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

But should Wealth's, Wit's, Fame's, Fashion's, brilliant blaze,
Conceal such marks, like Sol's meridian rays;
Some hazey medium may soon intervene,
And all such secret blemishes be seen—
Some philosophic lens assist the sight,
By clipping off those locks of dazzling light;
While telescopic tubes the parts extend
To prove what blackness may with brightness blend;
And shew, while shining hot, and soaring high,
Such splendours cover spots of darkest dye!
While He, and They, with all their brilliant beams,
Must soon expire with pantomimic dreams!
His radiant disk become, like sackcloth, dark,
Nor ever more emit one splendid spark,
But all their transient glare be turn'd to gloom,
In sable, sinking, to eternal tomb!
But could such base Delinquents, here, escape,
Deep shrouded in some dupe-deceiving shape,
Each sigh and groan attentive Heaven hears,
And bottles up such Sufferer's briney tears,
To form a tempest, and a flood, at last,
Each Tyrant's trusts to drown, each Despot's hopes to blast!

Should Justice, here, some argument maintain,
Against old Age, and Poverty, and Pain,
Yet Charity might, sure, some smile afford;
Still intercede to sheathe her threat'ning sword;
And Clemency's and Mercy's pleas prevail,
With Tenderness, to turn the sinking scale;
While Pity's dews, dropt most from Females' eyes,
Might give the beam a much more gracious poise.
Had mere Humanity, in female form,
Impress'd by kind accustom'd wishes, warm;
With palpitating heart, and pearly eye,
Amid such attributes of Heav'n, been by,
What had her conflicts, her convulsions, been,
When viewing such a soul-dissolving scene
As Crispin, and domestic Friends, display'd,
When, to their dwelling, he the news convey'd—
When first his bosom bore the swelling load
To his blank Family's forlorn abode—
When, with a quivering pulse, and visage pale,
His breast o'er-burden'd with a torturing tale,
Compell'd his dangerous message to relate
To a mute Daughter and a dying Mate!

There, trying months that tender Mate had lain,
Consum'd with constant sickness—grief—and pain—
While anxious care—misfortune—fear—and woe,
With weight combin'd had laid their Victim low!
Lamented much, by every faithful Friend,
Who dreaded, daily, to behold her end!
Like a fair Flow'r, smit by untimely storm,
Retaining nothing but its faded form;
With such remaining charms as just to tell
What once its beauties were before it fell!

His pining Daughter, with attentions pure,
Had watch'd—pray'd—wept—and labour'd, for a cure;
Till, with hard toil, and anxious care, decay'd,
She seem'd the shadow of maternal Shade!

Another Daughter, and beloved Boy,
That, a sore Sorrow—this a secret Joy!
The one a Wife; just join'd with cruel curse,
Both much depending on poor Crispin's purse;
While he was now depriv'd of every pow'r
To furnish either with a needful dow'r!

He, worn with cares, and persecutions, felt
His painful heart, his very spirit, melt;
While with a trembling step, and frantic fear,
His feeble frame approach'd her pallet near.

Oh! what a dire dilemma here arose!
Worse than e'er Crispin wish'd his fiercest Foes;
Worse than he wish'd false Hypocrites, or Pimps,
Or even fated Hell's infernal Imps!
To ease his heart was no expedient found
But what endanger'd still more desperate wound;
That Daughter's spirit now so deeply broke,
It scarcely could sustain one added stroke!
Her strength he fear'd must fail beneath such weight,
And find her Parent's long-expected Fate!
Yet radiant Reason, 'mid this murkey Night
Shot thro' his shuddering breast one beam of light;
Her youthful Mind perchance might pierce the gloom,
And comfort Fancy with much milder doom.
Might see Hope's image, thro' her misty tears,
In rainbow raiment, softening all her fears,
And, while she chas'd the shades with chearing rays!
Present some prospect of much happier days!

Thus, while his heart, in sad suspense was hung
O'er the harsh story, faultering on his tongue;
How undesirable were doubt, and dread,
For the dear Partner of his breast, and bed!
He fear'd the reliques of her Life should fail
At full recital of his fateful tale;
When, all at once, with palpable surprize,
The baleful prospect spread before her eyes!
She had no heat to thaw her freezing heart—
No softenings for her Soul—no tears to start—
No strength to combat the combin'd attack,
And summon her departing Spirit back—
But, like a taper, ready to expire,
That holds its feeble blaze of fluttering fire,
Long hovering o'er the wick, with trembling doubt,
Lest some small puff should put the sparkle out:
So o'er her fair, emaciated, frame,
Her Spirit hung with long-suspended flame;
Thro' pain and sickness ready to depart,
And leave thick darkness deepening round his heart!

