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CHAPTER 15th.

What way could Crispin's lingering footsteps lead,
Himself and Family to clothe and feed?
What could he do; or whither could he go,
To fence off present want, or future woe?
How should he find some small, but social Cell,
Where each might hope with competence to dwell?
Some simple hut, or unassuming shed,
Where Providence would deal out daily bread,
With necessary raiment, just to fold
Each frame from shame, and shut out cruel cold?
Where constant labour, and believing care,
Might hope to earn enough, if none to spare?
Far from the scenes of sinful fraud and strife,
With all the shuffling tricks of treacherous Life.
Excluded from Mankind's continual rout,
With all trifles which would tempt without;
Still begging God to guard the works within,
And keep the poor Inhabitants from Sin—
To give each Body health; each Spirit peace,
Till all the ills of Time, and Sense, would cease!
He turn'd his full attention, first, above,
To the pure Source of Wisdom—Pow'r—and Love—
Imploring that pure Wisdom, Love, and Might,
To teach—and keep, acts—words—and reasonings, right,
To seek out fair success, yet not offend
That Father! Saviour! Comforter! and Friend!
Thus while he humbly bent before that Throne,
To ask His Love to bless, and His alone;
To beg celestial oil, and sovereign balm,
To heal his heart, his fears and cares to calm—
That Pow'r which suppliant Peter sought, to save
Himself, and trembling Friends, from watery grave—
That Wisdom, which, with all-sufficient Will,
Pronounc'd his peace, and bid the storm be still!
He, to each heart, that Comforter bequeath'd,
Whose pow'r, before, o'er pristine Chaos breath'd;
Composing every rude intestine storm,
And fram'd each beauteous Ball in fairest form;
That Spirit spread like influence o'er each breast,
And hush'd wild fancies, and weak fears, to rest!
Experience found his breast must bleed afresh,
Should he confide, again on fickle flesh;
And now had chas'd each fond fallacious charm,
Of hoping help from any mortal Arm.
He fear'd a fresh attempt might fare still worse,
Inflicting, stronger, Heav'n's recorded curse—
Might make his Soul, immortal, more a Slave,
Or doom his Body to untimely grave;
Entailing on his Tribe, throughout all time,
The cursed dregs of such a daring Crime!
His Soul and Body, both, had suffer'd twice,
By so engaging in such grievous Vice;
And should he, shamelessly, engage agen,
He'd meet keen scorn from all reflecting Men.
No wealthy Worldling, now, would e'er engage
A Servant, in the Vale of hoary Age;
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Who, soon, from Frame impair'd, and mental Pow'rs,
Might want a Workhouse for his final hours.
A Man dismiss'd from honourable place,
With striking symptoms of deserv'd disgrace—
Whose late Employer's conduct clearly prov'd
Some grievous fault, in him, such harshness mov'd;
For tho' deep silence no worse sentence dealt,
It prov'd how far her peace, and interest, felt—
And none would dare to try in place of trust,
One so unskilful—faithless—or unjust!
He could not, now, alas! in Life's extreme,
Attempt again the agricultural Scheme;
His first dismission must demonstrate, still,
Some wicked Conduct, or some want of Skill.
He might have urg'd the issue, once again,
Of that pure Practice on his native Plain,
But providential bars combin'd their force
To baffle and prevent such view'd resource—
And had blest Providence unbarr'd the door
He could not enter, now, for want of Store.
One old experiment he might have tried,
Which lack of Coin could never have denied;
Once more with constant care, and toil, to teach,
Some puny Younglings rudiments of Speech.
This could require but little pow'r, or purse;
But all his lov'd Companions prov'd averse;
Unwilling he, again, should so degrade
Imagin'd merit, by that petty Trade—
And he not prompt his Penury to expose,
To vex his Friends, or gratify his Foes.
Another occupation oft had caught
His ruminating Mind's excursive thought;
A parallel employ, but high'r in growth
That held out profit, and pure pleasure, both,
By which if blest of Heav'n, toil might obtain,
With daily diligence, an honest gain;
Sufficient simple raiment to afford,
And furnish Self, and Friends, a temperate board;
While mere materials in his trade might find
Meat, and amusement, for a thinking Mind.
A noble—useful—intellectual Trade;
Which would no worth, or dignity, degrade.
A fair—expedient—well-adapted Plan,
To suit the mortal, and immortal, Man.
Superior far to all those foul employs
That merely help, thro' Body, beastly joys—
That gratify the Soul with sensual gust,
Enlarging Sin by satisfying Lust—
Or what conduce to deck the fragile Frame,
Which oft, instead of sheltering, heighten shame;
Or rear such fabrics round it for defence,
As open signs of Folly more than Sense;
Of Ostentation—Vanity—or Pride—
Which Wisdom's offsprings pity, or deride.
This was a Trade that serv'd to train the Soul
For checking sordid Sense, and Time's controul—
Subordinating Body's carnal claims,
And lighting up the Mind's immortal flames—
For counteracting all Man's earthly leav'n,
And helping Spirit on its way to Heav'n.
'Tis true this Trade produces poisonous meats,
As worthiest things call forth most counterfeits;
While heavy curses hang o'er cruel Cooks,
Who mix base drugs to make high-season'd Books.
But Ignorance ne'er should seek to purchase Food,
Unskilful to distinguish bad from good;
But call forth Friends to search the mental Mart,
Well-learned in rules of literary Art,
Whose Judgment might discriminate, with care,
And cull out wholesome from unwholesome Fare.
What Folly 'twere to range each lawn and bow'r
To pluck each plant, or fascinating flow'r;
Each wholesome wort, with deleterious weed,
And on the sordid sallad fondly feed:
Far sillier than the silliest bird, or beast,
Who choose each herb and fruit that form their feast,
Without one varied want, or vicious wish,
To find indulgence from a dangerous dish.
But 'twould be madness far more desperate, still,
Should curious Folly, coupled with Self-will,
Push to Apothecary's showy shop
For unselected dust or smiling drop,
And like an obstinate, conceited, Clown,
With greedy gulp drink every potion down;
Not caring to consult some Man of skill
Before he swallow'd compound draught, or pill.
Kind Providence doth now, as Heav'n did, first,
Ere Man with Pride, and Carelessness, was curst,
Before him place some fascinating prize,
For Freedom's—Duty's—Reason's—exercise;
To try his heart, and strength, and talents, here,
In patient Circumspection, Faith, and Fear;
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And whether from affection, he'd obey,
In hopes of better fate some future Day:
But ruin'd Man, Imagination's Wretch!
Strains all his faculties to utmost stretch,
To seize, with eager grasp, each mental toy,
That offers but a moment's maddening joy—
To drive Reflection from the sordid Mind,
And leave her, in each baffling chace, behind—
Still stifling Conscience when she meekly calls,
To speak of past, or warn of future falls;
And fain would hint how far they render nought
The lessons faithful Friends, or Pastors, taught,
When urging each in Duty's paths to plod,
Or spoke the presence of an anger'd God.
But those Intruders oft the Soul pursue
Till Worldly-wisdom, to its Tools untrue,
Impels each proud, profane, and frantic, Elf,
To seek ingredients for destroying Self.
But tho' such instruments might soon be found,
To waste frail Life, or strike a fatal wound;
Such Death will ne'er annihilate the Soul!
Or fix the Body to a final Goal—
This must come forth to meet more dreadful doom—
That, void of grace, be plung'd in deeper gloom—
Woe, without mitigation—end—or pause—
For breaking Heav'n's, and Earth's, blest, binding Laws!
Crispinus might have shown some special Claims
For joining lists of literary Names—
Have stated fair pretence to join that Flock,
For adding something to its trading Stock;
And, now, had treasur'd up some latent Store
To raise that Stock a little trifle more.
