiles,
His caution to relax, his lips unfold,
Some truth to broach, or tale, before, untold,
And each clear sentiment, or secret hint,
Firm, in malignant memory deep imprint,
To shape impeachment at some future time,
And make each cast of Mind a monstrous crime;
By waspish Wit, and cunning, cruel, Art,
Form'd into feather'd shaft, or poisonous dart,
To fix each barb in his tormented breast,
By spiteful Passion, or by rancorous Jest.
Nor only thus She exercis'd Her pow'rs,
To stab his heart in those ill-fated hours,
But mov'd her Myrmidons, of either Sex,
By impudence to teize, or Art to vex
The sensibilities that sway'd his Soul,
To thwart his thoughts or virtuous views controul,
Till gross audacity of conduct grew
To heights which savage Nature seldom knew.
Not only was a desperate, foreign, Dupe,
Selected from the male unliveried Troop,
Meet instrument of every foul offence,
For murdering manners, or insulting Sense—
The Tool of Passion—Slave of Lust and Pride—
Of every Virtue—all Religion, void,
Except pretence to stupid papal plan
Which saps the Morals, and the Sense, of Man
Vers'd in all vile impiety of speech
Which circles, in night-cellars, rarely reach;
And conduct, so abominably base
As well might flush the brassiest blackguard's face:
By craft encourag'd in such service, vile,
With partial favours, and applausive smile;
Which, when he found himself no more caress'd
In fits of spleen, and penitence confess'd.
Nor this malicious Agent, only, urg'd,
That Crispin's patience might be amply scourg'd,
And his firm fortitude completely tried,
A dauntless female menial, thus, employ'd;
One who all decent sentiment might crush;
Might make a gambling-house, or brothel, blush;
With foul effrontery modesty defy,
And daunt all truth with dark, audacious, lie,
To grieve his Spirit, and his pow'r engage,
With matchless impudence, and daring rage!

Scintilla's secret, Machiavelian, aim,
Was, Crispin's wakeful feelings to inflame,
That Word, unwarranted, or Sentence rash,
Might lay him open to her waling lash—
Some sentiment, imprudent, might escape,
Which skill could hammer into twisted shape;
Or some intemperate, unintended, Act,
Might serve to slacken long-experienc'd pact;
That Cunning might contrive some apt pretence
To drive the persecuted Culprit thence:
But calm reflection kept his bosom still,
In meek submission to his Master's Will,
Whose Providence had fix'd that hapless Place,
To grieve his heart and exercise His Grace;
His Faith, and his Affection's pow'rs to prove,
Then from those Tears, and miseries, remove.

When that conjecture struck the dubious Bard,
He shunn'd aggression—fix'd a double guard—
From principle, and prudence, circumspect,
No relaxation suffer'd—no neglect—
With watchful diligence constrain'd his lips
To keep his tongue from all offensive trips—
With scrutinizing care each charge survey'd—
With greater accuracy told, and weigh'd;
In each department to prevent abuse,
And leave impeaching Spleen without excuse:
For, tho' his comfortless experience, there,
Was ever mortifying—oft severe—
Yet was his daily sustenance ensur'd,
His clothing, couch, and shelter, all secur'd.
But small emoluments would ill afford
His absent Family a starving board;
While countless articles much more require,
For lodging, raiment, furniture, and fire.
His poor Dependents found but scanty fare,
From all his self-denying Soul could spare;
Whose fond affections never would deny
All his confin'd finances could supply;
Small gains, mock-majesty, with grudgings, gave,
To recompense a poor, insulted Slave!
Much less could strict economy renew,
The needful dress, for such connections due,
From those revenues that her narrow Soul
Deem'd ample wages, with an added dole;
Tho' they, with endless industry, the while,
United nightly to their daily toil,
To ease his anxious care, assist his need,
To educate, and clothe, and fence, and feed.
He never found their cravings could be fill'd,
With dribbling drops her hollow heart distill'd;
Or fatten'd on the crumbs their wants could find,
From sorry morsels from her selfish Mind—
Ne'er hop'd one Individual's frame to fence,
With the fam'd fruits of her beneficence;
Or one lank limb with decency to shrowd,
With all her heart his toil—care—zeal—allow'd.
He ne'er once wish'd his Family were fed
With heedless bounty, or with idle bread;
Nor, from pert views of Vanity and Pride,
To deck, with finery a frail Outside—
With beastly luxury to drink, and carve,
And let poor Piety, and Virtue starve—
With ostentatious ornaments to clothe,
Which simple Souls, with true Religion, loathe—
But that their youthful Frames might duly thrive,
And, in old Age, kept more than half-alive;
While Wife and, Children cloth'd in comely dress,
Might honour Husband—Parent—Patroness;
But not appear in ragged, squalid Case,
Their shame-faced Friends, and Family's disgrace.

