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

Crispinus, now, enriched in his Cell
With Articles no Muse can aptly tell;
Whose Names would sound too tuneless—trivial—trite—
To yield the heart, or ear, the least delight,
In decent order, on each side, arrang'd,
Alert to have his goods for gold exchang'd.
His different stationery stores display'd,
For furthering various offices in Trade;
With kind accommodating tracts, which tend
To lull the Lover, and confirm the Friend.
His Books, in spruce battalions, plac'd around;
Religion, Morals, Politics, profound—
Vague Metaphysics—Dramas, antique tracts—
Abstruse Philosophy—historic facts—
The miscellaneous labours of the Muse,
That Wits might wish, or Chiefs, in Wisdom, chuse—
With lighter subjects both of Prose and Song,
Children to charm, or please Youth's thoughtless Throng,
Whose heedless hearts, unconscious of a crime,
With such weak trifles while away their time:
Something adapted to each depth of Mind,
To suit the Sense, or Nonsense, of Mankind.

Meantime, amidst this multitude of wares
His heart experienc'd some perplexing cares,
Lest his lov'd Family and Self should lack
While profits were withheld when trade was slack;
For some incentive more was wanting still,
To operate well on Man's capricious Will—
Something that might his Faculties controul,
And touch that Spring whose pow'r impels the Soul—
Might sway decision with some secret weight
And happily avert such dreadful fate—
That some unfailing Agent might prevail,
To stretch unfurl'd Affection's swelling sail,
And guide its rudder with resistless force,
To find his Market, with unerring course—
Make some small anchors in his Harbour drop,
To shove on Traffick in his tiney Shop;
Directing Fancy and so o'erruling Whim,
And fixing frail Desire to deal with Him;
For Fancy might much high'r allurements meet,
To operate on Caprice, in every Street—
Much ampler stores might Articles supply,
To teach the Intellect, or tempt the Eye—
More choice commodities to charm aside
Minds, deep immur'd in Prejudice and Pride;
And might with stronger motives move each Heart
To scorn his Ware, and mock his humble Mart.
But He, who hollow'd out the sapphire Sphere,
And guides the Comets in their swift career;
Not suffering things without to turn their track,
Or urge them, thro' eccentric orbits, back—
Who whirls the Planets in their daily round,
And binds each orb within its annual bound,
Still ordering all, as thro' those paths they run,
To draw due influence from their central Sun—
He, who commands the misty Meteor-train
To shed refreshment on the pining Plain,
Nor e'er permits, without his pow'rful call,
One cloud to cover, or one drop to fall,
But still compels each particle that flies

To give leaf, flow'r, and fruit, hue, form, and size—
Commissions not, alone, His liquid show'rs
To fall on lordly Forests, Woods or Bow'rs;
Sends not Sunbeams abroad, in proud parade,
Where, Kings, or Princes, plant the shining Shade,
But makes His Light like genial splendour spread,
On unseen Snowdrop's, and low Lily's, head;
And bids Clouds part their tributes, as they pass
On Shrubs—Plants—Herbs, or humblest blades of Grass.
Who lets no simple Sparrow's chirping Brood
Repine and perish, for mere lack of food;
But, by his Will—Pow'r—Wisdom—Love—sublime,
Allots their portion, and appoints their time!
He—Governor of all! and He, alone,
Gives every voice its turn, and Heart its tone;
And wills, and weighs, each Rustic's right support,
As well as Lords who crowd round regal Court!
He could, alone, commercial succours send;
Make each frail Customer become a Friend;
And only He could fence, and clothe and feed,
That Crispin and his Flock, no more might need.
Except He build the House all labour's lost!
Each care, and scheme of worldly-wisdom cross'd—
Without His help the Watchman wakes in vain,
And greedy Tradesmen grasp at greater Gain—
The Thief may Watchmen's vigilance evade;
All anxious care, and toil, be lost in Trade,
Unless that Being their Endeavours bless,
And with His Will give good Design success!

Conscious of this poor Crispin's heart implor'd
That Deity, by Heav'n and Earth ador'd!
With constant, daily pray'rs aspiring scope,
To beg a blessing on his humble Hope.
He knew no applications made to Man
Could e'er consolidate his dubious Plan;
But Pow'r supreme, whose providential Will,
Decides each gift of human Good, or Ill.
Yet he neglected not those honest Arts
Which tend to influence undecided Hearts,
But every prudent, pure, design essay'd,
To win a selfish World to yield its aid.
He knew that second Causes must be tried
To soften Passion, Prejudice, and Pride;
And, that no Mortal should the Means neglect,
Tho' none but God could give them full effect—
What was the result? doubting seem'd absurd,
To One, well read, with pray'r, in Heav'n's pure Word,
Where precious Promises, by all, are found,
Whose eyes are single, and whose hearts are sound;
Repeated frequent, and propounded full,
Which Time—nor Men—nor Dev'ls—can disannul;
But still belong to all whose Faith, and Love,
Confide in Christ, and live like those above.

His Pray'r, like prudent Agur's, ask'd no more
Than Health—Content—and necessary Store;
With plenteous portions of God's heavenly Grace,
To light and lead him, thro' his earthly Race.
That bounteous Grace had taught him, all beyond,
Of which the worldly Fool, alone, is fond,
Brings nought but vile vexatious thoughts, and cares;
Full oft producing Man's most pow'rful snares;
Holding the heart in temporal fetters, fast,
Till Wisdom's day of penitence is past!
And each Possession, spite of boasted Birth,
Is swept, as refuse, from the face of Earth,
To take their lot in Shiloh's last decree,
From which nor Wealth, nor Pow'r, nor Fame, can free.
And what can Wealth, Pow'r, Fame, or Birth bestow,
To make Man's moments pass more blest below;
More than the Bard, in Competence, might find,
With Health, fond Friends, and calm, contented, Mind?
Those can secure no Health, nor purchase Peace,
Whilst Life is lapsing thro' uncertain Lease—
No heart can skreen from Fate's perpetual Fear
Nor keep the Character, or Conscience, clear;
But lay on countless Debts, and Duties, more
Than e'er distress, or can disturb, the Poor.

These, then, alone, from heavenly Love to share,
He made the subject of his simple pray'r,
And tho', at first, he found success but small,
Faith earnestly renew'd each daily call;
Submitting, humbly, to His wise behest
Who knew the measure, time, and manner, best;
Not doubting Heav'n would send success, most meet,
Or move him, thence, to some more prosperous seat.

Thus while he watch'd, by faith and hopes engag'd,
Like a drear Convict, in close Dungeon cag'd;
To mark what mercies Providence would send,
As gracious first-fruits from his glorious Friend,

Commission'd to repress each rash surmise
And yield his pensive Mind some prompt supplies;
For, tho' he saw the City's motley mass,
In thronging numbers by his threshold pass,
Some turn'd their footsteps with attentive heed,
To bring those pence kind Providence decreed!