This was a properer claim than most could plead
That now connected with the bookish Breed;
For many mix'd who had but poor pretence
To Learning, Art, or Science; Wit, or Sense;
Much less that Genius which might well produce,
One work for Children's choice, or Infant's use:
Their only Learning, and their only Art,
To act their cunning, selfish, plodding, part;
Their Science, Sense, and Genius, all brought forth,
To gain more Money, without Wit or Worth.
Two mighty, dangerous difficulties stood,
That block'd the path to Crispin's purpos'd good,
Which must, by strong attempts, be over-got,
Ere he would ascertain his dubious lot.
The first a Situation, fair, and fit,
Where he might vend the Works of Taste, and Wit,
Arts—Science—moral and religious Rules,
Or trash, and trumpery, fit for Fops, and Fools—
All useful articles which Learning needs,
And Genius, to perform Wits wonderous deeds—
An Habitation fitted for defence,
With purposes of Trade, at small expence;
And situated well, by some Street-side,
Where human Creatures pour, in plenteous tide;
While, as the crowded current glided on,
His Nets might, now and then, entangle One;
By Heav'n provided for his lawful prey.
To help his poverty each passing day.
Luxurious living, and egregious glare,
Form'd no petition in his daily pray'r;
He only ask'd of Heav'n to grant enough
Of this frail Station's perishable Stuff,
Himself and Friends to shelter, clothe, and feed,
And shut out painful Shame, and pressing Need—
Not to encourage Pride, or Pamper Lust,
But, still Christ's providential care to trust.
With sorrow oft he saw how ample Wealth
Destroys the Soul's repose, and Body's Health—
Prompts Vanity and Pride; and, what's far worse;
Incurs, by every Vice, Heav'n's heaviest curse!
For what is Wealth? or what is temporal Pow'r?
But fleeting trifles of a transient hour!
Which fill, with foolish Lusts, the sordid Soul,
And make it mock at Conscience's controul,
Till Death dissolve the luting, and unfold
All's dross within, and not one grain of gold;
While Pow'r and Pomp—Wealth—Titles—Influence—Fame—
By base abuse, all end in Pain and Shame!
In Wisdom's hands, to Mortals, thence, might rise,
Both temporal pleasure, and eternal joys;
But in the hands of Folly frequent end,
In Earth, or Heav'n, without a single Friend—
And oft their poison so perverts the Heart,
They furnish present sorrow—future smart—
Such fretting troubles, here; such future woe,
As gracious Need's ne'er doom'd to undergo!
Crispin, with anxious heart, tried every Street,
In hopes of tracing out such snug Retreat;
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Still begging God to go before his face,
And guide his footsteps to a proper place,
Where he might watch and strive, by toil and care,
The boons of His bless'd Providence to share—
When after many a long, and weary, rout,
The providential spot was pointed out;
And he, attended by his little Band,
Got full possession of the gracious Land;
Where, after doubts, and fears, and dangers, past,
He pitch'd his temporary tent at last;
Emancipated from the Despot's pow'r,
Who had so hurt his heart in earlier hour!
But still that Habitation stood below,
Beset by many a fierce, or envious Foe;
Tho' not enclos'd by Canaanitish Kings,
But countless Insects arm'd with hostile stings—
Where every hour some conflict must be fought,
By persevering pains, and patient thought—
Some strenuous effort, every instant, tried,
With human malice—perfidy—or pride—
To gain or guard, the covering, fence, and food,
Of Self, sick Consort, and dependent Brood.
Such Situation, likewise, would require
Some small expence for furniture, and fire;
And, tho' secluded from all Pomp, and State,
Finance must furnish many a rigorous Rate;
For cleansing all external Filth away—
For succedaneous lights at close of Day—
Rewarding Watchmen for half-hourly yell,
While wandering, heedless, round his little Cell—
Must liquidate, in time, his Water-tax,
Tho' Fire's ne'er lit, and Cleanliness relax—
And, tho' scarce keeping Bailiffs from his Door,
His Poverty must still supply the Poor;
Nor them alone, but those demands increas'd
By Luxury's calls at frequent Parish-feast:
Beside the yearly, yea, the daily, drain,
Which Princes, Placemen, Pensioners, maintain;
While scarce a Creature Man hath given a name
But Priest, or King, put in some partial claim.
The unassuming, shabby, dirty, Dome,
Which Providence had fix'd for Crispin's Home,
Whate'er his clothing, furniture, or fare,
Must heavy annual impositions bear;
And, howsoe'er his Family was clad,
Or fenc'd, or fed, all Taxes must be had;
Squeez'd from his toil and study, to support
The lazy Loiterers that compose a Court.
His puny, ill-provided, Shop, beside,
Must help to heighten Luxury—Pomp—and Pride—
However mean, and meagre, were his lot,
And whether Trade produc'd one doit, or not;
While every outer Door and Window's view'd,
And, where celestial radiance dar'd intrude,
In cells for toil, for study, rest, or sleep,
All—all, must pay for kind Apollo's peep—
As if bounteous beams, when found abroad,
Incurr'd no pains, or penalties, for fraud;
But seen in meanest Mansion, round the Land,
Must instantly be seiz'd as contraband—
While every vagrant troop, or gypsey train,
Which prowls at large, and pilfers all the plain,
His brightest beams, at full extent, can use,
All free from toil, and maugre Cæsar's dues;
As tho' the vilest of the rambling Race,
Enjoy'd some Pension, or some courtly Place.
Each scanty peck of Coals, which Labour buys,
Must yield full portion of a fix'd Excise,
For spurious Offspring, of lewd Monarch, laid,
By honest Care, and Toil, and Penury, paid—
Yes, ev'n the tiney rushlight's twinkling Ray
Must for its paltry, casual, kindness pay—
Each cotton Burner, and all blazing Oil,
Must feel a Levy for their sunny smile—
As if our Politicians felt a spite
Against the being of abhorrent Light;
Resolv'd, by fine, to persecute, each spark,
Whose nature still reveals what's vile and dark;
It's very essence fitted to unveil
What every Scoundrel studies to conceal.
Nor obvious articles, alone, like these,
Suffice to furnish Courtiers countless Fees;
Nor little luxuries round the breakfast-board,
Sufficient Stipends for such Troops afford,
But all that springs from Forest, Mead, and Field,
Must perquisites to Priests, and Princes, yield;
With bribes for all those mercenary Throngs,
That prop their Pride, and sanction all such Wrongs.
The savoury Salt that makes his morsel sweet,
Must feel a fine, to help the Statesman's treat—
From every drop of artificial drink,
Some oozings must in straining Treasury sink,
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To run again, in rills, throughout the Isle,
As beverage for the Idle—Vain—and Vile!
All instruments of Health, and Cleanliness—
Each part, and decent ornament, of Dress—
To keep him comely, temperate, strong, and pure,
Some Custom—Tax—or Duty—must endure;
To clothe and deck the Courtier and the King
With costly, fine, and fashionable, Thing.
The hairy helmet for his aged head—
The sandals that secur'd his tender tread—
With every rag that wrapp'd his fading Frame,
Aforetime felt some grievous courtly Claim.
The hop'd intended, literary Crop,
To fill the shelves, and flooring of his Shop,
Must heavy, customary, burdens bear,
Antique, or modern—good—bad—foul—or fair—
Whether materials white, and purely plain,
Or what poor Printers innocently stain—
Where Wisdom brings forth fruits, which bless the soil,
Or Clowns, or Coxcombs, with bad rubbish, spoil—
What with foul inky show'rs Profaneness shades,
Or daring Infidelity degrades,
By scattering base abominable seeds,
To propagate a poisonous race of weeds—
What, with sublimest landscapes, Poets paint,
Or what vain Wits, vile Tales—Songs—Sonnets—taint
What Saints, with proper sentiments, employ,
To thrill the Soul with sweet, religious, Joy;
Or blest Morality's pure Truths engage,
To mould each Sex's Mind in Youth and Age:
All—all—in part, supplying some resource
For Fallacy's prompt Tools, or Troops of Force—
To all that levy, or collect, each Tax—
To princely Harridans, or priestly Hacks—
To those that proudly spend, or, pertly, sport;
That grind the Country, or that gild the Court;
With all those useless—lounging—impious—Hosts
That throng in Camps, or thunder round the Coasts.
