University of Virginia Library

Ye supercilious Maids, and haughty Dames,
Who boast Your Beauty's fascinating flames,
And deem not choicer Charms can ever dwell,
Or higher Virtues, in such humble Cell!
Recline your crests, and all your honours give
To this fair Heroine of my narrative!
You who, with grandeur 'dizen'd, proud and vain!
Extort false worship from Your servile Train;
And, as You roll in State, or trail along,
Expect prostrations from each thoughtless throng!
What are Your rights? Your fancied Worth from whence,
To silence Reason, or to ravish Sense?
And what are all your high conceited claims?
Rest they on Riches? or mere noisy Names?
On boasted Beauty?—or on gaudy glare?
And may not brighter Merit boast its share?
Is there no value in a virtuous Mind
That loves, and longs to succour all Mankind?
Do you possess the sympathetic Heart,
That feels, for all Mankind, like friendly smart?
Those prompt emotions which her Soul impell'd
To yield the little all her treasury held?
With such uncertain hopes before her eyes
When Providence would furnish fresh supplies?
Would You your graceless Vanities forego
To mitigate a Stranger's wounding woe?
Your worthless, weak, fantastic frippery doff,
And venture Fashion's vex'd sarcastic scoff?
While Pomp look'd on could Pity's cause prefer,
And dress in plain simplicity like Her;
That, with the surplus, You might Penury feed,
A free-will-offering for Your Neighbour's need?
Would You resign Amusement's dear delights,
And thus communicate Your utmost Mites?
To One such matchless charity extend,
Who prov'd no plea of Family, or Friend?
Or, as Acquaintance, could advance a claim,
Of neither Neighbourhood, or Sex, the same?
An utter Alien, never known before—
And, haply, might accost her eyes no more—
Yet was the sight so sad; the tale so told;
Her heart could not one single sous withhold!

Oft has the Writer, ere her praise was penn'd,
Felt all his faculties profoundly bend,
With real reverence, at her saintly shrine,
Discovering Goodness bordering on divine!
Which, thus, could Nature's selfish bent controul,
And fix such feelings in a human Soul!

You, possibly, on mark'd occasions, may,
Some slighter symptoms of like love display—
Some slender portions from your purse dispense
To stifle painful Pity's fond offence—
On list beneficent subscribe your Name,
To buy frail particles of scatter'd Fame;
Or, lest your acts might lose all flattering laud,
With babbling breath spread your own praise abroad.
But she such christian conduct strives to hide,
And all her deeds of love are still denied—
Not labouring with her self-complacent lips,
Your scanty, partial, bounties e'er eclipse;
Endeavouring to destroy your puny praise,
On its fall'n ruins her own fame to raise;
Nor, with one quaint conceit, or cold address,
Sneers at your feign'd, fictitious, Tenderness.

You feel your Souls with real sufferings fill'd,
As charms decay, and Love's devoirs are chill'd,
O'er Beaux, or Apes, when ag'd, intensely sigh,
Or weep when Parrots droop, or Lap-dogs die—
Find mimic Misery's pains and griefs, engage
Your finest feelings, from the tragic Stage—
But seldom Sympathy's prompt proofs are shown,
By heart, or eye, o'er genuine Misery's moan!

Do You one darling Lust, or Wish deny,
To furnish Merit with a meet supply?
One Superfluity, in pity, spare,
That pining Want Wealth's superflux may share?
Do you lay by loose Gluttony's wicked Waste
That Sickness may some savoury fragments taste?
E'er fond, rapacious, Appetite refuse,
That Need may pick its providential dues?
E'er sordid sensuality restrain,
And Riot's refuse offer, free, for Pain?
Do You vile Pride, and Vanity, repress
And turn the needless cost to Nakedness?
Your craving calls indulg'd soon swallow more
Than Lands, and Trades, and Commerce, could restore!
Do you damp Ostentation's flaming fire
To raise starv'd household Slaves' low incomes higher?
Your Pomp's expences calmly circumscribe,
To yield more comforts for the Artist's tribe?
Or rein in Vanity's expansive rage,
To help the labouring Hinds with better wage?
Let Pow'r austere Authority relax,
To lighten Labour's pond'rous Rent and Tax?
Compassion Domes of needless Pomp divest,
That Care, in comfortable rooms may rest?
One lavish dish deduct from Luxury's board,
That Drudg'ry may delight o'er strength restor'd?
Let Wealth no longer wish increasing Coin—
Let Fashion sinful Finery resign,
And strip those Toys by all but Folly loath'd,
Till Childhood, Age, and Want, be comelier clothed.