He view'd each Class of courteous, proud, and poor,
Which hourly wander'd by his humble Door,
And made remarks on all that loung'd along
To form fresh Subjects for some future Song.
He mark'd itinerary Traders most,
Who daily pass'd to fill their doubtful post—
How each, by providential impulse, led,
Sought, in the barren Streets uncertain bread;
And, thro' that pow'rful impulse, persevered,
For longing expectation little fear'd;
Who, whether they experienc'd prize, or blank,
Put up no pray'r, or gave one grateful Thank;
But constant Curses mouth'd, or mocking Oaths;
While still their sky-thron'd Father feeds and clothes,
Yet—keeping strict account of every crime,
To crown His Justice at the close of Time!
He chiefly mark'd, among the vocal crowd,
The Israelite's hoarse accent, harshly loud;
Like hungry Ravens uttering constant cry
For food and raiment from their Friend on high,
Tho' one ne'er once implores kind Providence,
The other gives, continual, foul offence,
While constant favours, hourly, come, conferr'd
Both on the crying Band, and craving Bird;
Next they which trundle numerous Trades about
And tune to Barrow's base their sharper shout—
Those whose vociferous solos full unfold
All articles their Bags, or Baskets, hold—
With bands who various voluntaries bawl,
To tell their fruitful stores on fixed Stall;
Or sing, sonorous, nasal, piercing, parts,
To drown the rumbling roar of clam'rous Carts.
All hope their cries may customers excite
To buy for bare support, or pure delight,
That they to necessary use may turn
The little gains their groveling labours earn.
They ne'er their wretched rhythmus chaunt in vain,
But, like the lesser, tuneful Songster-train,
Solicit, with instinctive, heav'n-taught, lay,
For Selves, and Families, support, from day to day.
Nor does the Father and high Friend, of all,
Disdain their cadence, or despise their call;
But from His boundless, ever-open, hand,
Spreads Life and Sustenance o'er Sea and Land.
Thro' Cities, throng'd, as well as Plains, and Hills,
The Trader, Hind, and Artist, clothes, and fills;
Who trust that Friend, from whom each blessing flows,
And best employ all Gifts His Grace bestows.

In silence Crispin oft preferr'd his Pray'r,
That He, and His, might some small portion share.
He durst not beg the Cause of every Cause
Would e'er for him relax His righteous Laws—
One rule of Justice, Truth, or Love, invert,
To profit him by any Neighbour's hurt.
He knew God's perfect Prescience must behold
From first what all Creation could unfold;
Foreseeing every Virtue, every Crime,
Of every Creature, thro' all tracts of Time;
With every action, word, and wish, of Man,
And all their bearings long ere Life began;
While perfect Wisdom, Goodness, Love, like Fate,
Completely fix'd his first, and final, date—
What Providence would every day supply,
When Body should decay, and Spirit fly,
With all the bad, or blest, events between,
To trouble, or compose, Life's procreant Scene;
Nor Pow'rs of earthly Spite, or hellish Pride,
Could change His Will, or set His Work aside.

He notic'd Nature, both in Heav'n and Earth,
Was all progressive, still, from bud, or Birth.
How infant darkness, and first dawn of light
In due gradations grew to Day, and Night.
The Sun's ascending orb, and beamy Moon's,
By steps proceeded to their perfect Noons;
And every living Creature, lodg'd below,
Ordain'd by Heav'n in fix'd degrees to grow.
He could not hope the Seed, as soon as sown,
To strength mature would, in one hour be grown;
Or, when his Trade began to strike its roots,
'Twould in one Day, produce abundant fruits.
No! he was taught on God's great Truths to stay,
And wait, with patience, on His Love's delay;
Convinc'd His Wisdom, Goodness, Love, and Pow'r,
Would yield due blessings, in the happiest hour—

Not by his Weakness boundless Wisdom judge—
Nor Lust o'er godly Love, and Goodness grudge—
Not, peevishly anticipating time,
E'er doubt the bounty of that Pow'r, sublime;
Nor sharpen Want with Discontent's controuls,
But every day give thanks for smallest doles.
He ne'er could think, thro' Reason's exercise,
The Fount of Truth could turn to Source of Lies;
Or let Imagination's pow'r prevail
To fancy Faithfulness itself could fail.

Tho' he ne'er deign'd, like trading Dupes, to wait,
In begging guise, beside some great Man's gate,
Fawning, to make each servile Slave his Friend,
And while such smil'd, or bullied, humbly bend—
Nor thro' foul streets perform'd his daily dance,
To catch a churlish Customer by chance,
And soothe him, for the sake of groveling gain,
With sinful flattery, falshood, or chicane;
But diligent, preserv'd his destin'd place,
Devoid of dark deceit, and gross grimace;
Yet with true welcome, and soft cordial smile,
Serv'd Sons and Daughters of low need and toil,
As well as those who shone in garments gay,
And feasted, sumptuous, every passing day;
Returning grateful thanks with great Good-will,
To each who brought one Farthing to his Till.

To some who false and sham demeanour show'd,
No thanks, or kind acknowledgments, he ow'd;
Who looking slily round, with cunning leer,
Weigh'd—measur'd—estimated—all things there;
Whose faces, once familiar, plainly prov'd,
Sinister motives their mock favours mov'd—
Not sent by Pity, with a pure design
To ease his heart, or multiply his coin;
But mean Observers, who to market came,
As Pimps, commission'd by his quondam Dame;
To take a moment's transitory stand,
And learn the nakedness of his new Land;
Then carry back some captious, quaint, report
To curry Favour at her fickle Court.

Some came as curious Volunteers, to view
What exhibition, either old, or new,
Their idly-hapless faculties could find,
To give fresh fillip to a morbid Mind,
Which Pique, or Spleen, or Passion, overpow'r'd,
Or diabolical Ennui devour'd.
Some with a purer enterprizing taste,
With views more virtuous, and a choice more chaste,
Came, simply, to enquire what causes—strange,
Had brought about such sudden, chearless change!
To see what site, what prospect He posses'd,
Whom they, and their Compeers, had once caress'd—
What expectation place, or goods, could give,
That He, and His, might, haply, hope to live;
And from a superficial view, so slight
Might carry back Scintilla base delight;
Whose heart all babbling tongues would warmly bless
Which promptly told poor Crispin's deep distress.
He whom his Friends deem'd patroniz'd, till Death,
By Poesy's proud Queen—Elizabeth!
He, who, beforetime, but a landless Boor,
Saw Sundry Peers approach his rustic Door!
Was, sometimes, summon'd to distinguish'd Seat,
With Commons to partake the costly Treat;
On fair occasions call'd from fellow-hordes,
To dine, drink, talk, ride, sup, and lodge, with Lords;
And, what was still more strange, yet still as true,
To eat, and drink, and talk, with Ladies, too.
To note him, now, with diligence, endure,
And perfect patience, such a Site, obscure—
With calm content and thankful fondness, fed
On simple vegetables—milk—and bread—
Fix'd ne'er again to feel the galling yoke,
Or more associate but with simple Folk—
Determin'd never to consort agen
With courtly Mobs, but mix with honest Men—
With such learn'd Ladies never more to sit,
Listening wild Lies, and weak attempts at Wit;
And join with those that practise genuine parts,
With words all warmly issuing from their hearts.
Ne'er aim to mount a Chariot, Coach, or Steed,
But humbly trudge on foot, to furnish need;
Lodg'd in a Cell, amid mephitic Air,
In cubic measure not quite eight feet square;
Yet never heard complain, much less repine,
Deeming each dispensation, all divine!