He had, besides, to combat with the Trade—
With all that whisper'd—scoff'd—or felt afraid;
For every Dunce this obvious inference drew,
That, when commercial Market opens, new,
Whate'er commodities the doors unfold,
All tempted Customers that quit the old,
Seduc'd by cheapness, goodness, or address,
Must leave the Profits of the former less.
He hop'd not one Opponent e'er would yield
And leave him Master in unfoughten Field—
He ne'er imagin'd Jericho would fall
By sounding one ram's-horn around the wall;
Or his weak mandate, mark'd with added frown,
Could keep the Sun, one hour from going down—
His Storehouse, free from labour, could be fill'd
With Corn, from Farms which other Culturers till'd;
Or Babylonish robes, or gold, could gain,
When righteous wrath had proud Possessor slain.
He ne'er expected an uncultur'd Crop—
That Heav'n would Wealth—or Food—or Vesture drop;
Or any other Good, from Grace, would rise
Except he put his Pow'rs in exercise.
Still, tho' right Reason might prescribe right Rules,
No Man can work without his proper Tools.
Without materials Mind may stretch, and strain,
And Sense and Understanding strive in vain.
In vain all Genius—Knowlege—Learning—Skill—
With all the active Pow'rs that prompt the Will—
No Art can manufacturing feats attest,
Till first of Matter, and apt Tools, possest.
The Farmer might possess a fertile Soil—
Be ready to exert each thought, and toil—
Implore each moment providential meed,
In vain, till Heav'n bestow some proper Seed.
In vain the Miner knows his own Freehold
Contains rich strata of rare gems, or gold,
His native Wisdom ne'er that Wealth can win
Unless by gold enabled to begin;
Or Creditors, possest of competence
Are prompted to supply the first expence.
Such were the circumstances Crispin found
When first he occupied that spot of ground—
His Will was ready—Knowledge quite enough—
Had he possest the pure metallic Stuff;
Or found sufficient influence to succeed
In loans from letter'd Friends to favour Need.
Small was the Sum, alas! Misfortune left,
When of his place and prospects, both bereft;
And while lov'd Consort on her sick-bed lay
That small resource was frittering fast away,
By costly lodging, join'd with dainter cate,
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Ere well-restor'd to convalescent state—
At length the puny pittance, that remain'd,
The greedy Doctor's different items drain'd.
Meantime his quondam Friend, and Patroness,
To make her cruel Conduct strike the less;
Or, smit with deep remorse at each rash Deed,
Completely conscious of his pressing need,
To hide necessity, or help in Trade,
What dupes might deem a mighty tender, made;
Sent to his Cell by apt High-steward's hand,
Who manag'd most affairs in Mines and Land;
A bounty she might mean to blind his eyes,
And seize his Heart with pleasure and surprize—
To make his Mind all grievances forget
And feel a full discharge of Friendship's debt—
To cancel claim for every promise past,
And tie his tongue, and pen, whilst Life should last.
His injur'd heart with indignation, swell'd
When he the sly insidious bait beheld;
With fix'd abhorrence his firm Spirit spurn'd,
And back, with strong contempt, the bribe return'd.
Nor this loath'd Dole, alone, did he refuse,
A Dole, unworthy of the meanest Muse!
But late, in after years, his Heart and Soul
Above mean Selfishness, or Pride's controul,
Could from pure principles of Truth refuse,
A Gift that might have graced sublimer Muse.
An offer equal in computed Coin,
But far superior in its pure design,
A virtuous Tender! from a noble Band,
That honours Britain's Lyre! and Britain's Land!
Combin'd to bless the humbler tuneful Train,
That Merit may not vex, for Friends, in vain.
Not offering bribery, with intention base,
To silence sufferers in such cruel Case;
But, on true Worth fair benefits bestow,
For helping Want, and weakening Pain and Woe!
How could Crispinus, with a Conscience clear,
His heart imbued, by Grace, with Godly Fear,
And glowing warmly with pure love of Man,
Accept the Bounty, though he bless'd the Plan!
He deem'd that numbers of the Muse's Throng,
With higher Worth, and happier pow'rs of Song,
Might pine in penury, yet more Merit plead,
Borne down by dread, and worn with weightier Need;
While knowing such Finances must be found
Still circumscrib'd within a narrow bound—
With such disinterested, virtuous view,
Far from the golden dow'r his hand withdrew!
Ten golden guineas, once, in former time,
His Heart and Conscience could not count a Crime;
But felt his head approve—his Heart expand,
When he, full glad, held forth his eager hand.
That was the Gift of Grace, and Love, and Truth,
And tender'd, freely, in the time of Youth;
When each new Year his beauteous Partner bore,
Adding fresh burden to the Year before.
Then those exhibited extatic charms,
And eas'd his Mind of many harsh alarms—
Infus'd fresh hopes, and thrill'd through every nerve,
To think what useful purpose each would serve—
Imagination shap'd continual schemes,
And fill'd with figures odd her airy dreams,
While Fancy flew around with golden wings,
And coin'd conceptions of substantial Things:
But prudent Reason in the rear pursued,
Correcting all their views, and visions, crude;
And while she rectified those various pranks,
Sent Gratitude to Heav'n with praise and thanks.
Advanc'd in Age, Experience, well advis'd,
Intrinsic Worth with more precision pois'd;
When, well-adjusting their specific claims,
He weigh'd the different Donor's genuine aims;
The one, like filmy motes, or baubles, bright,
Design'd to intercept, or dazzle sight;
The motive, subtly, to deceive the Mind,
To banish Truth, and make the Judgment blind:
The other, Money, of substantial make
Put in the scale for Heav'n's, and Virtue's, sake;
From views more pure, for honest Penury meant,
To purchase comforts, and procure content:
That, real Wealth, with special pow'r endued,
To raise the rapturing gust of Gratitude!
'Twas gold all gather'd from a friendly Mine,
Not for mere show to make each Giver shine,
Not aim'd to purchase panegyric lays,
Or pay for trumpeting a Patron's praise—
It grew not, where, with grief, and anxious care,
Deep sighs, and groans, disturb'd the ambient air;
Nor dug from sordid Pride's degenerate soil,
Moisten'd with tears, and mattock'd up with toil;
But, free from selfish views, or false pretence,
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The bounteous dole of true Benevolence—
Bright was its lustre! clear of all alloy!
A gracious Gift! diffusing genuine Joy!
This was mere counterfeit—of different mould—
All polish'd brass—not one pure grain of gold—
Design'd to silence both his tongue and pen,
And pay the price of Liberty agen—
A paltry recompence! a base douceur!
A veil to cover all offences o'er.
To render every obligation void
And make the Sufferer seem well satisfied—
A crafty bribe to stifle all complaint
And make such Hypocrite appear a Saint!
Could Crispin's Mind so meanly condescend
To palm such prize, and call a Foe a Friend?
No! his high Spirit, 'mid such dark dismay,
His gold all gone! his Friends all far away!
He still felt Fortitude, and Courage rise,
To spurn the Giver, and the Gift despise!
His honest Heart, contemptuous, nobly scorn'd,
With Coin, and Cunning, so to be suborn'd;
But, deeming Truth, and Justice, both abus'd,
The tempting treasure, with a frown, refus'd:
Resolv'd, whate'er his future lot might be,
To keep from all such Friends, and Favours, free!
When his fix'd sentence was at first receiv'd,
And his torn breast with trembling horror heav'd,
In spite of all his dangers and disgrace
When Perfidy had forc'd him from his Place,
A latent vow, involuntary, stole
From deep recesses of his inmost Soul,
That, whether Life should short, or long remain,
He ne'er would enter her proud gates again.