Here, for a moment, pause, while I relate
Rare deed of goodness in their abject state;
An act of bounty Affluence ne'er can boast
While Wealth, superfluous, feeds its hungry Host!
Conceal'd by those concern'd; here, penn'd, to show
How far Philanthropy's kind pow'r can go.
An Act beyond the bounds of proud pretence,
The poor parade of blythe Benevolence!
An Act to shame the shining Rich, and Great,
Who boast Mines—Manors—on their vast Estate—
And show sham feasts, and benefits, abroad,
That Children may be charm'd, and Dupes applaud;
Or those that Hospital, or Almshouse, build,
That each Fool's mouth may with mock Fame be fill'd—
An Act all idol-eulogies to stop,
And make vain Statues of vile Donors drop!
An Act far nobler than the noisy deeds
Of hypocrite Professions publish'd meeds,
Which ne'er in heavenly Registers exist,
But blazing bright, alone, in earthly list!
Past pure Beneficence's common claim;
And Might most Christians' cheeks suffuse with shame,
While calculating large remaining store
Blushing their bounty had disburs'd no more!
One solitary instance, so sublime,
In all the long-revolving tracts of Time
Appears, display'd in Truth's historic Page
In any Nation, or in any Age—
One faithful Fact recorded in that Book,
Where Wealth—Pow'r—Pomp, and Pride, but rarely look;
Produc'd their doles, and bounties, to contemn,
By One more pow'rful—rich—and great—than Them!

Thro' London-town, one Autumn's even-tide,
Compell'd to wander, Providence her guide!
Crispinus' Daughter trod her weary way,
Which Labour's constant calls forbad by day—
Not to exhibit her attractive charms
And draw admirers to an harlot's arms,
Which wild nefarious Fancy might surmise,
And malice dar'd assert with dauntless lies;
Malignant Falshood! which She dared assert,
Who felt a Fiend's delight in other's hurt.
She scorn'd all carnal sport; all cursed pelf!
Thus, injuring others to undo herself
By moral, pious, Parents, better taught,
To spurn such practice and constrain the thought—
Still, with a virtuous, vigilant, intent,
On commendable business solely bent,
To find such useful, honest, pure employ,
As yields the offspring hope, the parent joy!

'Twas this kind Individual's hap to meet
A decent Stranger wandering thro' the street,
Who stopp'd her steps, and bow'd his body low,
And then began a bitter tale of woe!
A tender narrative of hapless loss!
Of cruel troubles! and of trials cross!
With many a grating circumstance of grief,
Soliciting, polite, some small relief.

But she alas! had nothing in her charge,
And Pity long'd to tender something large!
She felt, with pain, intense, an empty purse,
In such sad case, an aggravated curse!
What could she do? she, pensive, stepp'd before,
Leading the Moaner to her Mother's door;
And entering in, where Neatness cover'd Need,
To tell the tale—the Plaintiff's cause to plead—
She needed not to act a specious part,
To search the secrets of her Mother's heart;
Nor practice eloquence of look or speech,
The ready feelings of that heart to reach;
She only sought the simple truth to show—
Conscious all Want could spare her Kindness would bestow.
Ah me! my Muse ne'er can, in rhyme, recite
How Sorrow choakt all Charity's delight!
What mixt emotion struggled to repress
The modest Matron's painful wretchedness!
How Disappointment her meek heart dismay'd;
When her sad look her starving stock survey'd;
Sighing to see her treasur'd hoard so small,
For one poor silver piece composed it all!
Her eyes, averted from the store,
Were drown'd with tears to mark it was no more!
Yet this, when weighing the disastrous Case,
And, hoping Heav'n might soon the sum replace,
While her warm Soul, with fine sensations glow'd,
Her eager heart, and ready hand, bestow'd!
That heart, ne'er, after, felt a niggard grutch,
Or deem'd Humanity had done too much—
Ne'er once repin'd o'er that penurious Need,
Which might such Prodigality succeed;
Nor felt reflecting Consciousnesss recoil,
With selfish fears at future care and toil;
But, when she found the poor Complainant fled,
And calm Reflexion cool'd her flurried head;
Tho' she'd imparted all the pence she had,
She felt afresh her troubled bosom sad,
That no solicitation urg'd to eat
Some chearing morsel of her choicest meat!

Mark this, ye Misers! this plain tale compare
With what your character, and conduct, are!
Look back o'er all your Life, with blushing shame!
Contrast them with this kind, this dow'rless Dame!
O'er all your multiplying heaps repent!
Consider whence, and why, such wealth was lent!
See in each pile a complicated crime!
Weigh well their uses, and redeem the time!
Look round and read, with arguments mature,
What Industry, and doitless Worth endure!
Your bounties might remove unnumber'd ills
Could Kindness influence your froward Wills—
Would Sympathy apply her prompt relief,
To lighten loads of aggravated grief!
But bosoms, dead like Your's, can never feel
The rapt rejoicings o'er another's weal!
Your iron hearts o'er misery never melt,
Nor feel the thrillings her pure pity felt!
Your cold conceptions ne'er can once declare,
What sweet delight such happy Spirits share!
Nor can your sordid Souls this boast believe,
“'Tis greater joy to give than to receive!”
Could your awak'd affections once o'erflow
With rapturing pleasure such soft Natures know,
No more your breasts would that rich bliss resign,
For hapless ponderings o'er your canker'd Coin;
But gladly all the gather'd heap impart,
For those rich transports that expand the heart—
And Gods of gold indignantly despise,
To share such social, sympathetic, joys!
I urge you not, in Need, like Her, to live,
Nor like her your last scrap of coinage give—
Not your last Sixpence on the Poor to spend,
And starve; or stint Yourselves, to feast a Friend—
But not to hoard and idolize your wealth—
To risque your Soul, and hurt your Body's health—
Not like an Elwes, with a million mass'd,
Live Wretches, loath'd and die with want at last;
But learn, like Her, the proper us of Pelf,
And love each needy Neighbour as yourself!

All ye that feel the philanthropic spark,
This pure, this unexampled, Matron, mark!
No more Your vast beneficence to boast,
Tho' Vanity may feel a numerous host!
No more Your mighty charities proclaim
Who clothe a few for ostentatious fame!
Thro' social channel Deity design'd,
To spread pure happiness amongst Mankind.
But do You, Worldlings! who proud wealth possess
Thus labour to diffuse full Happiness?
Do You like Her endeavour to fulfil,
This equal Maxim of Your Maker's Will?
Do You, round all your ample, rented Lands,
Strive, thus, to strengthen all the labouring Bands?
Or from Your teeming Mines' revenues, large,
As well Your duties, and Your debts, discharge?
Your breasts with such consuming conflicts burn,
In such full bounties Heav'n's free loans return;
And at Compassion's unresisted call
With gladness give Necessity Your all?
On weeping Penury all that Wealth expend?
To God, ungrudging, all Your livings lend?
On base Indulgence ne'er one doit bestow,
But pour your ample Pelf on Want and Woe;
Till Bounty, thus, of minted means bereft,
And not one solitary Sixpence left,
The force of fellow-love still strongly feel,
And proffer part of Need's remaining Meal?