Of those that now thus cross'd his threshold o'er,
To note his rustic state, and scanty store,
Prim, prattling, Jerningham appear'd the Chief;
Coming, with craft, not to supply relief—
Not with a friendly, filial, right regard,
In charity to chear a Brother-Bard—

To smoothe misfortune with unfeigned smile,
Or with some blandisht theme his hours beguile—
Not with a christian wish, considering well,
What such a needy Neighbour sought to sell,
And then, with blythe benevolence, to buy,
Offering a friendly feast of genuine Joy;
But, in true character of Spy, or Pimp,
Or, cloth'd in Angel's guise, or graceless Imp,
To come with simpering lips, and silly looks,
And cast a curious glance about his Books,
With wheedling whine, and hypocritic skill,
As form'd in Friendship Crispin's pouch to fill—
But only meant his Poverty to mock,
And fix its figures in his mental stock,
That he at Madame's Fête, some future day,
Might, for amusement all its parts pourtray—
With witty turn might shew, and shrewd remark,
Each different Creature stow'd in Crispin's Ark—
Describing, archly, things unclean, and clean,
With sundry such as Noah ne'er had seen—
Which droll remarks might, fruitfully, afford
Loud bursts of laughter round her festive Board;
For such vile offals furnish richest fare
Which fawning Puppies for such Feasts prepare.

He made, 'tis true, one purchase on the spot,
Which ne'er should be by Gratitude forgot,
To countenance, complete, his apt pretence,
And 'scape occasion for direct offence,
Yet not entirely expectation mock,
He took a part of Crispin's papery stock;
Whose value must advance amazing much
By such celestial Poet's plastic touch!
For, as the far-fam'd, wonderous, Wight, of old,
Could change all common Matter into Gold;
So He, with metarphose full as strange,
Could plain, blank, paper, into bullion change,
When His apt Muse's operative Pow'rs
Have spread the surface with poetic flow'rs,
And every Blockhead, who believes they shine,
And thinks them specie, turns to current Coin,
As flimsey scraps of paper fully claim
Like worth with gold when graced with Hase's Name;
So, thus to ply his magic pen, and lyre,
In generous plight he purchas'd—half-a-quire!

What miracles might not those Pow'rs perform
When Genius was awake, and Wit grown warm,
And rapt Imagination wildly weaves
Her golden labours o'er those glorious leaves,
While Judgment manages the lights and shades
Which Fancy figures, on her bold brocades;
And his inimitable Taste bestows
The graceful finish as each flow'ret grows.
How his prompt pen the favorite Friend pourtrays,
With living colours, in his shapely lays;
When Pegasus, impell'd by rapturing strains,
Leaves panting Pope slow-hobbling o'er the plains;
Or his dramatic Muse outstrips the wind,
And drops poor, blushing, Shakspear far behind!

Perhaps that Paper, in some future Age
May much surpass the Sybil's mystic Page
Whose wonderous value rose to high'r excess,
In odd proportion, as the leaves grew less;
Or, as the Priesthood of the papal Train,
Who still the pow'r of Miracles retain,
A wonder may be wrought on every line,
And make each letter like true Phosphor shine;
Or, like bright hair of Berenice, arise,
To form fresh Constellation in the Skies!

But, maugre figures, metaphors, and tropes,
More baseless, still, became poor Crispin's hopes;
Who look'd, and look'd more wondering every day,
That splendid Poet still mistook the way
His sighs to silence, and fond fears to charm,
And, with wide-opening purse all doubts disarm;
He ne'er again survey'd poor Crispin's store,
To make his purse display one Sixpence more!

Alas! his time and pence were still employ'd
In scenes of dissipation, pomp, and pride—
Perhaps his pence were spent, his person pawn'd,
Where Flattery loiter'd, and where Luxury yawn'd;
Or barter'd, both, a wholesale sacrifice,
For feasts of jollity—or—fleshly joys;
As each seem'd more congenial to his Mind,
Than bounteous acts to benefit his Kind.

Was this humane to balk a neighbouring Bard,
Who oft had found his hap so very hard?
Such small assistance, as a first-fruit, yield
To shew much future favour sign'd and seal'd?
Thus, in a heart forlorn, plant hope so clear
Thou meant'st to drop more useful offerings there,
To yield a hapless Votary of the Muse,
What Wealth should ne'er to faithful Worth refuse;

But like Appollo's offspring, prove the Soul
Above blind shame, and cold Self-love's controul—
And, as a generous, genuine, Son of Song,
Dar'dst countenance a Wretch, when suffering wrong!
Dar'dst choose Heav'n's honest Children to sustain,
And keep a Patriot from despotic chain!
Not by such sample of penurious heart,
To act such pimping, proud, perfidious, part;
Or show, by shabby, niggard, narrow, deed,
Thy Soul, and Spirit, of low, bastard, Breed!

Was that a Minstrel's true expressive, proof,
To cross his threshold with thy crest aloof;
Labouring to make him lean his aged head
To win from Thee some scraps of humble Bread,
While, subtly, Thou survey'dst his tiny store
That Thou might'st mock his misery the more?
With proud Self-preference fancifully sport
Where Folly and Profaneness keep their Court;
While Ostentation prompts each selfish plan,
And God's degraded to exalt mere Man!

Know, foolish Scoffer! he defied thy scorn,
Tho' thus from all his friendless Friendships torn!
Tho, torn from that proud Patroness, whose Mind,
Like Thine, amidst imagin'd brilliance, blind,
Which gropes its way, while from gross Fool's caress,
And Coxcomb's flattery, hopes for happiness!
Who wastes proud Wealth, still hoping to be fed
With empty Breath, which Dupes deem noblest Bread!
And, diligently labouring, still, to buy
That fleeting Staff which ne'er can satisfy!
Can Man's immortal Soul feel satisfied
With what's but hollow Fame; frail Pomp, and Pride?
Such babbled nothings, Minds, immortal, bind,
Which swell, and sink, with every waft of Wind?
Or those that seem substantial to the sight,
Which soon must follow with Time's latest flight!
His Heart exulted, from such Follies free,
And felt Himself, thus, high'r than Her and Thee!
Felt his pure Heart expand—his Soul serene—
Now free from claims of arbitrary Queen!
Subject no more to captious Pride's controul,
Which check'd all sacred energies of Soul!
Not Suffering, now, from pert Caprice's nod,
Nor forc'd to stoop to Pride's, or Passion's rod!
Knew no restraint from fickle human Elf,
But thought—spoke—acted—free—from all but Self!
Supported by the great eternal Cause,
Still guided by His Grace, and holy Laws!
And social Rules, while Reason gives assent,
With Faith, Hope, Love, and Providence content!
No more by Foes, on every side, besieg'd,
Or base obedience forcibly oblig'd.
No more, now, supple Patient, tame submits
To Passion's dictates, in capricious fits,
But a bold Agent with his Will at large,
Entitled to repel each peccant charge—
Fulfil each duty—pay each due demand—
And join fond Brethren in fair Freedom's Band.
Dar'd, now, associate with congenial Race—
With Children chat—his beauteous Wife embrace—
Not dreading harsh rebuke by Despots found
With fond and faithful Wife, 'midst Children, round!
Enjoy each blessing with his home-born Brood—
Adjust their Clothing, and select their Food—
Choose his own lodging—raiment—meat, and drink,
Yea dar'd to speak all Christians choose to think.
On God's feast-day with his Commandment close
And worship Him, where, when, and how, he chose.
Not now compell'd to spend those hours in waste
Among the ignorant—churlish—or unchaste—
Or pass dull portions of that holy Day,
With Dolts to doze, or Hypocrites to pray;
Where Dullards read their drawling Lessons o'er,
By proud Precursors read as bad before;
And sleepy chorists chaunt their opiate Airs,
Or Fops repeat the prostituted Pray'rs—
But shar'd the bliss of Liberty, like all
That follow Reason's, and Religion's, call;
Could now, no day accus'd of damning crime,
Improve his talents, and employ his time—
Clear'd from the fetters forg'd by Custom's tools,
Which Fashion fixes on all servile Fools,
Whose Forms are held, by her fantastic Trains,
More holy than the Law's dread Heav'n ordains;
Those faultless Laws, that Folly—Lust—or Freak,
They, by their thoughtless habits, hourly break!
He ne'er from fashion, fancy, fire, or phlegm,
Was led to impious Practices, like them;
But watch'd, and strove to give his Conscience truce
From Pride's fierce battles, and low Lust's abuse.