Ne'er, tho' opprest with penury, pain, or grief,
Seek solace there, or look for frail relief.
Much rather would he seek some Cot, obscure,
And lasting Labour—Want—and Woe—endure—
Leave, early, every morn, recluse abode,
And toil, incessant, in some turnpike road—
With willing strength, axe, hoe, spade, ploughshare, wield,
In other's woodland, garden, grove or field—
At even-tide, in rain, or frost, retire—
To ply his Craft beside his friendly fire—
Or, if that strength should fail, in fond retreat,
Turn sounds, and cyphers into drink and meat.
Immr'd, in Town, sustain much sorer Need,
In murkey cell, endeavouring Friends to feed,
Expos'd, each day, in tatter'd, squalid, coat,
When streets with wintery floods run all afloat,
With scrubby broom to sweep away the dirt,
For every Coxcomb, Slattern, Fool, or Flirt;
And take, at each extreme, alternate stand,
In hope, and patience, with worn hat in hand,
And still with piteous tone, and craving cry,
Imploring halfpence from each passer by—
Much rather, than recover'd Freedom lose,
Would run on errands, or enamel shoes—
To keep Himself, and Family, alive,
With constant diligence a dust-cart drive—
Still more degrading, in contemptuous plight,
Explore obscene receptacles by night;
Or, if kind Providence conferr'd the pow'r,
Proclaim Time's footsteps, twice, each passing hour—
Procure a Barrow's moveable Freehold,
And, 'mid the rinsing rain, fierce heat, or cold,
With worn-out voice, and weary-wandering feet,
Cry mixt commodities thro' every street;
Or any other lawful calling join,
Rather than Liberty's delights resign.
And, when he found his health and strength depart,
Accept some Hospital, with willing heart—
Receive some pinching payment, once a Week,
Some happy Almshouse, or kind Workhouse, seek,
And there still combat punishment and pain,
Gladlier than sacrifice Free-will again.
But, should it prove his providential lot
To lose his Family, and leave his Cot,
And be in Hospital or Almshouse fix'd,
Or, with mean multitude, in Workhouse, mix'd;
There would he feel his Heart inflamed with Joy,
And find his faculties complete employ,
Among the numbers of Immortals, there,
By labouring to infuse religious fear—
To tell how Man was form'd, and how he fell,
And how all impious conduct leads to Hell!
How each proud Heart and Spirit grew deprav'd—
And how each sinful Soul might still be sav'd—
Tell the glad tidings of redeeming Love!
How its blest Author intercedes above!
How His free Pow'r Heav'n's holy Spirit sends,
To make His bitterest Foes become His Friends;
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And fit each ready Mind of meanest Race
For proper subjects of that blissful Place!
This, and much more, did Crispin's Mind revolve,
And, on right Reason, fix his firm resolve,
That sooner than he'd sacrifice his Will
He'd Life's low'st honest offices fulfil.
Would sooner suffer sickness—pain—and need—
Be rob'd in rags—on dirty fragments feed—
Than his lov'd Liberty again forego,
For all Wealth's courtly Bondage could bestow!
Sooner than for the sake of hapless Ease,
Be bound proud Tyrants, and their Tools to please.
Sooner blank Penury's endless ills abide
Than what vile Slaves endure from Despot's Pride.
Sooner than let his liberal Mind submit
To turncoat Portland, or tyrannic Pitt;
Or e'er become a patient, plodding Ass,
Or Protean Parasite, like drunk Dundas:
Yea, ev'n the galling griefs low bondage brings
Than cringe to churlish Chiefs, or, cruel Kings!
Conscience proclaims that Life a constant crime
That, thus, devotes to Creatures Strength, and Time;
Or prostitutes the Heart, with Spirit's Pow'rs,
To Fame or Flattery, for degrading Dow'rs!
What Soul, immortal! would its Rights resign,
By bartering Liberty for Fame, or Coin!
Would lose the blessings of celestial birth
To worship any Idol-Pow'r on Earth!
E'er dedicate its talents—Time—and Thought—
To empty, evanescent, Things of nought!
The wonderous gifts of Intellect degrade
To serve the fleeting shadow of a Shade!
What vile perversion of such pow'r sublime!
High mental Faculties and fateful Time,
Ordain'd for nobler Interests of her own,
By offering all before their Father's Throne!
And honouring, faithfully, that heavenly Friend,
Whose Love and Bounty know no Bounds—nor End!
Could Conscience, heedless, from a Monarch's Hand,
Accept the Riches of a ravag'd Land?
Heap up, in Idleness, a Nation's Wealth,
For which unnumber'd Poor spend Strength and Health?
Behold, in Gold, so got, enchanting charms,
With Soul insensible of others harms?
Would not the conscious Heart, and Hand recoil,
Tho' every royal Profile seem'd to smile?
Must not the Fancy see each feature melt,
With sweat and blood, for what Plebeians felt?
Would not the Heart perceive cold, sinking, qualm?
Each Guinea, grasp'd, burn deep the blister'd Palm?
While Sense would say what suffering Fellows feel
Who wield the wearying tools of wood and steel?
What small returns for all their thought, and toil,
Who clip the sod, or cultivate the soil;
And what a sorry portion Slaves possess
Who form the Dome, or manufacture Dress?
How could a lazy Christian Luxuries carve,
While conscious They who win them work, and starve?
With unconcern in proud apartments dwell,
While those that built them lodge in loathsome cell—
Or, fledg'd with Foppery, know no anxious care,
While Frames that form'd it look so lean and bare?
Can cruel Tyro, tutor'd in Christ's school,
Who oft has read, or heard, Heav'n's royal rule;
Whate'er his Titles—Honours—Pow'r—or Pelf—
That he should love his Neighbour as himself—
Can he, mean Monster! who ne'er earn'd a mite,
Adopt such Wealth with satisfied delight?
E'er with an eye of proud contempt and scorn,
Look down on abject Broods, his Equals born?
Survey their fainting toils with torpid phlegm,
And know his Pomp, and Pleasure, spring from them,
Yet, with a sordid Soul, and foul offence,
Devour their pains, and grasp their hard-earn'd pence?
How could his Mind's affections mount above,
To Heav'n's pure Source of universal Love,
Whilst His foul Heart of Fellow-love devoid,
Claims from their labours food for Lust and Pride!
Could, with right Reason, and clear Conscience, raise,
At Morn, or Eve, a Song of pious praise!
That Being thank, whose Bounty thus bestows,
Thro' Need, those numerous gifts, mid wants and woes!
Or breathe bold supplications, to procure
Life's future Favours while his days endure!
But, Men, most base, for love of Ease, or Lust,
Will flatter Dolts, or fawn on Fellow-dust—
Or, to supply their Pomp, support their Pride,
Will Wisdom's Self, or dearest Saint, deride.
To ward off pressing Woe, or pinching Want,
Will vent, on Villainy, colloquial Cant;
42

Or, to indulge imaginary needs,
Pen lying praise, or practise dirty deeds.
For love of filthy Lucre dare delude
The crafty Pimp, or hypocritic Prude;
Or, when proud Coxcomb, or pert Clown's in vogue
Will praise the Fop, or puff the ignorant Rogue.
Will fondle Sots to further selfish views—
Embrace foul Bawds, and patronize the Stews—
And, to confirm vain Pow'r, or fix vile Fame,
Bestow on Tyrants kind Protector's Name;
While all the World, with Folly, most profound,
And impious Blasphemy, repeats the sound!
Protector!—will a desperate Rebel dare,
A dying Worm, with Deity compare!
A pow'rless Mortal, thus, presume to vie
With Him who compasses the starry Sky!
Supports—guides—governs, all, in Heav'n and Earth!
First gave all Creatures Being—Substance—Birth!
Dare, by such Title, sinful Creature, call,
Like His who reigns, and rules, high Lord of all!
Apply to figur'd—fickle—Crumbling Clod,
One glorious Trait of Heav'n's eternal God!