Would guiding thus astray the golden stream
Diminish God's regard, or Man's esteem?
Thus scattering portions of superfluous Wealth,
Impair your happiness or harm your Health?
Would active Spirits droop, or Strength decline,
Did you, each day, with less indulgence dine?
Or blushing Beauty suffer larger loss,
While Temperance purg'd away the Body's dross?
In spite of pampering dainties and delights,
With which you daily load your appetites—
In spite of pomp that decks your sleek outside,
Your silken trappings, and your plumey pride;
Maugre each gaudy tint and glittering toy,
Her artless hues, and habit, far outvie!

Can you unfold that unaffected grace
Which forms her sweet simplicity of face?
That symmetry, and clear complexion, shown
To every eye, and bosom, but her own.
Can all your skill, with artificial hues,
Like her fair native dyes delight infuse?
Yet would she spurn at all that impious praise
Which, in her Mind might selfish fondness raise—
Lest she, like You, God's favours should forget,
And rob the Donor of His righteous debt—
Adoring idol Self, which Self allures,
As tho' the work, and worship, all were Your's!

Can Your egregious Garb wake pure desire,
Like her unornamented, neat, Attire?
The perfect model of that pristine Mode
Which Peter sketch'd in apostolic Code—
A Christian mode which still most strongly tends
To make the Males Admirers—Females, Friends—
A maxim modern Preacher proves most clear;
But Fashion's followers have no ears to hear.

Her comely coif, and graceful garments, plain,
Would make strange mixture with your motley Train,
Yet, tho' so singular, and simply worn,
Might pass You all unmark'd, or mark'd with scorn;
Or, Envy Dress and Beauty both impeach,
Tho' neither Art's, or Fashion's, fooleries reach.

But let not Envy suffer false alarms,
Nor dread the challenge of her choicer Charms;
She's far too poor—industrious—duteous—chaste,
To love Your Haunts, or emulate Your Taste.
Too poor to pledge Your wild expensive Sports,
Or join Your mobs, and mimicry, at Courts—
Too much immers'd in toils, and duteous care,
For your frivolities her time to spare—
Too wise to ornament a mass of clay,
That suffers constant, tho' unseen, decay,
To hunt for eyes, and win some worthless heart,
While risquing danger to her deathless part—
Too chaste her charms to trick, with vicious view,
To catch applause, or kindle lust, like You,
And, thus, while seeking unjust, carnal joy,
Let nobler interests all neglected lie!
Needless are all such jealousies or fears;
She ne'er with hurrying Indolence appears—
With Pomp ne'er bustles, 'mid mad gabbling groups,
To nose out notice from train'd flattering troops
That form frail Circles of the vile, or vain,
In Folly's Temples, offering rites profane!
Ne'er trails the streets, with meretricious mien,
Seeing, with envy, and with envy seen;
Committing, every day, the double crime,
Of murdering Reason, and destroying Time!
Ne'er imitates, like You, th' Athenian Race,
Roaming, with restless feet, from place to place;
To seize, with curious ear, some scandal, new;
Repeated, fondly, whether false, or true;
But urg'd abroad, like Noah's wandering Dove,
Soon finds her Ark, and Family of Love!
There, like domestic Tortoise, learns to live,
Content with what the heavenly Agents give!
Clad in clean robes, with meagre morsels fed—
She helps, each day, to earn Dependents bread;
While, blest with Offspring fair, and amorous Mate,
Still Faith looks forward to a better State!