Imagination mark'd, with sorrowing sight,
The near approach of that Egyptian night!
Beheld black-featur'd Fate, beside her head
Bend down to cut Life's filmy final thread;
And, in the ready ear of murderous Death
Urge Heav'n's behest to loose her lingering breath!
He, vengeful Tyrant! he, Assassin vile;
Skulk'd in a corner, near her couch the while,
With ebon bow, continually bent,
To mark the moment when her pow'rs were spent,
Then, instantly, to launch the loosen'd shaft
And, on its wings, to Heav'n, her Spirit waft!

He could not beg to keep her back from bliss,
And wither longer in a World like this—
Nor let Self-love desire a lengthen'd date,
To bear the frequent buffetings of Fate—
Could not when gone once wish her back again,
To wrestle hourly here with woe and pain!
For what were Crispin's prospects, now, below,
But wearying poverty, and pain, and woe!
Yet how could his perturbed bosom spare
The tired Companion of his toil and care?
How could his melancholy Mind resign,
A Soul, so perfect, and a Frame, so fine!
His fixt affections wish'd no other Wife
With which to pass the poor remains of Life;
Nor could his feelings find another Friend
Whose love would soothe his heart, or ease his End!
And now of Honour, Hope, and Home, bereft,
She was the only Friend his Fate had left;
Except their offspring, for his Life afraid,
Who all look'd up to him for friendly aid!

What horrors did his vanquish'd heart convulse
Lest the dire fact should fix her panting pulse!
Lest haggard looks, or voice's quivering sound,
Should give her wavering Soul the severing wound!
Should hurry to its home her matchless Mind,
And leave him nothing but a corpse behind!

There stood he, like some tall, and stable Rock,
Doom'd to sustain dread Ocean's harshest shock.
Surrounded by some smaller clinging clifts,
Against whose breasts each billowy danger drifts;
Asking protection from each whelming wave,
But fear their Parents fall should prove their grave—
Or, like an aged Yew, on desert wild,
Of half its faded honours now despoil'd;
Its hoary head, and withering branches, bare,
Conflicting with each blast of brumal air;
With one long-wedded Consort drooping by,
Seeking support from sworn connubial tie;
And some few Saplings Providence had left,
Of numerous others by that Pow'r bereft,
Now, round their mournful Sire, all silent, stand,
A sighing—sorrowing—miserable Band.

Where could He turn! there was but one Resource,
One Arm that could restrain the Tyrant's force—
One Pow'r alone with whom his prayers could plead
To shield from whelming Woe, and shameful Need.
That Pow'r he earnest press'd, each passing hour,
To lend him longer, still, his darling Dow'r,
And thro' Life's tides the surest track to show
To shun blank Want's sunk rocks, and shoals, below!
There, he, thro' Time's bleak storms, his anchor cast,
To stem the billows, and withstand the blast!
Cast it, with confidence, within the veil,
For future happiness, and present weal!
Depending on that Captain who could steer
His feeble Bark thro' danger, doubt, and fear!
Whose heavenly flukes his fragile Vessel held,
While sad necessity his speech compell'd—
For He, whose hand supplied some pleasing Hope,
And fixt his Soul with Faith's ethereal rope,
Averted from his Mind consuming smart,
By pouring cordials thro' his Consort's heart;
Bestowing help, in Mercy, which withstood
The depredations of Hell's baleful brood!
With perfect Love, His Providence, at length,
Her health establish'd and restor'd her strength;
Fear's language turning, and desponding lays,
From sighs—groans—tears—and pray'rs, to thanks, and songs of praise!

But what were all his earthly prospects, now?
Which way was he to turn? or when? or how?
A thick, impenetrable blank, throughout!
A land of darkness! of despair! or doubt!
All melancholy dread, or dim surmise,
Where'er he cast his view, below the Skies!
There, tho' Heav'n's shining Kingdom Nature shrowds,
His Faith look'd up and pierc'd her murkiest clouds!