Protector! can that fit a feeble Elf
Who ne'er one instant, can protect Itself;
But must, each moment, on His pow'r depend
Whose Being ne'er begun—nor e'er can end!
A passing Shadow! a mere Show of pow'r!
A transient, fleeting, fading, dying Flow'r!
A Bubble ting'd with ever-varying hues,
Which Vanity, a time, with transport, views;
Wafted about with every breeze of wind,
Then instant bursts nor leaves one trace behind!
Shall such a Thing, so empty—vain—and vile—
Thus arrogate its great Creator's style!
Thus vaunt as Virtue's dues, what all derive
From One who once was dead; but, now, alive;
And will, alone, such Life, and Pow'r, supply,
To true Disciples, who shall never die!
To Him was long-tried Crispin taught to look;
By whose bless'd Spirit, and transporting Book,
Calm Reason furnish'd with unravelling Clue
Could wind the World's mysterious mazes through—
His Heart, inform'd with feeling, Soul, with light,
Could ascertain, distinctly, wrong from right.
Blest with these gifts to guard and guide his Mind,
Behold him, now, where Providence design'd,
With many new demands, but few'r supplies;
Tho' Reason saw not whence Finance would rise.
Yet He whose Counsel thither shap'd his Course
Had pledg'd Himself to prove a safe Resource—
Had taught him, while immers'd in Nature's Night,
He still must walk by Faith and not by Sight—
Must keep the path of Duty all his way,
By waken'd Conscience, led with Reason's ray;
While Revelation's bright, but lunar, beams,
Would light his track and show him all extremes;
Still using each assistance Heav'n bestow'd,
To help him thro' the short remaining road.
But barren were the views which rose around,
And little were the lights reflection found,
While oft his Spirit, press'd by doubt and fear,
Saw Nakedness and Hunger hovering near.
When first his Friends expos'd his plaintive lays,
The work not only won some empty praise,
Which Sympathy and Pity still bestow,
When Melancholy marks a Muse of Woe,
But some among that Muse's Race enroll'd,
Show'd fruitful Friendliness by gifts of Gold;
While some, by pure Philanthropy impell'd,
The lasting want of learned Wealth beheld,
And, kindly to improve poetic Lore;
By Books enlarg'd his literary Store.
Among the last appear'd Vanessa's Name,
Prompted by Passion, and fond love of Fame;
But now by Prejudice—Caprice—and Pride,
Each band was broke, and every knot untied.
Thro' Slavery's Years these volumes long had lain
Among much useless Lumber on the Plain;
But now become rich treasure, to supply
The shabby shelves, and catch the curious eye;
Which to staunch Antiquaries might appear
Rare mutilated reliques lurking there.
Fix'd on each yawning frame, still nearly bare,
With grin ungraceful, there to stand and stare,
Like brown, or broken teeth, in aged jaws,
The rest remov'd by Nature's rigid laws—
Or, like a poor Apothecary's jars,
Pretending cures for sickness, pains, and scars,
Replete with powders, oils, or philtering phlegm,
(But these contain'd no dangerous drugs like them,)
All widely scatter'd in each corner'd niche,
Declare the Man of Med'cine is not rich;
43

So these, to all that enter'd Crispin's door,
Proclaim'd the worn-out Poet still was poor.
To these were added many tiny Tomes,
Which Urchins wish, in huts, or haughtier domes,
All known to Newbery—Marshal—or Carnan,
To please each puny Maid, or pigmy Man;
Whose gilded garbs, apt tales, and prints, impart
Delighting lessons to each ductile heart.
Still struck with shame he saw the shabby Shop
Exhibit but a poor penurious Crop;
A Crop whose produce could not long afford
To clothe his fleeceless Flock, and bless his Board;
But fill'd his anxious heart with pungent pains,
While opening prospects show'd such hungry Gains.
Far different was the hap of Fellow-elves,
Who saw such radiant regiments deck their shelves;
On errands, ready, every hour, to run
And keep at distance the tremendous Dun.
Poor Crispin could not compass gold-lac'd Groups
To pay the Sovereign, or to pawn for Soups;
The Baker—Butcher—Taylor—to allure;
Or make the Landlord see his Rent secure—
Nor had he golden Guineas, now, at hand,
To buy new Stock, or plant the naked Land.
Tho' Pride, or Profligacy, had not spent
What heavenly Love, by Benefactors, lent,
Or sale of Song attain'd, by thought and toil;
But Prudence purchas'd some small Squares of Soil,
To guard against the calls of casual Need;
And Friends, and Parents, had approv'd the Deed;
Still to prepare a permanent resource,
Should Want attack with more infuriate force.
But hard Necessity each Plat had pawn'd,
While Shop and Pocket, both, with hunger yawn'd;
And all his efforts for a time restrain'd,
Till added Gold had ampler profits gain'd—
Nor could its virtuous energies revive,
To keep his pining credit long alive;
Or, at that crisis, tho' of coin bereft
Could Wisdom well sequester what was left.
Another little portion, near the spot,
Had lately fall'n, by much-lamented lot,
A lot of chastisement much more than choice;
For, had the Bard been call'd, with casting voice,
Love had revers'd Heav'n's Sentence, so austere;
For with it fell a Father, ever dear!
A lot whose loss would never be deplor'd
Could Life, to such a Friend, be so restor'd.
How mean must be that Ingrate's groveling Mind,
Whose selfish feelings could be so confin'd—
Could wish, for such a scanty scrap of Earth,
To give that Friend who gave His Being birth—
Ev'n for its amplest Plain, and richest Mine,
So lov'd a Father's valued Life resign!
But, tho' impassion'd Spirit felt so loth,
Yet when the all-wise Pow'r which made them both,
Had purposed by His blessed Providence,
In Love, and Mercy, to remove him hence,
In full assurance Life would be restor'd,
He bow'd his head, in silence, and ador'd!
But full possession still suspended hung
On law, pronounc'd by that lov'd Parent's tongue;
Love needed not, what written Wills require,
To make that Son submissive to that Sire,
Who wish'd, with fervent Mind, his faithful Mate,
While Providence decreed her longer date,
Should, thro' that Life, those benefits enjoy;
Which Crispin's duteous Heart could ne'er deny;
But feeling pure affection press the same,
He joyfully withheld his legal Claim.
He might have pleaded, now, the common cant
Of Heav'n's explicit Will, thro' pressing want;
For apter reasons Penury need not roam,
But urge, “That Charity begins at Home.”
Yet how could such a fondly-favour'd Child
Thus mock a Mother; ever-meek, and mild!
A first-born Son, so basely, gifts forget;
All Human dues—and Duty's endless debt!
Could pious Crispin Heav'n's pure dictates spurn!
All Nature's lessons instantly unlearn!
Her web unweave! Her innate knots unnoose!
And thus, at once, all filial feelings lose!
At once all Education set aside,
And strive to make each moral Virtue void!
All Grace—all Goodness—franticly forego,
To shun weak Shame, and keep up specious Show!
A Mother's Comfort cruelly destroy,
And rob declining Age of daily Joy;
That Vanity might still continue vain,
And Pride escape just penalties of pain!
Let hopes of profit pacify the Mind,
That fond Self-love might full indulgence find!
44

That Friend, or Customer, when coming there,
Might mark no Need, no Poverty appear,
But all contribute both to Ease and Health,
Proclaim Prosperity, and forward Wealth.
Could he, long call'd a Christian, so dismiss
All hope of present peace, and future bliss?
For such a wretched bait, this reasoning Bard,
All true delight, all character, discard;
And suffer such a Friend, who, first, caress'd,
And cheer'd his Childhood, brooding on her breast?
Let that fond bosom pine, for lack of bread,
Where his weak infant frame was fully fed;
Or gaily strut about, in gaudy trim,
While she went bare who oft well-cover'd him?
No!—rather would his Will resign the Whole
Than thus a Father's dying wish controul.