Thus one septennary more was nearly spent,
With little profit, and with less content—
No plenteous heaps of property acquir'd
To make Crispinus honour'd, or admir'd;
Or, with emollient virtues, to asswage
The pressing evils of approaching Age—
Tho' large possessions ne'er supply the pow'r
To bribe off Death's approach one transient hour;
Or win, one moment Time's attentive eye,
To stop his steps, or pass possessors by—
Obstruct his running sands, or blunt his scythe,
That Eld might look like Youth, serene and blythe—
Make strength of intellect, or nerve, remain,
To baffle fierce attacks of grief, or pain;
Yet might they round off Misery's shapen'd points;
Or wipe off poison with which Needs anoints—
Might skreen from wintery storms of Life, at last,
When health no more can buffet with their blast;
And colour o'er the clouds, with varying ray,
Which dim the skies tow'rds the dull close of Day.

But should Rapacity, or Fraud procure
Wealth which ne'er can Heav'n's scrutiny endure,
It gives to every grief redoubled load,
And adds more horrors to Death's dreary road!
Like poison pour'd, thro' every throbbing vein,
Still heightening all the pungency of pain!
Death, with more terror, strikes the harras'd heart
When gold, ill-gotten, barbs his desperate dart!
While Conscience deeper prints each darkening crime,
In surlier furrows, on the front of Time;
Who, with full terrifying traits of face,
Leads on that Despot with still-quickening pace!

This ne'er was Crispin's mortifying lot
To quake o'er Gold iniquitously got;
Whose puny Salary, perquisites, and all,
Would ne'er suffice for Need each quarter's call.
No chearing residue his purse retain'd,
Should Providence unwonted sums demand—
The current Year no coinage could put by,
Whether himself, or friends, might live or die—
In pain, or sickness, no reserves of Wealth
Could offer aid, to 'stablish ease or health—
But, like the emblematic figure, found,
At heads of Almanacs, in circling round,
The gaping mouth was never known to fail
In swallowing up the Year's contracted tail.

From him wise Heaven withheld superfluous pelf
To fix his full dependence on Itself;
And while the strict restraints its Code contains,
Prohibited attempts at graceless gains,
Kind promises, by Mercy interspers'd,
Humility, and Hope, and Patience, nurs'd;
And help'd his Spirit, still, to rest content
With what its Love unmeritedly lent.

That God whose Goodness all our lots ordains,
And thus cast Crispin's pleasures—hopes—and pains;
With one vast glance—one universal view,
Looks all His Works, and Providences, through!
Whirls each great Globe about in rapid race,
Thro' trackless paths, o'er boundless plains of space!
Whose Wisdom, Goodness, Pow'r, impel, and guide,
Their constant courses thro' the viewless void;
And balancing each blazing solar sphere,
While subject Orbs revolve their varied Year!
Whose mandate this huge mass of Earth obeys;
In annual rings rolls all its nights and days!
Who weighs its Mountains—bounds its billowy Mains—
While zones of sand each raging tide restrains!
Still all its bound innumerable, breeds,
Like a kind Father, forms, protects, and feeds!
Assigning eaeh unalienable rights
From wond'rous Whales, down to diminish'd Mites;
While every Creature feels His full decrees
From ponderous Elephants to puny Fleas!
Without whose will no Animalcule dies,
Or lightest mote in lucid sunbeam flies;
But looks on Man with more peculiar care—
Metes all his moments—numbers every hair—
And, till that Goodness gives the destin'd call,
No life can leave—no filament can fall—
Nor mean, nor mighty, thro' the number'd hosts
Can claim their portions, or can quit their posts!