Those are two Tyrants which the World all owns,
And offers willing worship round their Thrones—

Lust fascinating all with dear delights,
And Pride still poisoning with Sin's serpent-bites—
Few seek a Cure, or strive to flee their Fate
Till Heav'n, and Nature, cry: “Alas!—too late!”
They captivate the carnal—vain—and rich—
The loose—licentious—and debauch'd—bewitch!
These follow Lust, still traipsing at her heels;
Those Pride drags daily at his chariot wheels—
These, pledg'd with Bacchus, sin the more and more,
Despise the Chaste, and spurn the temperate Poor;
Those liveried round, and badg'd all o'er, by Pride,
The Christian's rags, and Charity deride;
And while the Ostentatious, Vile, and Vain,
By choice lug forward their infernal chain,
The grossly drunken, gluttonous, and lewd,
Rejoice in Sin, and Hell's hard servitude;
Contemning all they term the low Degree
And idly fancy they, alone, are free—
Still crowding eager on, in full career,
Damning all reflection, and defying fear;
Continuing Night and Day to bed and dine
Like lustful Goats, or sordid, groveling Swine;
Still domineering o'er domestic Slaves,
Till pain—grief—sickness—plunge them in their graves.
Yet these mad Monsters, in their frantic Fits;
Suppose themselves all-wise, or perfect Wits;
And all, blind, superstitious, Bigots, name,
Whose reasoning Minds refuse to say the same.

Wits, by the Christian, they may be allow'd,
He finds keen Wits in every common Crowd;
Who, every day, more Attic strokes devise,
Without foul mixture of their flattering Lies—
And tho' more ignorant Minds may intersperse
More daring Oaths, mix'd with more cruel curse,
Still more ingenious are their honest Jokes
Than all the studied turns of finer Folks:
But Wisdom shines with different Natures far,
Different as Meteors and a fixed Star—
The bursts of Wit, may, for a moment, blaze,
But permanent, and pure, are Wisdom's rays!
Wit shoots and dies—Wisdom will alway shine!
Wit oft is devilish—Wisdom still divine!
Wisdom's the light, and lustre, of the Soul!
Nor ever feels, or fears, Wit's weak controul—
The fortitude, and might which fills her Mind!
To neither worldly Wealth, nor Fame, confin'd!
But, independent! gives her gracious dow'r,
Not to mere Knowledge—Learning—Pomp—or Pow'r—
On Earth, faint Semblance of her Sire above,
Pure Justice—Truth—Light—Holiness—and Love!
She lets her little Sister sport and play,
So ludicrously chearful, light and gay,
With flights of fancy, and with graceful grin,
While simply innocent, and free from Sin—
To lengthen out the space of human span,
And shake off half the load of mortal Man—
But She, more shy, more modest, ne'er is found
In clamorous Rout, or Bacchanalian round,
Ne'er known in Crowds, or one polluted Place,
Where Crime creeps in, or Folly shows her face!
To Christian chearfulness no churlish Foe;
But favouring friendly Liberty below!
No surly Soph—no melancholy Mope,
But charms her Children with sublimest Hope!
Fills all their hearts with Faith and heav'nly Love,
And flights of Freedom, better found above!
She lays her Tyros under no restraints
But such as Angels feel, and Fellow-Saints!
All Freedom checks which Freedom would destroy,
And rob the Conscience of all genuine Joy!
But holy Freedom, which from Heav'n was won,
And giv'n, with Spirit pure, by God's blest Son;
Who condescended, for Man's sake, to bleed,
And those He thus makes free are free indeed—
Fair Wisdom's Children! who their Chosen own,
As Prophet—Priest—and legal King, alone!

Wisdom, in sumptuous Domes, but seldom dwells,
She, mostly lives, obscure, in humblest Cells!
To temperate rest needs no soft down to draw
But sleeps more quiet on her couch of straw,
Brilliants, and broidery ne'er her form invest;
Nor e'er, in dirt, tho' oft in tatters, drest.
Ne'er fed with dainty wines, or dishes rare,
More frequent destitute of needful fare;
Yet, still, on every Duty daily bent,
She looks to Heav'n and feels her Heart content!

Cannot Content, yea, every christian Grace,
Find food, and flourish, in a scanty space?
Cannot each Duty bear its daintiest blooms
On humble beds, inclos'd by narrow rooms?
The moral Virtues much more healthy thrive
Where Luxury keeps not vicious Lusts alive?

Oft purest Patriots, noblest Friends are known
At farthest distance from despotic Throne;
From all the titled Troops, and haughty Haunts,
Where Cunning triumphs, and Corruption taunts—
Where fawning Flattery seeks each selfish end,
And Vice prevails, no King's nor Country's, Friend!

Oft has each christian Grace with Grandeur died!
Each Duty perish'd by ambitious Pride!
The civil Virtues all been pin'd, or choakt,
Where bounty sated, and rich beverage soakt—
Poor Patriotism and Friendship lost their Health,
Where Hypocrites possest vast funds of Wealth!