Live pin'd with poverty, and shrunk with shame,
Than cancel thus a tender Mother's Claim.
Let counter, shelves, and boards, continue bare,
Than thus increase Her labour, or Her care.
Be sooner seen, each day, in paltry dress
Than She should find one graceful garment less.
Would stint His Table, and half-starve His Brood,
That She might share more comfortable Food,
And bear exposure to each pelting storm,
Than she should want a habitation warm.
More willing would consent to yield his breath,
Than let Self love e'er expedite Her death;
Than suffer Conscience to contract such Crime,
To pierce the Spirit thro' remaining time;
And, when his Body sunk beneath the Sod,
Deprive that Spirit of its Parent—God!
Some rational expedient must be found
That would not thus inflict this festering wound
Such as the Spirit must thro' Time deplore
And risque most wretched loss when Life was o'er.
He meditated first a desperate plan
To try what reach his Name and Credit ran;
Amongst unmonied Men a common scheme,
But harsh and humbling high Trade's esteem;
For, while the hazardous design succeeds,
The independent bosom pants and bleeds;
While Merit, when it meets the sad reverse,
Feels Virtue suffer Crime's severest curse—
For when Indifference, or imperious Pride,
Or Ridicule, sets each pure plea aside;
Or boisterous Passion bids the Dupe depart,
Shame, Death, and Hell, seem shrivelling up the Heart;
Such dire disasters Crispin scarcely knew;
His killing applications were but few;
And those devoid of vinegar and gall,
Tho' his successes were exceeding small.
A different conduct might have 'scap'd the whole,
Had he possest that suppleness of Soul
Which fits itself to circumstances new,
By changing shape, size, attitude, and hue;
In weak accommodation to each whim
Of those that had the pow'r of helping Him.
He might have miss'd a part by complaisance
Accepting treasure offer'd in advance,
And Loons remark'd he well deserv'd to lack
For sending rich Scintilla's Bounty back.
Mean Sycophants might feel such conduct wrong,
And such decision sway the thoughtless Throng;
For they, unmindful of their future fate,
With eagerness embrace each tempting bait—
But Crispin guessing what the gift contain'd,
How much his purest feelings must be pain'd;
How little pleasure would attend the prize,
His Mind resolv'd to make the sacrifice:
Nor did he, after, in his neediest day,
Regret he turn'd the tempting gold away;
Nor Wife, or Friends, whose interest was the same,
The bold refusal e'er, as folly, blame;
Or even wish'd, in most distressful hour,
That proffer'd pelf again in Crispin's pow'r—
For Heav'n, which countenances Virtue's Cause,
Ne'er fails the Faithful who revere its Laws,
That He might not lament that loss of Store
In bounteous Benefactions sent much more—
Yea, Providence, at that penurious time,
That Conscience might not find a fancied crime,
Ordain'd a distant Relative to die
To yield Necessity a new supply.
These happy Perquisites were soon display'd
In stationery Stores for retail Trade.
Exhibited abroad, in stately Stock,
That envious Emulation might not mock;
To combat Scorn, and palliate haughty Pride,
And prove small purchasers might be supplied.
There, in battalions, on the furnish'd Floor,
White, brown, or blue, appear'd each comely Corps;
45

Whose decent ranks, and order well-arrang'd,
Show'd Fate's blank face to cheerfulness was chang'd.
Still he beheld, with grief, the greedy boards
Had swallow'd all his long-collected hoards;
And still, with habit lean, and hungry looks,
In silence begg'd for feasts of better Books,
Their meagre frames to mend, and mouths to fill,
That they might help to feed his famish'd Till,
By putting in, each day, a dribbling sum,
As Heav'n should influence Customers to come:
But his exhausted funds no more could find
To fill the shelves and cheer their Master's Mind.
He then resolv'd the trading World to try,
And strive to borrow what he could not buy—
To try how far his true, pathetic, Tale,
Would o'er the Prudence of that World prevail—
How far experiment might Pity trace
Among the rigorous, bluff, book-selling Race—
What Faith, as fellow-Christians, they might feel,
In operative acts for others weal—
How much each hungry Heart, and sordid Soul,
Might feel refining Sympathy's controul—
What pleasing proofs Humanity might show
Sublime Benevolence would look so low—
How far divine Philanthropy had throve
By kindly culture in that Land of Love.
Whether within their bosoms might be found
Some part of that Religion piled around—
Whether true Wisdom there had fixt its roots,
And Charity had cherish'd friendly fruits—
Whether some seeds pure Piety had sown,
Which, by the blessed beams of Grace, were grown;
And while Heav'n's dews, on right endeavours dropp'd,
Their happy Spirits were completely cropp'd;
Or if his hand might some small sheaves obtain
Where ample harvests heap'd the prosperous plain,
In his safe storehouse, as a trust, to hold,
Till delegated treasures turn'd to gold;
Then honestly to pay the price he ought,
When commerce had retain'd what Custom taught;
Or, if not favour'd with a timely sale,
Refund them, faithful, both in state, and tale.
His name was honour'd, once, in earlier days,
When young Ambition strove to twine the bays;
Nor could he offer, then, a fairer bribe
Than so to trust the literary Tribe.
His Face was then familiar in each Mart,
Where Learning lookt for tracts of Taste, or Art;
But now, so long sequestred, his hard lot,
His very Form and Visage were forgot;
Nor now could antique Trader recognize
His voice—complexion—feature—shape—or size!
Besides Crispinus, now, could find but few,
Which, in his younger days he gladly knew,
Time had torn up, or lopp'd, the liberal Race,
Still dibbling Dolts, or Puppies, in their place.
He could not, now, push cramp'd Presumption's claim
To youthful hopes of Fortune, or of Fame—
Declining Age no argument could use
To influence greedy Tradesmen's groveling Views;
Nor hopeless Poverty one motive try
To make proud Misers with his Wish comply.
But danger, fear, dislike, and doubtful plea,
Before Necessity were forc'd to flee—
As sentenc'd Soldiers thro' the gauntlet run,
This castigating course our Bard begun;
Receiving some correction every pace,
Throughout the limits of his writhing Race;
Inflicted, more or less, from every lash,
As Tempers prov'd more placid, rude, or rash.
Where'er he show'd his meagre face and shape
Sharp Eagerness, for gain, stood wide agape,
Whose eyes and ears to full expansion grew,
To catch his looks and words before they flew:
But as they seiz'd unwelcome sight, or sound,
Reflection shap'd the aspect more profound—
And, while pronouncing speech for borrowing Books,
The smiling leers were chang'd to churlish looks,
Nor more with hope, or expectation, shone,
But bid him, by ungracious gloom, be gone.
When thus he'd run, thro' all the flogging Ranks,
He found but little call for praise, or thanks;
But meditated, much, a hostile Scheme
For prosecution, by poetic Theme,
Unveiling each cold Character to view,
Pourtray'd in shape—face—attitude—and hue—
Not limn'd in colours, but in couplets linkt,
To make each form and feature stand distinct;
That every literary Soph might see
By marks and manners, who each Brute must be.
But soon calm Intuition clearly taught
By Scheme like this Himself would soon be caught;
46

And Reason show'd such Work would give offence,
To mild Humanity, and soberer Sense—
While Prudence whisper'd, soft, in Penury's ear,
That such Design would cost him doubly dear—
Would rouze a nest of Hornets into wrath,
Whose fierceness would infest his daily path;
And when their waspish pow'rs were on the wing
Their hum would harrass while their tails might sting:
And, tho' not form'd with faculties for Song,
They might annoy him as a noisey Throng;
Like Kites would scream, or whoot like nightly Owls;
Would drop their dirt like filthy dunghill Fowls,
And proudly perch aloof, or fly aloft,
Nor, with one feather, make his couch more soft.