He thro' existence, Crispin's lot had cast
And predetermin'd all the portion past;
Had mark'd him out, among the human Race,
To feel these conflicts, and to fill this place;
And, now, by high, invincible behest,
Mid providential darkness, dispossest!
As when a Wanderer, hapless perils o'er,
Had pitch'd his tent upon a distant shore;
Call'd by the rich Possessor of the Soil
Some sterile tract to till, with Care and Toil;
Plenty, and Peace, and Friendship's feasts to share,
In lieu of Love, and recompence for Care;
But, when the barren, inauspicious, plain,
Confounded every hope of golden gain,
He daily suffer'd undeserv'd disgrace,
Till Pride and Passion drove him from the place.
And thus by Selfishness, and Folly spurn'd,
Back to his Friends the Traveller return'd—
Awhile he labours in his native Site
With much misfortune, yet with much delight!
But, as, at best, Man's Wisdom blindly gropes,
Oft quitting solid bliss for baseless hopes—
Again seduc'd by Friendship's fair disguise
On fickle, faithless, promises relies;
In blandest forms by Fallacy array'd,
Allur'd again, to leave the sheltering shade—
Forgetting shipwrecks; disregarding shocks;
On secret shallows and on sunken rocks;
And, deeming every temporal danger past,
Disdain'd the billows, and defied the blast!
Engaged again in same Commander's crew,
But where all scenes, and services, were new;
With like Protectress borne from port to port,
Even cares were comforts; all his labour sport;
Till sordid Selfishness, Caprice, and Spleen,
Which chas'd his Household from the former Scene,
Abridg'd his pleasures, and destroy'd his peace,
While threatening to contract his monthly lease—

Here, tho' Economy no coin could hoard,
He strove to fill all offices aboard,
And trusted, while unconscious of a crime,
He, there, might spend the remnant of his time;
Or, pension'd by that patronizing Friend,
In some snug Cove Life's venturous voyage end;
Should heav'nly Wisdom first withdraw her breath,
And leave his dolorous Muse to mourn her death.
But still her Pride, and Passions' headstrong host,
Which drove him, first, from her inclement coast,
With pert Contempt, without imputed Cause,
By breach of civil and religious laws;
With Frantic's rude, ungovernable, rage,
In the cold Winter of declining Age;
From station so conspicuous headlong hurl'd
To seek assistance from a friendless World!
So unprovided, and in Life so late,
Such was poor Crispin's persecuted state!
In sixth decennary, midst distress, and Eld,
From house and home by Patronage expell'd!

What was the foul, unpardonable offence
That justified the haste which hurl'd him thence?
Did he betray his delegated trust?
Was he profane? licentious? or unjust?
Could proud Employer's jealousy suggest
Some certain—true—indisputable test,
To prove base practice, or deep mischief meant,
Clearly to vindicate the strange event?
No! nought was urg'd to sanction such a deed
Which made his character, and conduct, bleed;
Except attempts to prove, by passion, strong;
His Reason and Religion both were wrong;
This differing from the World of Wealth so wide,
That puffing up his heart with impious Pride.

These bold opinions were but feebly built
On Fancy's fogs, not on firm ground of guilt—
Not on rank Bigotry, reduced to proof,
Or whimsies, lifting up the Mind aloof,
Above Truth's level, for he rightly knew,
What to dead Sinner, and live Saint, was due.
By heavenly truths could, manifestly, trace
The full demerits of Man's desperate Race,
With reference to a Judge, supremely just—
His Body destin'd back to mouldering dust—
His Soul deserving far severer doom,
Eternal punishment in endless gloom!
His reasoning pow'rs were clearly taught to scan,
What Man could merit in respect of Man;
Could by his labouring diligence discern
Those maxims which the wealthy loathe to learn;
That Riches, Titles, Privilege, or Birth,
Confer no claim to genuine Wit, or Worth,
Nor can to Heirs, or Successors, ensure
A pious Spirit, or one Virtue pure.

His Wealth's the greatest to whom God hath given
The key to all His treasures, hid in Heav'n;
And draws unbounded sums by Faith and Pray'r,
Without impoverishing one Fellow-Heir.
He may the most exalted Titles boast;
Who ranks alike with all the human host;
Who wears, inscrib'd, the Christian on his brow,
And well performs his whole baptismal vow.
He may pronounce his Privilege the high'st,
Who feels full interest in the cross of Christ;
And, by the Spirit's pow'r may, clearly, claim
His God's adoption by parental Name.
His birth's the noblest whose bright Sire, above,
Imbues his Soul with full Faith, Hope, and Love,
And sues most frequent, to that perfect Source,
To give them energy, and guide their course—
Implores conceptions adequate, and right,
Of that blest Fount of boundless Truth and Light—
Yields Him all honour, with a child-like Mind,
And begs more happiness for all Mankind!