There needs no Greenhouse for the Graces, pure,
From frosts and storms to keep such crop secure!
They flourish best in openest Light and Air,
Their stems grow strongest and their fruits most fair!
No Dungheaps Duties need, where weeds of Sloth,
Like foulest Lusts attain their greatest growth—
No Virtue needs unnatural, heating, Stove,
Which shrinks and shrivels plants of purest Love;
Nor need pure Patriotism, or Friendship, fall,
Tho' unsupported by a Palace Wall.
The Oak grows strongest on sequester'd plain,
Rear'd by celestial sunshine, air, and rain—
The long-liv'd Yew, Fir, Holly—ever green,
Look fairest, left at large, in sylvan scene—
So Grace and Virtue, both of heavenly Birth,
Shine brightest far from Courts, and clamorous Mirth—
Yes, fair Philanthropy who loves the Crowd,
Avoids the vicious, impious, vain, and proud.
True Wisdom finds them all complete supplies;
Who, fed from Heav'n, Herself, ne'er fades, nor dies—
All nurs'd and bred by Her, grow fresh and bright,
With simple Air, and unpolluted Light;
While she expands, and sublimates, the Mind,
Like towering Trees, in Forests, unconfin'd;
Whose arms, on every side, expansive spread,
And high, tow'rds Heav'n, rear up each cloud-capp'd Head;
Which, in the loftiest, and the proudest, Domes,
Would pine and perish with ungenial Homes,
Tho' dainties every day refresh'd their shoots,
And precious wines were pour'd o'er all the roots;
But, as pure Plants, and Herbs, for health and use,
Mature their virtues, and improve their juice,
Which heavenly sunbeams, breezes, dew-drops, feed,
Far best in Gardens, Fields, or grassy Mead—
Nor can pure Corn to fair perfection rise
Unless well-nourish'd from kind fostering Skies.

Pure Wisdom, and her Progeny, of Grace,
Receive no refuge from the worldly Race.
Ne'er, when they're born, from graceless bosoms grow
Fed with bad Meat, and Beverage, found below—
Ne'er could improve on poison'd milk that springs
From breasts of flattering Courts, or flatter'd Kings.
They ask no character; seek no support,
From Crowds resorting to an idol Court—
Hope no supplies from Foplings, Pimps, or Slaves,
With empty heads, who throng the Way in thraves—
Catch no wise maxims where weak coxcombs meet,
While wandering daily round each bustling Street—
Nor can, with such, one single proof appear,
Who saunter with their silly Wantons there;
Who boast no modest, or majestic charm,
To claim a Prince's, or a Poet's, arm;
But proves her presence where a virtuous Wife;
Love's rights receives thro' all the scenes of Life;
Whose Votary strives each Duty to discharge
To Heav'n—Friends—Children—and Mankind—at large.

Ten thousand shining marks might Wisdom show,
To prove her presence, and her pow'r below—
How She buoys up each heav'n-born Soul, sublime,
Above the sloughs of Sense, and tread of Time—
While, tho' compell'd to taste their sordid Sinks,
She keeps Affection far above the brinks;
And only suffers natural Need to sip
Life's dangerous draffs with watchful, wary, lip:
For, tho' the conscious Christian fully knows,
Man must experience frequent painful throes—
Knows that his hoary head, and time-struck heart,
Must droop, and bend, before Death's fatal dart—
Meanwhile with patience Life's hard burdens bears,
Which each true Christian, with his Master, shares;
Yet, certain while he bows beneath the weight,
The Spirit will surmount mere Matter's fate—
Stripp'd of all fleshly Passions, Pride, and Lust,
Will drop its dull Companion in the Dust,
And 'scape to permanence of Life and Love,
Till call'd to higher bliss in realms above!
Then, at the awful, heav'n-appointed, hour,
The last, best, proof of his Redeemer's pow'r,

His renovated Frame shall, fairer, rise,
To join its former Consort in the Skies!
And tho' the World may spurn, with proud disgust,
Such bold assertions—such a boundless trust—
All nonsense, nullity, yea, madness, deem,
Fanatic stuff, in every Fool's esteem—
Such happy Faith—Hope—Love, contemptuous, hiss
Still, 'twas, to Crispin, true, abiding, bliss!
A bliss well-bottom'd on Heav'n's holy Word,
Which, tho' Wits call its Tales, and Truths absurd,
He, bravely, by its Facts defiance hurl'd,
Against an impious, proud, weak, wicked, World;
And challeng'd its chicane, and base abuse
To prove it spurious—vain—or void of use!
But whether his dependence idly sprung
From Education rude, or argueing wrong,
From Ignorance, Weakness, Prejudice, or Pride,
The controversy Death will soon decide;
Nor will one Doubt or dark Surmise remain,
When Heav'n hath summon'd each from Earth again,
And part shall take their place at Christ's right hand,
The rest, assembled at his left, shall stand;
These, sav'd by Grace to Light and Glory go,
Those deeply whelm'd in darknes, pain and Woe!

Such bold Belief had weaken'd Crispin's care,
And banish'd from his breast all drear despair;
Still urging on to run his destin'd Race,
Relying on his Saviour's sovereign Grace,
And that blest Book he held so strictly true,
Not fearing what the World, or Fiends could do;
Yet never wish'd the Freedom to refuse
Performing Duties, or discharging Dues.
He promptly met, and welcom'd, each Event,
Which Heav'n, in Mercy, as a blessing, sent;
Still grateful for each bounty God bestow'd,
To help him forward on his temporal road;
Or, if afflictive circumstance was felt,
He knew that Love all Providences dealt—
Nor e'er withheld, from humblest Instrument,
Sincerest thanks for gift, or good intent;
While making Memory's lov'd remembrance last,
In after-times, for every favour past.
He readily on Duty's errands run,
From Morn's first rising to Eve's setting Sun;
Still watching, for attendance, or for flight,
Thro' all, or any needful hour of Night.

Once, while the Seasons run their annual round,
Compell'd by Penury, and by Duty bound;
When, o'er his shoulders, Spring full often shower'd,
And Autumn's floods o'er all his frame were pour'd;
When Summer roasted, and when Winter rag'd,
As Conscience call'd, and Gratitude engag'd;
For farthing profits he pursued his toils,
And, for three hundred, fagg'd as many miles—
Yet Conscience could not properly complain,
Tho' oft so frozen—fried—or rins'd with rain;
Nor Gratitude could suffer discontent,
Because kind Providence the summon sent;
Yet moral Rights in future might refuse
To bear, so far, for farthings, morning News,
Nor fear, by such refusal, to offend
His righteous Father, or one reasoning Friend;
For no Man's breast, or Law from God above,
Enjoins full sacrifice of all Self-love;
But all the Rules of Heav'n, and Nature's light,
Confirm to all Mankind an equal Right.

Whate'er the sovereign Parent's Will decreed
He labour'd to fulfil in Word, and Deed;
And only begg'd Him what He gave to bless,
Whether His Mercy's loan were more or less.
Against that Bounteous Pow'r he ne'er rebell'd,
Whene'er the wonted largess was withheld;
Convinc'd that Grace and Goodness dealt each dole,
Tho' Wisdom kept back part, or Love the whole:
But when the mad iniquity of Man,
Attempted to disturb God's gracious plan;
Tho' Crispin knew that His unerring rules
Could ne'er be frustrated by Knaves or Fools,
But all things purpos'd by His prescient thought,
His boundless Wisdom—Pow'r—and Goodness, wrought.
Still Crispin judg'd it righteous to repress
All wilful errors of Man's wickedness—
Informed, with awful call, by that first Cause
To live obedient to His perfect Laws,
All useful instruments in His blest hands,
To execute His just, and kind, commands—
Who by His Wisdom, and His Will, makes use
Of second Causes, to correct abuse.
Was all resistance fully laid aside,
Justice must stoop to Passion, Pow'r, and Pride,
And Truth, with all her fair attendants, fly
Before the face of every lust-bred Lie;

While all the bold, the brutal, weak, and base,
Would reign, and rule, in every peccant place,
Till Morals—Laws—Religion—genuine Worth,
Were wholly banish'd from the bounds of Earth;
And Fiends, infernal, in the make of Men,
Make the whole Globe one Wilderness agen!