He met with manners, often, harsh and rough,
And bore, with patience many a rude rebuff;
Yet some assented to his plaintive plea,
And help'd his purpose in some small degree:
But, when the first effusions Kindness felt
Produc'd not fruits for which that Kindness dealt;
And tho' his longings, thus, their loans reliev'd,
They fear'd their confidence might be deceiv'd—
For finding his returns so very slack,
They wish'd their goods again in stores to stack—
And lest his credit suddenly should crash,
By frequent claims soliciting for cash;
These doubts indulg'd and every hope appall'd,
The tardy Tomes were sullenly recall'd.
Among the rest one base abandon'd Wretch,
Who push'd his Trust beyond its natural stretch,
And some few Copies to Crispinus lent,
While mean Self-interest was his true intent;
Which, when the Bard had honestly return'd,
The charge was brought, and his assertion spurn'd,
Because uncrost in his neglected Book,
With blackguard speech, and bold malignant look,
With curses, blasphemies, and oaths untrue,
Bad as St. Giles, or Billingsgate, e'er knew!
One sole exception, here, my Muse records
Whose Friendship far excell'd most modern Lords';
One Lord, alone, like Him, when Trade began,
Could recollect he knew so mean a Man—
Whose Memory, unlike Middleton's or Pitts,
Ne'er recognized, or quite forgot, by fits;
But still could recollect, and condescend
To be tried Penury's never-failing Friend.
The Man, who, now, my conscious Muse remarks,
Felt former Kindness's rekindled sparks;
For, when he heard Humanity's mild claim,
And how discarded by the cruel Dame,
By Sympathy, and prompt Resentment, mov'd,
His case, and conduct, pitied, and approved.
Not barren pity—approbation dead—
That sighs, or smiles, yet leaves a Friend unfed;
But genuine warmth, which moves the vital flood
And makes the Will to grant some solid Good!
With wonder see the single instance stand,
Amidst the boorish, mercenary, Band;
Like Milton's unmatch'd Seraphim, among
The proud, the crafty, contumelious, Throng;
Who, faithful to his Trust, stood firm, alone,
To vindicate his high Creator's Throne;
So matchless conduct prov'd his views devoid
Of sordid Meanness, and repulsive Pride!
He from his ample hoard, with willing heart,
Which merits praise, communicated part;
A goodly part! not dribbling drop by drop,
With sham pretence, to shame his pinching shop—
Poor, petty trust! deputed for parade;
Apparently to help, yet starve his Trade—
But solid substance—reputably mass'd—
To catch at skilful optics as they pass'd—
Not foolish toys, for Tyros, only, fit,
Devoid of wisdom, learning, taste, or wit—
Not paltry tracts, whose fellows might be found
In ragged troops, on wretched stalls, around—
Or, stripp'd of clothing, with compassion seen
In Chandlers, or Cheesemongers, magazine—
Their mangled limbs oft met, in parts, put down,
From vilest use, through every vault in Town.
Not such sad Nonsense as mere Pedants pen.
Or Louts who deem themselves deep-learned Men.
What Debauchees, or Macaronies, write
Or dozing Dunces, in their dreams, indite.
Not futile stuff, that still from Folly flows,
With fume, or foam, in weak or watery Prose—
Nor languid lays, nor dull dramatic Strains,
That bubble forth from every Blockhead's brains;
Which, while they mean to make folks laugh or weep,
Like opiates, lullaby the Soul to sleep;
Or by much mawkish wit, and rambling rage,
With crude conceptions surfeit every Stage,
47

Till the pert Muse is banish'd in a pet,
Like simpering Ferningham's despis'd Coquette;
A little finical, frail, foolish, Elf,
Tasteless, and meretricious, like Himself.
Not dangerous Treatises, by Deists tried,
To set all Revelation's views aside;
Endeavouring to subvert both Age and Youth,
By blending Treachery with historic Truth;
Their happiest hopes, and blessings, to abuse
Like graceless Gibbon's bold mischievous Muse—
Nor gilding o'er, with elegance, and taste,
In choicest language, sentiments unchaste,
To make all Morals, and Religion, yield,
Like the vile Letters of vain Chesterfield!
No! these were Tomes that scrutiny might stand,
Nor wound one Conscience in a Christian Land!
In libraries of Princes might appear
Nor fear the Fool's remark, or Coxcombs' sneer!
Such Books as might, without rebuke, be seen
In prime apartments of learn'd King, or Queen;
Without a virtuous blush, or blame, be view'd
By modest Maid, or hypocritic Prude!
Such as with profit might be daily read,
While Age might learn, nor Youth be e'er misled!
Such as in Schools and Colleges might shine—
Or Crown the Desk of dignified Divine!
Volumes a learn'd Vice-Chancellor might place
For deepest Doctors in a College-Case!
Such as ne'er could excite a scornful scoff
In Fellow, sage, or superficial Soph!
Such Authors as the shelves, in front, might fill,
Mid Walpole's well-rang'd troops on Strawberry-hill;
Or mix among the heap'd chaotic crew,
That fill'd the floors of Mrs. M---u!
Such were the Tomes this friendly Trader chose,
To grace his ranks, and give his heart repose;
Not only for a single Season lent,
To calm a temporary discontent—
Not offer'd Flattery, as retaining Fee,
But gracious gifts for perpetuity;
Yet grateful thanks, and praises put aside,
So fondly sought by foolish Pomp and Pride.
His free intent, thro' Life, ne'er fully shown
As a free largess, but a friendly loan—
Yet, tho' his delicacy ne'er declar'd
That Crispin so his solid Friendship shar'd,
He ne'er perplext that while the pensive Wight,
By reclamation of his legal Right.
Thus were his wants, and present pains, remov'd,
And He, as truth, and gratitude, behov'd,
Resolv'd a Dodsley's ever-honoured Name
Should live, coeval with his humble Fame;
To counteract the prompt reports of such
Who gain his Favours, yet his fortune grutch.
Crispinus tried one apt expedient more
To advertize his Trade, and raise his Store;
The matter furnish'd from the Muse's Stock,
To show how Friendship felt her shameful shock—
How Faith lay prostrate; Patronage how fled;
And all his hopeful expectations dead!
His object was to prove, in humble prose,
Why He that Place and Occupation chose,
With pure, but simple, eloquence, to court
The public favour, to afford support;
And stimulate some staunch remaining Friend;
To further such a fair, and honest, End.
Another view, was, to convince the World,
How Pride and Passion from his Post had hurl'd—
How insignificant were all his gains
For labours, anxious cares, and plagues, and pains—
How much inadequate the things possest
To yield his aged limbs a lasting rest—
And last, not least, to urge, in honest, Song,
What Dues, and Duties to a King belong;
How robb'd of honour, privilege, and praise,
By vulgar, scurrilous, sarcastic, lays;
Hoping his meek Benevolence might bless
An humble Bard, in undeserv'd distress,
Relieving, kindly, such a wretched Case,
By some small pension, perquisite, or place,
For ev'n in want, he wish'd not wealth to get,
Where Duty never could discharge the Debt.
The lov'd Idea of this loyal Deed
Did not originate in time of Need,
But first was form'd in honour of the Throne,
Before the fear of Penury was known.
Nor did it then from Avarice arise,
The hope of Honour, or expected Prize;
But from affection for the sacred Cause,
Of social Order, and of civil Laws.
His Mind, tho' then mov'd, thus, by Hope and Fear,
Yet Conscience show'd the sentiment sincere,
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For sharp Chagrin, and Sympathy, was felt,
To mark how Myrmidons with Monarchs dealt,
And long'd to stop the labours of the Muse
That dar'd degrade herself, and Kings abuse.
Beside so desperate then his Case appear'd
The Will felt wavering, and the worst was fear'd;
Inclin'd to seize each unsubstantial twig,
While debts and dangers, look'd so bold and big—
Dispos'd to catch at King's, or Nobles' nod,
Which, when obey'd would break no Law of God—
To grasp a bubble, or embrace a shade,
While Conscience never felt herself afraid.
Then, feeling like a shipwreck'd Wretch, forlorn!