He knew each honour that so proudly springs
To swell Self-love, conferr'd by earthly Kings,
And all appendages that grow from dust,
May heighten Pride, and minister to Lust;
May make base Passions rise, above controul,
But add no weight or Wisdom, to the Soul—
Infuse no principles of Faith, or Hope,
Nor give to godlike Love a larger scope—
No true Ambition stir—no pure Desire
To copy Christ, or seek their heavenly Sire—
But make each earth-born Wish more grossly grow—
Affections fix on vanities below—
Make hope cast anchor in this nether Clime—
Faith look, alone, to Things of Sense and Time;
Till beastly pleasures so each Soul debase,
They spurn God's Spirit, and all offer'd Grace;
While courtly Custom acts pert Folly's parts,
And Fashion fascinates their hapless Hearts,
Still rooted deeper in their earthly lot,
Till Death and Judgment—Heav'n—Hell—God's, forgot!

Could Crispin, then, exalted notions frame
Of one who scouted every christian claim?
Deem'd Faith and Piety but feign'd pretence
Mere cloaks to cover every foul offence?
Yet tho' despis'd and spurn'd for christian zeal,
He wish'd her wiser—sought her genuine weal—
While She, with every Foe, receiv'd full shares
Of pious ardour, in his daily prayers.

He saw her weak, and wild, pursuits with pain,
While suffering insult—scorn—or cold disdain.
Sigh'd while she walk'd the broad and beaten road,
Abusing each bright talent Heav'n bestow'd.
Beheld, with sorrow, ev'ry ray divine
Grow daily dimmer still, with Life's decline.
Saw Passion, Lust, and Pride, their Pow'rs enlarge,
While cold neglect crept o'er each christian charge.
Saw Charity assume a mere outside
To flatter Self, while Duties were decried.
Like Misers, reach at more—like Maniacs, rave—
Himself still treated like the vilest Slave—
Suspicion's optics turn'd, with twisted view,
And acts, and words, all ting'd with umbery hue.

His Spirit, while it pitied, still despis'd
The schemes her craft, or cruelty, devis'd.
He felt his Heart with shuddering horror shrink
To see her dancing on Destruction's brink.
Talents, Weal, Time, for nobler business lent,
In idol Pomp, or Dissipation, spent.
Sense chasing shadows—Age consuming Years,
In spite of Conscience, and Reflection's fears;
Still giving Vanity augmented range,
Without one chearing hope of heav'nly change.
Her wanton Ostentation wasting store
Tho' Death was hourly hovering round her door;
Offering the sacred gifts, at Folly's shrine,
Which Heav'n advanc'd in Wisdom's works to shine.
Large loans of mental wealth all thrown away,
Tho' Judgment might be dreaded every day!

His throbbing breast could scarcely brook the blame
That hurt his feelings and defiled his fame—
The calumnies that Spite, and Cunning, cast,
To wound his bosom, and his honour blast—
Yet conscious Rectitude would calmly spurn,
While Piety forbade each base return.
His manly Mind no faithless fears betray'd,
His Soul, while Conscience shrunk not, ne'er afraid!
His honest Heart no diffidence appall'd,
But on his Persecutor boldly call'd
To bring against him some substantial charge,
Which Wit might mould, and Eloquence enlarge,
Full fix'd on clear unquestionable fact
For this fresh rupture of their friendly pact—
Explicit proof sound Judgment might approve,
And well might warrant such a rash remove.

He frequent pass'd a retrospective view,
And keenly scrutiniz'd his Conduct through—
New analyz'd each action, scann'd each word,
To see if ought was wicked—weak—absurd—
Turn'd Memory's treasures accurately o'er
To mark what trespass lurk'd amongst her store—
What crime Self-love might seek to smother there,
Which her acute perception saw so clear;
Yet, after all, his intellectual eye
Could no condemning word, or deed, descry,
No cause of Anger—Scorn—or Discontent—
Much less her exemplary Punishment.

Thus arm'd, and fortified, his honest heart,
Resolv'd to act the upright Hero's part.
While Conscience, with a Christian's force, defied
Her Prejudice, her Passion, Spite, and Pride.
The troops of Prejudice that throng'd the field—
With all the weapons Passion's pow'r could wield;
The transient strength which churlish Spite inspires,
And Pride's more permanent but feebler fires—
With all their virulence and base abuse,
While Truth could no convicting plea produce.