Where'er on Earth weak Understanding turn'd
His chearless breast each object chill'd, or burn'd.
No grateful tree, or hopeful flow'ret grew,
To promise him fair fruits in Reason's view.
If any flowery, fertile, tract, was seen
With blossoms garnish'd, or with herbage green;
Each tempting spot was all preoccupied,
By Imps of Plunder, Dupes of Pomp and Pride—
By Labour's Offspring—Sons of thought and toil,
Which tend the Counter, or which till the Soil.
No space appear'd, throughout the loaded Land,
Where Trade could stretch, or Culture could expand,
To furnish covering, and to offer food,
For Crispin—tender Spouse—and hapless Brood!

Where'er on Man he turn'd his mental Sight,
No view was better'd—no one object bright!
On every side his anxious eye beheld
His hopes all wither'd—each prompt wish repell'd—
While every pregnant scheme, and procreant care,
Brought forth dead Birth, or perish'd in despair!

It furnish'd his torn heart but fickle joys
To see his Consort from her sick-bed rise;
Her frame still feeble; bosom full of fear;
To wander with her Mate she knew not where;
In Life's decline, with toil to seek support,
So long encourag'd in frail Fortune's Court!

The rich and pow'rful Friends he once could boast
All fled from hostile Earth's inclement Coast;
Or those that Fate had left had long forgot;
All judg'd him long safe-lodg'd in joyous lot—
Deem'd him well-blest with Patronage and store,
And thought of Crispin, and his Muse, no more!

Death's ruthless darts had robb'd the banish'd Bard
Of Friendly Lyttelton, and faithful Ward!
Shenstone, to youthful Memory ever-dear!
So wont to chear his heart, and charm his ear;
And many more, who favour'd Crispin's cause,
Had fall'n, before, by Heav'n's resistless Laws!

One, who, in Shenstone's constellation, long
Illumin'd morals both by Prose and Song;
And still, with youthful fire, in hoary Age,
Defies the Despot Death's tyrannic rage;
With fond exulting confidence declar'd
Vanessa's bounty, still, poor Crispin shar'd,
In proud extent, completely to preclude
All changes Time attempts, or chances rude.

Alas, how little his kind Heart could know
A Friend, affianc'd, oft becomes a Foe;
Or, with a Soul so philanthropic, deem
One free from crimes could lose ev'n Wit's esteem!
How little did his honest Soul surmise
A Friend could Faith, and promises, despise!
On what attenuated threads are hung
Declar'd Attachments of the courtly throng;
Much less how little Poets may depend,
On famous—fashionable—female—Friend!
How such blind vanes revolve with every breeze—

How soon such bosoms flame—how soon they freeze—
For when his dazzling dream beheld the light
Poor Crispin's hopes were sunk in endless night!
When his humane, expanded Mind suppos'd
The Bard in ease, and affluence, din'd and doz'd,
He press'd with anxious breast, a sleepless bed,
And toil'd thro' cold, and dirt, for daily bread!

Who would have guess'd her Conscience could forget
Free promises impos'd a binding debt—
That, when so broken, would incur no blame,
Nor forfeit particle of courtly fame!
Who would suppose Her Patronage could fail
Whose Kindness was become a public tale!
That long-form'd Friendship, rashly could refuse
Humanity's, and Mercy's, decent dues!
A prompt Protectress from engagements fly,
And Hospitality's last helps deny!
The charming Type of Charity, itself,
Relinquish Character to spare its Pelf!
That fam'd Economy would Profit spare—
Discharge true Diligence, and scoff at Care—
Prompt Faithfulness with all its fruits, forego,
And vengeful Pride lay virtuous Victim low!
Who could conceive such Tenderness would strive
To strip, and torture, any Slave alive;
Much less its Vassals who had labour'd, long,
Promoting riches, or preventing wrong,
Still infinitely less those faithful Friends,
Who made her happiness their mutual ends!
That She should spurn with spite, such deep distress,
Whom Poets compliment, and Priests caress—
Whom virtuous Courts invest with faultless fame—
Give Ostentation Love's pure gospel Name—
Ev'n Wit itself perceives no blot or blur,
But sees each pure accomplishment in Her;
While Pimps, and Paupers, with her bounties blind,
Conceive her sweet, and good, and great, and kind;
And would each Wight as Fool, or Friend, condemn,
Who deem'd Her weak, or, peccable, like Them!