On tumbling waves, by boisterous tempests borne;
On any Coast imploring to be cast
To 'scape the billows, and avoid the blast;
Still hoping help and comfort, might be found,
Could he once fix his feet on solid Ground.
This made him long to leave such troubled Seas,
And seek a Soil where Age might hope for Ease—
Some situation on the stedfast Strand;
To serve the lawful Ruler of the Land,
And, thro' that medium, with a Heart most true,
To serve Himself—Mankind—and Country, too.
'Twas natural to a Man, in time of need,
To wish some 'stablished mercenary meed,
To yield some Years of rest in Life's decline,
And Earth's best inter'sts with Heav'n's bliss combine;
But when his eyes, and heart, in After-times,
Perceiv'd, and felt, how foul were courtly Crimes,
He thank'd the gracious God of Providence
That stirr'd fresh thoughts, and turn'd his footsteps thence:
For, when he'd tried that long-wish'd Trade awhile,
And found that Providence begin to smile,
How did his humble, honest, heart rejoice
That Heav'n had so decreed his happier choice!
He, then, could, look at leisure o'er the Plan
Pursued by Kings, and Court's proud, pompous, Clan;
And, then, with deepest detestation, saw
The vilest Lusts beneath the veil of Law!
Saw how each sought for Honour, Pow'r, and Pelf,
To spend their produce on that idol—Self!
Unmindful of the needs of Nature's Brood,
Whose Toil and Care scarce win their Cloaths and Food,
With all vain pamperings of Pride and Lust,
While still look'd down upon with deep disgust!
How Kings ne'er cared when Hinds and Artists groan'd,
So their sublime Authority was own'd,
Considering Clowns and Craftsmen merely Clods,
Yet sought their suffrage to declare Them Gods.
He saw the Rich their Industry devour!
Yet make them stepstones to catch Place of Pow'r,
That they might compass captivating Things
Dispens'd abroad by arbitrary Kings;
While still ungratefully despising those
By whose industrious energies they rose.
He clearly saw those crafty traitorous Troops
Become each day, and hour, each others' Dupes,
While diligently labouring rules to draw
To keep the motley Multitude in awe—
Those rules themselves endeavour'd to evade,
And only bind the Beasts of Toil and Trade.
How each departed thro' some private road,
To 'scape the burdens of the binding Code;
That Code, in Constitution, plain, and pure,
Which Kings, tho' Parties, scarcely could endure;
But, basely, all its useful fetters burst,
By brutal Force, or foul Chicanery, first—
And tho', by wisdom of much worthier Men
The sever'd parts were solder'd o'er agen,
Yet, still, some Tyrant, with despotic stroke,
Again the ties by basest treachery broke—
Become so cramp'd—so canker'd—so bescotch'd—
So often broken, and so badly botch'd—
By subsequent additions so defac'd—
So, by Court-Blacksmiths marr'd, and so debas'd—
So chang'd its fair complexion, shape, and size,
That Men of Worth, and Wisdom, now despise:
Yet while so broken—mangled—and bemaul'd,
The Thing is, still, “The Constitution,” call'd.
The Constitution! why the veriest Dunce
Discerns how different was its vigour once—
Yet thanks to some Physicians, who, of late,
Have striven to restore its pristine State,
By purging off bad humours from its Frame,
With legal physick, and celestial flame—
But still 'twas kept in such unskilful hands,
Its injur'd health, in constant peril stands;
For that medicinal, but dangerous, Tribe,
Are prone to tamper, still, and still prescribe,
And so extremely eager after Fees,
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Some subtle Foe, or faithless Friend, to please,
They every hour some desperate dose repeat,
And give some venom'd mess instead of meat;
That nothing, less than prophecy, can tell
How long such weakly Habit may be well.
They try experiments from day to day,
In such wild, proud, unprecedented, way,
That all foresee, 'mong Men of Sense, and Art,
How strength declines, and Life must soon depart.
But, chief, each Winter, when, with Pow'rful Purge,
They push Existence to extremest verge—
Or, by Phlebotomy in Summer's hours,
To Palliate Phrenzies, weaken all its Pow'rs,
At random drawing blood from every vein,
Still injuring most while raging Dog-days reign.
'Tis now, throughout, so lower'd and so relax'd,
Its poor Possessor so completely tax'd,
For ignorant Doctors, and for useless Drugs,
And strength exhausted so, with hostile Tugs—
So near exhausted, by an annual Sweat,
And dread lest Time can ne'er discharge its Debt—
Each hour so sorely sobs, and pants for breath,
It seems in danger of some sudden Death!
Truly it is a Constitution, still,
But so impair'd by wild Professor, Will;
In his unskilful hands so long has lain
'Tis all a mass of Misery, Grief, and Pain;
From Head to Foot become one dire Disease,
All Pimps to favour, and all Fools to please;
And must full metamorphose undergo,
From Top, extreme, to the remotest Toe;
Just like a filthy Leprosy all o'er—
Scorbutic scab, or cancerous running Sore—
And wants the strictest Regimen to cure
The rampant Pulse, and morbid Blood, impure,
With Agues cold—with feverish heat o'er-warm,
It needs a new, a radical, Reform.
'Tis palsied—and electric strokes requires
To wake fresh Force with renovating Fires;
Applied, with energy, from time to time,
To purge obstructions, and restore its Prime;
Distemper'd, deeply, in each vital Part;
In all its Limbs, and Entrails; Head and Heart—
With black Infection fill'd, and burning flame,
Thro' every Vessel in the vicious Frame.
A sink of sordid humours! where the Head,
By rank Corruption, ev'n to Phrenzy, fed;
Or sour'd by Pride, or by Chagrin grown sad;
Becomes completely melancholy-mad!
The heart—'tis past the pow'r of Prose, or Rhymes,
To name its maladies, thro' countless Crimes.
Pump'd by that piston the vile poisons pass,
Contaminating more the morbid mass.
The Senses nourish'd from so foul a source,
Know preternatural feebleness, or force;
And objects passing such false mediums through,
Find Feeling, Taste, Smells, Sounds, and Sights, untrue;
While, thro' false intimations, every Limb
Performs strange tricks of Wickedness, or Whim.
By such perverted Eyes each object seen
Must wear a different colour, form, and mien—
Pursue vain vision, or frail phantasm fly,
With needless terror, or intemperate joy—
The influenc'd Ears fallaciously confound
The simple purport of each passing sound—
Each other vitiated Sense conveys
Perpetual hints how every Part decays.
The Stomach most disturb'd with deep Disease
A World's productions would, insatiate, seize—
With greediness would gorge each crude content,
Nor turn one meal to natural nourishment,
But vomit all, in vicious shapes, agen,
To foul, infect, and venom, other Men.
The lower Belly, full of putrid Bile,
Concocts no substance into healthy Chyle;
But, thro' the circulation, constant, sends
Infection to the Toes' and Fingers' ends.
Lastly, a dreadful Flux, with frequent flood
Wastes all remaining Might by loss of Blood,
And calls for Styptics of peculiar Kind,
To stop the current, and the parts to bind—
Or, to preserve the Constitution clear,
Some proper portion should be drawn elsewhere;
For none but strong expedients e'er can drive
Those peccant Pow'rs, and keep the Soul alive;
Deobstruent powder, pills, and strengthening steel,
To move the Causes, and completely heal—
Except blest miracle, from Heav'n above,
Restore the strength by operative Love;
Diffusing thro' the Frame a Spirit, pure,
Whose influence only can effect a Cure,
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By purging off all particles profane,
That render virtuous operations vain—
Preparing for a Regimen more wise,
As Heav'n's divine Physician shall advise:
Then, the poor Patient's dark delirium past,
A sovereign Remedy's applied at last,
When, looking upward to the heavenly Throne,
All worship centers in one Lord alone;
While Man, no more a selfish, hellish, Elf,
Shall fondly love each Fellow as Himself!
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