He tried Conjecture's trackless region round,
To judge what phantasms Fancy might have found—
What Game the glances of her Hawks might trace,
Or Greyhounds view in visionary chace—
What shapes Imagination might have seen
To stir the poison in her heart of Spleen—
What Spectres mad Suspicion might behold
Pilfering her property, in goods, or gold—
What magic jaundic'd Jealousy might use
To rouze her wrath, and his fair fame abuse,
Extorting word, or action, indiscreet,
To lay him prostrate at her trampling feet—
What secret schemes her Malice might invent
To twist his conduct, and destroy Content;
Or plots and plans her Hatred might create
To stab his fortune, or to fix his Fate.
How hypocritic Art, with stale pretence,
Might frame some figment to curtail expence—
Prompt some proud speech which might offence afford,
Deserving banishment from bed and board,
And yield some plausibility to boast
His base behaviour push'd him from his post.

Tho' cold Economy, and dark Dislike,
Long look'd for Opportunity to strike
Some deadly blow to make his Credit bleed,
To spare expence in stipulated Meed;
Yet bare-faced Falshood was compell'd, at last,
To speak the sentence when the verdict pass'd.
All previous promises were set aside—
Her head Humanity was forc'd to hide—
And, lull'd by Cunning's opiates, Conscience slept
While Truth and Justice bent their necks, and wept!

But let fair facts, depicted by this Pen,
Make both those Graces lift their heads agen.
Let Truth declare, when from her dreams arouz'd,
Why Age was wounded—Honesty unhous'd—
Why Charity discharg'd a Slave so poor,
And shut against a Friend her frowning door!
Why Worth, acknowledg'd, and in Life so late,
Was turn'd adrift, and Grandeur clos'd her gate!
Let Justice tell, why, after Eighteen Years,
Part spent in troubles—most in anxious fears,
When forced Compliance bore some sinful part,
That oft his conscience pain'd, and pierc'd his Heart,
The whole in care and toil—the chief in strife
Clipp'd from the best, the noblest, part of Life;
And near the third of that contracted span
By Heav'n allotted, now, the time of Man!
The only third, by Providence's dow'r,
The force of thought, and energy of Pow'r.
The antecedent part prepar'd for Youth
To plant Experience, and to store up Truth—
The latter portion, of his shadowy days,
Activity declines, and strength decays;
While each frail pow'r of his compounded frame
Grows hourly more exhausted—cold—and tame!
His withering Body, stiffening, still with rust,
Presents a spectacle of deep disgust,
Among the mocking progeny of Wealth,
Who honour nought but Beauty, Youth, and Health—
His barren intellect, become inert,
In vain hopes patronage, or pleads desert;
But, suffering human Nature's hapless lot
Expects to be by all—but God, forgot—

That was the Space when Crispin might have made
Some efforts, fair, in Study—Toil—or Trade—
Have gain'd some Glory—Consequence—or Coin—
To smoothe the rough descent of Life's decline;
The sharp asperities of Time's drear slope
So faintly lighted by the beams of Hope!
Where Age, from higher expectations hurl'd,
Meets little comfort from a cruel World!
But, when sore press'd with poverty and pain,
With Sickness's and Sorrow's wasting train;
No earthly Friendship chears, supports, or guides,
But down to Death's lone lodge, forsaken, slides!

Should Truth and Justice, here, their plea suspend,
Or, weak with wrongs, and base oppression, bend—
Should both be silent till the end of Time,
Confute no calumny, confront no crime,
Yet will an awful season soon arrive,
When Justice will not wait, nor Truth connive,
But, maugre false distinctions, form'd on Earth,
Which appertain to high, or abject, Birth—
The honour'd, or obscure—the Rich, or Poor—
The titled Courtier, or ignoble Boor—
Howe'er their deep distress, or grandeur, strike
Their sovereign Lord will judge them just alike!