She had no rich resource—no heapy hoard,
To clothe her callow Brood, or crown her board—
No irrigated grounds, nor mines, immense,
To make her mindless of such prompt expense;
But constantly compell'd to reimburse
Her household spendings from poor Crispin's purse.
He had no perquisites to spend, or sport—
No sinful sinecure from Camp, or Court—
No Church emoluments from whence to draw;
No fees from Physic, and no bribes from Law;
Nor could he grasp one grain from tricks in Trade,
Where oft, by Bankruptcies, much Fortune's made:
He only had poor Salary to spend
To answer every right and useful end;
With what fond Children's fingers could create;
And mangled hands of his industrious Mate;
Who yielded her short Wealth, and wish'd to share;
With Want, the small remains of needful fare.

Hide your diminish'd heads, ye rich and proud!
Who stalk, like Titans, thro' the shrinking Crowd;
Or swell, aloft, on moving thrones, and throw
Contemptuous glances on the Throngs below!
Your haughty hearts depress, nor proudly dare
With Worth unparalleled, like hers, compare!
Pique not yourselves on pelf, or vast estate,
Nor think that gold, or glebe can make You great!
Let not mean Pride or Prejudice mislead,
To judge too harshly of Man's humbler Breed!
Let not your Bodies tho' if more nobly born,
Push by poor Brethren with contempt and scorn;
While all the parts of your corporeal frame
Are dust, like theirs—and must decay—the same!
Nor let your Minds, which constitute the Man,
And, like low Equals first from God began,
Like them for good or evil thoughts—words—deeds—
At length receive their everlasting meeds!
You never know what Merit you may meet,
'Mong multitudes, in Towns, in every Street!
What Piety, or Virtue, on the Plains,
Among the mass of simple Nymphs and Swains!
Your Souls perceive not what superior Worth
May dwell with lowly looks, and humble Birth—
How oft You pass sublimer Spirits by,
With supercilious air, or heedless eye!
How many, more than You, might claim respect,
Tho' treated by Your kind with cold neglect!
Of Education, and of Wit devoid
No pomp, or splendour, deck a gay outside;
Nor one external charm the World to win,
Still every Christian Grace may glow within—
While they may gain, from God's impartial pow'r,
A better title, and a brighter dow'r;
And hope, in future, from His sovereign Grace,
In happier Kingdom, some superior Place—
With fairer frames, and robes of richer hue,
Than e'er His Providence bestow'd on You!
Your Pow'rs percive not how true Wisdom warms
Some Hearts, enshrin'd in most forbidding Forms!
What sentiments, sublime, some Spirits feel
Which plain attire, and passive looks, conceal!
What Graces may elude your ignorant eyes
Beneath deep-blushing Modesty's disguise!
Chaste Charity, firm Faith, and heavenly Hope,
May 'scape Your Penetration's utmost scope!
High Courage, and true Fortitude, be found
Where Meekness and Humility abound!
Clear Wit, and solid Sense, may rest unseen,
Close cover'd up with unassuming Mien,
And shrowded by a soft and suasive Air,
The Mind may, hourly, heartfelt dangers dare;
For godly Fear can keep that Spirit down,
Which would not dread Earth's fiercest Despot's frown,
While conscious guilt could that gall'd Courage quell
That boldly dar'd, before, Death, Heav'n, and Hell!

Who would conceive, inspecting Crispin's Spouse,
Within whose Heart those heavenly Virtues house;
Her simple manners, and her accent meek;
Her tranquil temples, and her chearful cheek;
Sweet lip, and soft serenity of eye;
That underneath such loveliness could lie
Heroic courage! firmest fortitude!
Which dar'd withstand oppressive Tyrant rude!
Yet would that Heart with tenderest motions melt,
When thus the force of Sympathy was felt!