What strange astonishment such Fools must feel
When told her Heart was hard as temper'd steel;
Or that her artificial shine, when shown,
Was but the splendour of a polish'd stone—
That all her Virtues were but Vizors, bright,
To keep her carnal sentiments from sight;
And all her Charities but cheats to hide
Unbounded Vanities—Caprice—and Pride!

Ye Sons of Song, ah! be no more misled—
Ye ignorant Boors, in Court, or College, bred—
Ye cheated Wits her charming mask behold
All Tinsel's glare, instead of native Gold—
And Ye who shreds of Ostentation share,
Who think that all was frank which seem'd so fair;
Strip off her specious Tenderness, and State,
And mark her Character in Crispin's Fate!
No more mere outside blandishments believe,
Nor let mock Charity your Minds deceive.
Suppose not such professions fully prove
That social motives all such actions move;
But know Beneficence with heavenly veil,
Eludes each eye, true Kindness to conceal;
Each eye but His who must the pow'r bestow,
And give the feeling heart its friendly glow.

O Thou that vaunt'st thy selfish Virtues, proud,
And lov'st to lead frail Fashion's courtly Crowd;
Boast Sensibility, and Truth, no more;
True Love, or Pity, for the suffering Poor;
Nor aim to occupy superior Niche
Among the pious, patronizing, Rich!
Affect no longer fondly to retain
Soft sympathy for Poverty and Pain.
Thy Soul's too sordid, and too hard thy Heart,
To fill the Friend's, or Patroness's part!
Thy Mind's too fickle, much too frail thy Will,
For fostering Art, or well-rewarding Skill;
Thy selfish feelings Pity's pow'r to know,
Or yield Asylum, long, to Want, or Woe!
In that false Heart no genuine Friendship's found,
Which stabb'd so deep, so undeserv'd, a wound—
No Sympathy e'er swells that boasting Breast
That can discard a Vassal so distrest—
Nor ever Love in that dead Bosom dwell,
Which mocks at Misery lodg'd in lowly Cell!
As well their Friendship savage Beasts might boast,
Which tyranize o'er Nature's harmless Host;
As well might boast soft Sympathy they share,
While sacrificing part a part they spare—
As well might Leopards, or wild Lions' Dams,
Which from the frighted Folds purloin the Lambs;
Or steal the straying Kids from native Rocks,
Proclaim their Kindness for the living Flocks—

As well might cruel Cats, 'mid murderous joy,
First persecute their prey, and then destroy;
And tho' inflicting fear, and woe, the while,
Look round for praise, with self-complacent smile—
Still hope for fame throughout the torturing strife,
For lengthening out the sufferer's wretched Life.
As well the Eagle might enlarge on Love,
That, from his Mate had torn a tender Dove—
The screaming Kite; or skulking, keen-ey'd, Hawk;
Of Mercy—Sympathy—and—Pity—talk,
That spare no Parent of inferior Throng;
No Bird of Passage—nor poor Son of Song!
The Blackbird—Linnet—Thrush—alike, betray'd,
Or Nightingale, that glads the leafy glade;
The sprightly Lark while piping o'er the plains
Or simple Redbreast, chaunting wintery strains!

But not the Bard, alone was won by guile,
Seductive promise, or delusive smile;
But those who better knew the World, were bit
By cunning wiles, and fascinating Wit.
Domestics practising far higher Trust
From like deceptions felt as deep disgust;
By schemes of dark dissimulation caught,
Who future affluence from her favour sought.

Among the group successive Tutors, twain,
Were added to her hir'd domestic Train;
Instructed well in learned classic Lore,
And furnish'd, fair, with scientific store,
Court, Camp, and College Arts; a proper Pair,
To form the Mind of dear, adopted, Heir—
To execute a long-projected Plan,
Of a mere Animal to make a Man!
To take the Talents of an active Ape,
And turn them into senatorial shape.
A mere Automaton in fleshly form—
A Soul, with selfish wishes only, warm—
With dim Ideas his Fancy stock,
The various offices of Man to mock;
Till memory stor'd with magazines immense,
Might cover Subtlety with cloaks of Sense—
His Habits form by Fashion—watch his Health—
And fit him fully for the walks of Wealth,

Each undertook his honourable charge,
To mould his manners, and his Mind enlarge.
The first intent was certain to succeed,
His form well-fashion'd for Art's mimic Breed;
His Mind well-fitted for those little Things
That furnish Courtiers, and that flatter Kings;
At Birthday-balls, and Levees, shap'd to shine,
And make weak Monarchs dream themselves divine.
With Coxcombs cope—with Females flirt and flaunt,
And with fond raptures fill his doting Aunt;
The latter must, maugre endeavours, fail;
No Art can stretch the great Creator's scale;
This strong behest restricting all below,
“Thus far, but nothing farther, Thou shalt go.”