Crispinus ne'er set up a spurious plea
His heart from human weaknesses was free—
From frailties or from faults, exemption claim'd,
O'er which the shuddering Christian shrinks asham'd;
But which the Worldling and the reckless Wit,
Without compunction carelessly commit—
Bold aberrations from the right-lin'd path,
Which every moment merit righteous wrath—
Incessant sins against a holy God,
That call for scourgings from his chastening rod!
Nor did his tongue with proud applauses boast
He fill'd quite faultless, his important post—
Ne'er fail'd, in perfect strictness, to fulfil
Each precept of his wild Employer's will—
No! he confest most frankly how he swerv'd
From Heav'n's behests, and endless Death deserv'd;
And, deviating from Duty, might incur
Some frowns, or slight remonstrances, from Her—
But what could shape inexpiable crimes,
In Crispin's conduct?—modest Man of rhymes!
So cruelly his happy hopes to crush;
Still, every accusation calmly hush,
With exclamation, weak, yet dar'd deride
His humble Penury, and impeach for Pride—
And, thus, defying Justice—Truth—and Sense,
Preclude all honest aims at Self-defence!

Was it Humanity's or Mercy's hint,
That thus would positive Impeachment stint?
Was it remembrance of some small desert?
Or, lest fine feelings, haply, might be hurt?
Alas! he sadly felt, from Year to Year,
His Tyrant's tender mercies most severe!
Who 'mid familiar talk, with baited tongue
Would hook out secrets, with vile views to wrong;
With base design entrusted truths to blab,
And, mask'd with friendly smiles, and flattery, stab!

Did Heav'n, to such, no tenderer Mercy show,
Than their base hearts, on Fellow-fall'n, below,
How would their Soul sustain its misery, here,
From deep despondence, or foreboding fear?
How dreadful after death must judgment be
When Deity proclaims His last decree!

Such arbitrary Despots truly plead
The annual Wretch receives his annual meed;
Nor can one crime to Conscience e'er attach,
Should Tyrants such depending Dupes dispatch;
Nor future reckonings make their Minds afraid
While warning's tender'd, and their stipend's paid.

This might be pleaded with the subject Bard
To quit his quarter's debt, and then discard;
For He no more could legally require,
Than such small remnant of small yearly hire:
But, did no circumstance, distinctive, stand,
To bind his Patroness with stronger band?
No special caveat to his cause append,
To wake the Woman, and to fix the Friend?
No secret sanction of a closer kind
Than those that common Boors, and Courtiers bind?
No incidents connect with Crispin's case
But such as Whim might rend, or interest rase?
Such as mere servile Slaves to bondage tie
Which Despots' pow'r each moment may destroy?
Each calm preliminary quite forgot,
Which form'd each fastening, and which knit each knot?
The many well-wound literary strings,
With labels hung, that hinted better things?
The faithful records fair, in written form,
Replete with promises, and wishes warm?
Strong intimations—smiles—and tropes—
Twisted, and twin'd, like silken, silvery, ropes,
Wreath'd around his eager heart, with countless coils,
Till fully tramell'd in her artful toils.
That heart, which, after, suffer'd more regrets
Than all the meshes of those magic nets.
And do not those deponents still exist,
An interesting, long, but useless list?
Unfolding objects, by their fictions gay,
Which might more tutor'd breasts than his betray?
A pow'rful Patroness! a faithful Friend!
Peace! Plenty! Transport! without bound, or end!
And was not oft her fascinating tongue
With Flattery's soft insinuations hung?
Distilling from her lips in saccharine drops,
To nourish Hope's imaginary crops?
While breathings, fond, like balmy zephyrs flew,
To cherish expectations, all untrue!
Tho' Memory, false, may furl up all the facts,
Which constitute such fair, but fickle, pacts—
Tho' every verbal document's denied—
By Passion blurr'd, or blotted out by Pride—
Tho' heaps of prompt epistolary store
Such mimic Friendship recollects no more;
Yet will their inky characters remain,
Among Mankind, a still-enduring stain.
As proofs of treachery—or striking flaws
In Love's—Truth's—Equity's—eternal Law—
Still stand, inscrib'd, with all their lying scrolls,
Recorded, clearly, in Heav'n's deathless rolls
And at the Day of retribution stand
As base deceptions, on sinister hand.