Full oft he felt his just resentment rouz'd
When, in his little Cell, serenely hous'd,
He heard Blasphemers impiously rebel,
With language only fit for Imps in Hell!
Beheld the sauntering shoals from foreign shore,
In idleness, lounge daily by his door;
Like Thieves, let loose from Newgate, or the Hulks,
With leers of lust, or keen assassin, skulks;
A graceless, priestly, crew! from Gallic soil
To reap the produce of his care and toil—
Or view'd the bold, cockaded, coxcomb, Band,
All vomited from that convulsive Land;
Like Locusts, here, poor Penury's dues devour,
Encourag'd by the cruel Pimps in Pow'r,
Without the prospect of one single grain
Of solid good, from such deceptive Train;
For those their specious, dangerous, doctrine spread,
To spoil the heart, pervert the ignorant head;
While these endeavour'd daily to engage,
Our foolish Rulers fruitless war to wage.

He frequent found his indignation fir'd
At what Profligates loved, or Dupes desir'd!
Claiming support for all their Lust, and Pomp,
That each with Jilts, or Actresses, might romp.
But still more frequent was his Mind perplext,
His Patience vanquisht, and his Spirit vext,
When wandering, daily, from his mean abode,
Thro' many a lengthening mile of weary road,
Like a train'd spaniel, at one tiresome stretch,
Some lumbering load to carry, or to fetch—
And while thus labouring thro' loose mud and mire,
Deep snow and frost, or flood, or dust and fire,
His anger'd glances happen'd to behold,
By rampant steeds, in stately carriage roll'd,
High o'er the pinch'd—or splash'd, or choaking, Crowd,
Some useless Pensioner, or Statesman proud;
Some Pimp, or Parasite, or Courtezan,
Or other Creature of the courtly Clan,
Seated in supercilious pomp and pride,
With hungry Harpies on the gay outside,
And all supported in that splendid State
By base, oppressive, and imperious, Rate,
Levied on Toil, and Care, in want, or woe;
On Him, and all his Fellow-Slaves, below!
Squeez'd from the vital blood, of every vein,
In painful pence from what such Negroes gain—
Distill'd from blister'd palm, and oozing lymph,
Of every toiling Artist, Swain, and Nymph—
From head, and heart, from every joint and limb,
Of Him, and every labouring Wretch like Him;
To waste in wantonness, or foolish fuss—
Quite unconcern'd about such Brutes as Us!

Could such misfortun'd Minds, when reasoning right,
Preserve calm Tempers o'er such trying sight!
Such burden'd Dupes must needs become fierce Foes,
When conscious whence their toils and troubles rose;
How then could Crispin, who so clearly saw
Mankind's misfortunes loaded on by Law,
E'er pass indifferent by such Beasts of prey,
Who feasted on their Flesh from day to day;
Much less salute them with a grave, “God speed,”
Who felt them, hourly, on his vitals feed.
Could he maintain his face serene, and blythe,
And not, like chain'd, torn, rackt, Prometheus, writhe?
Could he in chearful frame his path pursue
With such provoking spectacles in view?
Behold such Locusts, meek, in christian, mood,
Who robb'd him daily of his needful food;
While, from each mite, his hard endeavours earn'd,
To courtly Treasury must five tenths be turn'd,
To pour out, thence, in plenteous streams agen
For worthless Women, or vile miscreant Men;
Which Wealth they waste in Folly, Lust, or Sloth
To please base Pride, or Appetites, of both.

Could he, when 'twas his chance, or choice, to meet
Some brother Pedlars, tramping thro' the Street,
Forbear some hints to stir such thoughtless Throngs,
Against these Authors of their grievous Wrongs?
Or could his indignation cease to burn,
When fretted with fatigue, at late return,
He sat, reflecting, at his tax'd fire-side,
O'er such pert Nuisances of noxious Pride,
While each reflection furnish'd new offence
Against such graceless Pomp, and gross expence?
Or, when, in meditation more profound,
He saw such marks of misery around;

And all the proofs of want, and woe, compar'd
With what each shameless Pimp and Pandar shared—
The scant rewards of careful thought and toil,
With what Courts waste, in wickedness, the while;
His throbbing breast with bubbling anger burst,
Brought forth some clamorous births, but never curst;
Ne'er so, the lov'd Redeemer's Laws transgrest,
By cursing Culprits; but the basest blest!
He knew, if different from the vilest Elf,
Heav'n made the first distinction, not himself;
And to God's goodness was all glory due
Who gave more Grace among the faithful Few.
Yea, to His Grace the glory all belongs
Who rais'd those Wretches o'er the thriftless Throngs,
And lent each undeserv'd and liberal dow'r
Of Honour—Influence—Fortune—Fame—and Pow'r—
For not a Man, among Earth's highest Ranks,
But owes, for all possessions, praise and thanks;
Nor any Angel that attends His Throne
Can claim the smallest Merit as its own—
But much Demerit in Mankind abounds
For wasting Talents or concealing Pounds;
And where no interest's wish'd, or increase won,
No Man will hear his Master say—“Well done!”

But tho' no Merit can with Creatures rest,
Respecting God, the greatest, noblest, best,
Yet Merit, or Demerit, may, with Man,
In executing Providence's plan;
For Individuals, all, respecting others,
Must rank as Parents—Children—Sisters—Brothers—
And each, according to Heav'n's holy Will,
Ought mutual Duties faithfully fulfil.

Thus, as Crispinus Courtiers' conduct spell'd,
And found each duty, right, and due, withheld
From all the wretched of the human Race,
That Providence had put in humbler Place—
Remarking such most patiently submit
To all high Heav'n ordain'd as right and fit;
While those thus rais'd to Wealth, and Pow'r, sublime,
Observ'd no Duty, but indulg'd each Crime,
How could his heart, or any manly Mind,
Keep cool the blood, or bursting choler bind?
That no bold pen, or bitter speech, broke loose
In desperate pamphlet, or deserv'd abuse.
To see such Culprits, in a public crowd,
Or private concourse, insolently proud,
Who draw their vicious hire from virtuous hives,
Where ev'ry starving individual strives
With utmost strength, but often strives in vain,
Amidst oppression—Penury—Sickness—Pain—
Venting perpetual tears, or sighs, or groans,
In endless labour for those idle drones;
Just kept alive, by study, care, and toil,
But sees them rampant round the World the while—
Still conscious from his cost they clothe, and feed,
While he wears rags, and knows continual need;
Nor hopes for one advantage from the Kind
To feed or clothe his Frame, or mend his Mind.

Poor Crispin could not quite suppress the Spleen
While, wandering thro' throng'd City's bustling Scene,
He mark'd those misinformed, misguided, Things
By selfish Senates constituted Kings;
Thro' courtesy made Stewards of each Realm,
Deputed, by his Peers, to hold the Helm—
To steer the Vice-toss'd Vessel of the State,
And fix full sentence of each Culprit's fate—
Appointing to each post throughout the Crew
And honouring or rewarding, where it's due—
To sanction all its preconcerted Rules
For managing Delinquents, Knaves, and Fools,
And executing all those wholesome Laws
That stop rude breaches, and repair foul flaws—
One, who, in Justice, with his warmest zeal,
Should watch the welfare of the Commonweal—
Should weigh the equal interests of the whole
And all crude inequalities controul—
Should hold the Balance even—sway the Sword,
And fullest rights to humblest Boors afford—
Should Wealth's Pow'rs; Pride's enormities repress
To make mean Rustics' cares, and labours less:
On pedestal, supreme, sublimely stand,
Bright model! meet for imitative Land—
Exhibiting to all true Christian's test,
A rich example to excite the Rest!

Could Christian check his anger, or his grief,
When, oft, beholding such deputed Chief
Profusely spend his Country's hard-earn'd Coin,
While thro' such waste a million Mortals pine;
Could Crispin stop his pity—rein in scorn,
While marking mortal Brother, proudly borne
With Suite so grand! in prodigal parade!
To curb the crowds of Toil, and troops of Trade?

Or popular applause, from Tools, to claim,
For what the Wise would see both sin and shame?
The meanest Slaves that mix in courtly Mass,
In spite of pious Betters proudly pass
With mounted Guards, in marshall'd bands, before,
In garments clothed, which look'd like crimson gore—
This glaring red, with glittering gold, array'd,
Prove blood and plunder is their twofold Trade!
Still more, astonish'd Multitudes to strike,
And prove the Patron and such Tools alike,
With hostile swords to sway, or cut, the crowd
While prancing Coursers, clad in trappings, proud,
Dragg'd the vain, dazzling, Vehicle along,
Amidst a gather'd, gaping, thoughtless, Throng,
Who, with vociferous, wild, huzzaings, once
Greeted a greedy, dangerous, regal, Dunce;
Oft since, in silence, roll'd along the stones,
Or hail'd with hisses, sighs, or heart-felt groans.
Bearing the worshipp'd Lama lodg'd within,
In street, or turnpike, dash thro' thick or thin;
While, to prevent all danger, doubt, and fear,
A fellow-Corps came rattling in the Rear!

Could common Sense, with common Temper, see
A Dunce exalted to that high Degree?
An ignorant Joulter, haughty, and unjust,
Perverting, proudly, Heav'n's momentous Trust!
A Creature, cruel—wantonly unwise—
A Country's wealth so weakly sacrifice!
Could Wisdom warrant such profuse expence,
Or Justice offer adequate defence,
That this, and all attendant kingly cost
Should be to labouring Individuals lost,
While fifty Thousands, such expence to pay,
Must drudge twelve tiresome hours each tedious day!
Except their sabbaths; when each weary limb,
Owes thanks to God, for ease, but none to Him!

Why should He ride in pomp, o'er ridge and rut
While poor Supporters trudge thro' filth on foot?
Why shine so fat, and fair, on sumptuous Throne,
While equals work till worn to skin and bone?
Why deck'd in gold and brilliants, millions bag,
While they have scarce a Farthing, or a Rag?
Why vest his Family with Thousands more
To waste in Luxury, or licentious Pow'r?
Betraying sacred Truth; and social Trust,
By beastly living and adulterous Lust?
All Modesty to shame, all Temp'rance shock,
From Toil extorted, or from trading Stock!
Why fortunes on his favourite Friends confer,
Forc'd out from Penury's palms with whip and spur?
That each with idle pomp, and dev'lish pride
In sumptuous Domes may rest, and Carriage ride—
Proud wardrobes wear, and costly viands carve—
While Tools in want, and tatters, work, and starve!

Is He the Father of his People, who
Can prance each Province of a Nation through,
And, with a wild indifference, gaze, and gape,
Midst Misery, shown in every varied shape,
Nor feel his harden'd Conscience once convict
For Wants the half of which his Freaks inflict?
Or look on Grandeur with a grinning laugh,
Whose Frauds and Vices waste the other half?

Is He that Governor, most gracious, which
Makes Penury poorer to enrich the Rich?
Who neither Artist, Hind, or Labourer, spares,
But robs each Wretch's fob to furnish Theirs?

Is He the Christian, so, by Friends, held forth
For pious purity, and moral worth,
Who breaks the general Rules his Master made,
In Pride's indulgence, or in Pomp's parade?
Who sets a Sample, in Himself, and Friends,
Which not one step to pure Religion tends,
By countenancing Plays, and childish Sports,
One only fit for Kings in Satan's Courts,
The other fit, alone, for Oafs and Fools,
Infants, or Children, in their nascent Schools.
Morality's relief it ne'er affords
While People's pelf their hungry Monarch hoards;
Nor can it lend Humanity much help
To hear a cruel Kennel howl and yelp,
Or see the rowell'd Horse, ensanguin'd, fly
While Stags, and Leverets, tremble—bleed—and die.

No Parent, thus, would on his Children prey;
And, by adoption, such are He and They
One Part, at ease, of Wealth and Pow'r possest,
While cankering Wretchedness corrodes the Rest—
Ne'er mark one moral and religious Child,
Perhaps Christ's copy, humble, meek, and mild!
With honest heart and heavenly light illum'd
By Labour broken, and by Care consum'd!
Must leave his offspring wretchedly forlorn,
Because less bold and base, when younger born—

While a proud elder Brother, freed from toil,
Shall see his partial Sire complacent smile;
And, once possest of Honour, Pow'r, and Wealth,
Daily increase each kind by Fraud, or Stealth.

No gracious Governor, with calm Content,
Would see his Subjects, all of like Descent,
Some every pleasure, pow'r, and pomp, enjoy,
While Thousands pine their luxuries to supply—
Much less all bounties on such Band bestow
With rigour forc'd from every Rank below!

No Christian Prince, thus, partially, would seek
The impious Proud, and miss the pious Meek—
On shameless Vice, and Irreligion, show'r
The noblest Honours, heightening Pride with Pow'r;
Or heap on Pomp, and Vanity, still more,
Their pillag'd winnings from the working Poor;
And still to endless toils, and cares, condemn
The labouring Rank, to lavish all on Them,
But curb base Courtiers, Sin-taught Sons restrain,
And stint his Pomp to ease their toil and pain!

One King there was, who liv'd awhile on Earth,
Who boasted not his Blood, or courtly Birth,
But whose sublime descent was high'r than all
That Men—Lords—Princes—Kings—or Emperors, call—
For, tho' his Mother dwelt in humblest case,
She claim'd pure Pedigree, from kingly Race;
And tho' His Frame, from her, was earthly clod,
His Father was the great—eternal—God!