The first, a Foreigner, in Arts well-skill'd,
With which the Minds of Courtiers must be fill'd;
The forms of flattery—politesse—and pride—
Leaving but little room for ought beside.
A Man, consider'd by the World well-bred;
Hume, in his heart, and Herbert in his head—
Well-read in wild Rousseau, and vain Voltaire—
Of Bible-knowledge show'd but scanty share—
Knew Gospels—Acts—Epistles—just enough
To judge these Falshoods—rate those wretched Stuff!
Weakly, on Revelation, wreak'd his Wit,
As, for mere Fools, alone, or Madmen, fit.
Thus Morals were but small, Religion less—
More sedulous to flatter, dance, and dress—
Like Bute to bow—like Chesterfield to chat—
And nice manœuverings of the head, and hat.
Mock lordly Air, and high heroic Mien;
Such as in Courts, and sanguine Camps, are seen;
Long practising, before, like apish pranks
In humblest office of War's foreign Ranks.
Of Liberal Sciences, in part, possess'd,
With which few Commons, fewer Peers, are bless'd.
Much skill'd in learned Lore—more modern French
Than all the Treasury-Board, and Bishop's Bench.
But, chief in fashionable Follies vers'd,
By which base Vice, and Vanity, are nurs'd.
Completely taught the Great, and Rich, to greet,
With spaniel cringe, and compliments most meet;
With perfect ease, and elegance, and grace,
Whate'er the Person, or where'er the Place;
But every real sentiment conceal,
With apt Hypocrisy's still-varying veil.

Such were the Arts, and Sciences, enjoin'd
To be most press'd upon his Pupil's Mind;
To make him complaisant, or pert, and proud,
To shine in Courts, or senatorial Crowd;

Or, with the sails of Fancy, all unfurl'd,
Run his wild Course amidst a carnal World.
His Pupil's Lessons, neither wise nor nice,
Increas'd his knowledge in the schools of Vice,
And often to the haunts of Folly flew,
To put in practice those base Arts he knew.

The Teacher was, awhile, most amply paid
With hopes, from promises profusely made;
With hopes of great, and permanent, regard,
And promises of long, and large, reward,
But soon his Faith the sad deception found,
That thus had charm'd him o'er enchanted ground;
Like that frail Meteor whose bewitching fire
Soon flies, and merges Followers in the mire;
So promis'd Patronage was never sped,
And Hope's false visionary vapour fled!
When the prompt Scholar had the pattern caught
And well digested what the Tutor taught—
Had follow'd thro' the custom'd Tour of France,
And learn'd to plot, and pimp, and dupe, and dance—
The Master's months of usefulness no more,
Professions—smiles—and flattery—soon were o'er—
And quick discharg'd, credulity to curse,
With feeble fame, and unreplenish'd purse!

A decent, dapper Parson, next, was nam'd,
For far more moral work, and Wisdom fam'd—
To teach the long-establish'd sober, saws,
Of national Religion's holy Laws;
And thus restrain, with postulates of truth,
The vagrant ramblings of lascivious Youth.
Whether their influence had a full effect
In bridling Vice, or hindering base Neglect—
Whether their pow'r withheld the Learner's lips,
From sometimes making customary trips—
Whether they stopp'd his eager Appetites
From oft indulging Dogs', or Goats' delights;
Or so their sovereign efficacy felt,
He ne'er at shrines of earthly Venus knelt:
Or that his Teacher proper pattern show'd,
By conduct sanctioning the sacred Code;
Whose juvenility might yield surmise
He felt not senseless, yet, to social joys.
Such confidential facts, if clearly true,
The Bard, now grown obnoxious, never knew;
Or, if trusted with such nauseous News,
'Twas ne'er deem'd worthy of his modest Muse.
Such paltry tales, might, probably, afford
A subject fit for fashionable board—
Might serve to bandy, sportively, about,
In polish'd rabbles, at a Sunday's Rout;
Which Crispin would have deem'd a daring crime
A vile pollution of his virtuous rhyme!

	CHAPTER 14th. The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse