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

He, too, had listen'd to the Syren's lure,
And thought each smile sincere; each promise pure;
Depending fully on the fickle Dame
To form his Fortune, and to fix his Fame;
But, like his learned Brother, he was mock'd—
His fame and fortune shorten'd—feeling shock'd—
And, with strong emphasis, like him, exprest
The inward workings of his troubled breast.
The former, prone to dwell on dark belief,
Accus'd of deep chicane his quondam Chief;
And swore that sooner than he'd tamely stand
To ask a favour from her faithless hand,
Or youthful Traytor, whom he taught, in vain,
A pistol ball should pierce his throbbing brain.
The latter was a Man of gentler make,
Who deem'd a dread Eternity at stake—
A Churchman, skill'd in each mysterious Creed,
Who durst not doom his heart, or brain to bleed,
Or so to pledge the Life his Maker lent,
Tho' doom'd, like him, to lasting discontent;
Yet dar'd his temper'd sentence thus declare,
“The Lady's conduct was not strictly fair!”

Nor only these experienc'd painful cost
From Favours, by Caprice, or Passion, lost;
But various others, of more humble Rank,
Found Faith, like April show'rs, or shadows blank;
Amidst fair promises foul falshood pain'd,
And, when discharg'd, like harshness all sustain'd.

But none like Crispin, poor, abandon'd, Bard!
Could think his case so singularly hard—
None had been call'd such confidence to find,
Such friendly hope, or promises so kind!
None so expell'd by unexpected stroke—
Each rapturing compact so abruptly broke!
Each dazzling hope so suddenly destroy'd,
And left at large in such a dreary void!
Not one, so weaponless, such wars to wage,
With hostile hosts, in want, and weary Age!
So loaded with a weak and sickly Wife,
To tow along thro' all remaining Life;
And unprovided Progeny assist,
Whate'er misfortune struck, or comfort miss'd—
While not a single friendly Soul was found,
To ease his heart, the whole horizon round!

He once had wealthy Friends on every hand—
Ev'n Lords and Ladies, near his native Land;
With Science, Wit, and Taste, on every side,
By Love, or Pity, to his interests tied.
Some kind connections Time had worn away;
And some Occasion suffer'd to decay—
Some Death had levell'd with his desperate lance—
Some snapp'd the bond by choice—and some by chance—
Those left relax'd their kindnesses and care,
Well-pleas'd to find his prospects look so fair.

What were connections now? all sudden torn
But a lov'd Wife, with lamentation worn,
And Children, who, like her, with sorrow rent,
O'er Parents wept, compell'd to strike their tent;
Now, press'd by Penury, Age, and deep Distress,
Again to wander thro' Earth's Wilderness!
His pleasant prospects, now, all instant close—
No spot appear'd where they could hope repose—
No near Asylum offering, safe and warm,
To fence their bosoms from the beating storm!
No distant shelter could their eyes behold,
To find a skreen from Age's heightening cold;
Or where, by heavenly Love, of Life bereft,
Each heart at ease, leave those that Love had left!

Their hearts with intellectual terror struck,
And disbelieving what the World calls luck,
Where'er they look'd for help, from human aid,
Oblivion spread impenetrable shade—
All earth appear'd one universal blot—
By Friends forsaken, or by Friends forgot!
On every side they saw, with startled glance,
Their hopes withdraw and horrid fears advance!
Where'er Imagination's mirror turn'd
Despair's black figure in its focus burn'd;
Which, with a melting force, dissolv'd, like fire,
In their drear beasts, each object of desire,
Without one particle of pleasing light
To guide their way thro' gross remaining Night!
No golden gleam the landscape could illume
But all lay buried in Egyptian gloom!
No spark but Revelation's lucid beam;
Which points out views beyond vain Time's extreme;
And that pure Spirit's supernatural ray
Which leads Believers on to endless Day!

Tho' that mild ray may reach the Soul's distress,
The Mind may comfort, and the Bosom bless;

Yet while Faith, Hope, and Love, the Spirit feed,
They yield no substance for the Body's need.
That rightful office Reason must fulfil,
By teaching Judgment—well-directing Will—
Still looking round, with Understanding's eye,
To mark where Probability's best prospects lie.
Not, now, to hazey Air, or grassy Ground,
Where dew still falls, but no fresh Manna's found;
Nor, when the wasted strength of Nature fails,
Hope Heav'n will furnish, now, fresh flocks of Quails—
But Man must study, and by labour, strive,
To feed the Flesh and keep the Frame alive;
For, tho' the Soul still blessings asks,
The Body must perform its proper tasks,
And not expect from Faith, or fancied Worth,
The mouth supplied, by miracles, on Earth.

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