He, greater than the greatest of Earth's Great!
Assum'd no Honour—sought no Pomp, or State—
But what from purest principles arose;
Still mortifying Friends, and favouring Foes.
Ne'er partially, on proud distinctions stood,
But went about, each day, in doing good!
Indulging neither Arrogance, or Sloth,
But labour'd, ardently, to banish both.
He ne'er was known in pageant Pomp to ride;
Puff'd up with Pow'r, or Pamper'd high with Pride;
But, Pride and Ostentation to controul
Once meekly mounted on an Ass's Foal.

No Palace He possest—no downy Bed—
He had not where to lay His weary Head—
Ne'er taught His Friends to seek frail Joys of Sense,
But simply lean on His pure Providence;
And, with Him, seek blest solace, from above,
The Spirit's influence, and His Father's Love!

His Pow'r all Delicacies could create
Yet He ne'er coveted one dainty Cate,
But Hunger's craving calls were humbly staid,
With orts of barley bread, Himself had made;
While, meekly adding one more simple dish,
Cold fragments of his own-created fish.

He never sought the Sovereign to express
By pompous, delicate—expensive Dress,
But, tho' the glorious King of all the Globe,
His Frame He folded in the rudest Robe!
Clear emblem of His Character, and Scheme,
One perfect piece, without a single seam.

He never sought to stretch His temporal sway
By making neighbouring Potentates obey;
Or to extend His Kingdom's ample bound,
By spreading desolating War around!

He never chose His Ministers from such
As had, already, Pow'r and Pelf too much;
From Schools, from cunning Scribes, or Worldly-wise,
To win by Wit, or govern by Disguise;
But from the simple Sons of Care and Toil,
Free from Ambition, and devoid of Guile—
Such as His meek forerunner, Moses, sought,
By heav'n-instructed Jethro justly taught—
Not from proud Ancients, or perverted Youth,
But punctual Men for Probity and Truth.
Not arbitrary Knaves, a Nation's rod,
But faithful, gracious, Men, who fear'd their God!
Men who would every selfish view detest,
With whom the multitude might well be blest—
Of modern Ministers the full reverse,
The peaceful People's bane, the Kingdom's curse!
No frippery badges, He, on Friends bestow'd,
Or placed them in Preferment's restless road;
But, that the Great might not the small devour,
Decreed equality in Place—and—Pow'r.
His pure pacific reign, how different far
From courtly jangle, or domestic jar—
His humble Aspect, and his Wisdom, wide
From all the pomp of Wealth, and warlike Pride—
A happy Pattern, brought from Heav'n above,
To 'stablish Peace, on principles of Love!
His Honours and high Favours, not confin'd
To mystic Friends, but free for all Mankind!

A moral Government—where none could claim
Unequal Wealth, or Influence, Pomp or Fame:
But each, submitting to His kingly call
Was eager to distribute helps to all.
Superior stood His intellectual Code,
A perfect Plan, brought from His first Abode;
Where Thanks and Praise, in act, or word, or thought,
All center'd in the Saviour, where they ought—
Where that blest Subject was the most esteem'd,
Whatever Pride, or Plot, design'd, or dream'd;
When God's first image, with each grace endued,
Was, in its noblest characters, renew'd;
And he that best pursued His holy plan,
Became in Earth and Heav'n, the happiest Man!

'Tis true His Pow'r to every human heart
Could all those perfect characters impart—
Could fit the meanest of the mortal Host,
To fill the Minister's, or Monarch's, Post;
Or instantly reclaim what Love had lent
To Priests or Princes thro' all Earth's extent—
Yet did that Pow'r no Potentate dethrone,
Or claim their earthly Crowns, tho' all His own;
Ne'er from their Seats Earth's mighty Sovereign hurl'd—
For—His pure Kingdom was not of this World!

Did He not, here, a perfect Pattern show,
For all Mankind to copy whilst below?
And left He not rescindless Laws behind,
The thoughts—words—actions—ev'n of Kings, to bind?
Confirm'd He not His Father's first Command
On all the reasoning Race? in every Land?
To love the Lord their God, thro' Life's whole length,
With all their Heart, and Soul, and Mind and Strength?
And did He not enjoin those unjust Elves
To love their Neighbours as they love Themselves?
And hath not now His Hand a rich resource
His Father's orders fully to enforce;
For hath not that almighty Father giv'n
Unbounded Pow'r to Him, in Earth and Heav'n?
And will He not by those dread Rules decree,
What kingly Butcher's endless lot shall be?
But tho' such Potsherds of the Earth should strive
To keep their Pride, Pow'r, Pomp, and Lust, alive;
And should that Pow'r and Pomp the Poor depress;
That Pride and Lust surrounding Lands distress;
Yet when the mutual Pride and Lust shall clash,
His Judgments will to dust such Potsherds dash—
And tho' injurious Pomp, and Pow'r unjust,
On Christians trample, or a Kingdom's Trust;
His Might, more blest—His louder Trumpet's blast—
Shall call these Kings before His Bar, at last;
And, stripp'd of Pomp and Pow'r to Hell be sent,
With Lust and Pride to heighten Punishment!

Would not these temporal Rulers, then, do right
To keep the traits of His blest Image bright?
His Precepts practice—furious Vengeance fear—
While plac'd on Thrones, probationary, here?
Till, He, in Glory, grace the Earth, agen,
To rule and reign o'er all the Sons of Men—
When His pure, perfect, Kingdom will begin,
By chaining Satan, and by chasing Sin;
While swaying in the Souls, and Hearts, of all,
Till earthly Thrones, Crowns, Sceptres, Kingdoms, fall!

Such Governors, of old, a gracious few,
The separate Progeny of Jacob knew.
Prophets, and Seers, and upright Judges, nam'd;
Who neither Wealth—Pow'r—Pomp—or Honour, claim'd.
Ne'er levied on the Poor, oppressive Rate
To plume Themselves, and Sons, in splendid State.
Ne'er kindled War to quell a neighbouring Race,
Who push'd a Tyrant from despotic place,
Lest such example should like practice spread,
To level Thrones and lop each Despot's head.
They ne'er collected cruel, hostile, Hosts,
To pour destruction on contiguous Coasts,
But for Self-preservation, strove, alone,
With honest prudence to protect their Own.
Ne'er exercis'd, at Home, a scourging rod,
But lov'd their Neighbours, and rever'd their God;
For whom they govern'd, and from whom endued
With gracious Faith, and glorious Fortitude,
They judg'd, according with his just Command,
To drive each Idol from that holy Land.
Urg'd all His precepts in the plainest guise,
From whence all real happiness must rise;
Despising Grandeur, and all graceless Gain,
And leaving Him, alone, to rule and reign.

But what are modern Monarchs—reigning, now—
Tho' gold bedeck the breast, and grace the brow—

And tho' with pearls, and gems, each garment shine—
And tho' by stupid Bigots deem'd divine—
Tho' in a pompous Palace each reside,
Or, compass'd round with Throngs, in thunder, ride,
Amidst the wretched Ranks of low Degree,
And scowl disdain on Slaves, like Them, and Me—
Yet tho' their Lightnings fly—loud Thunders roll—
Heav'n values, equal, Clown's—Slave's—Servant's, Soul!
Kings are but transient Meteors, rais'd by Birth,
To blaze a moment, more than other Earth!
All big-swoll'n bubbles! by their Fellows blown,
And seated high, like Gods, on sovereign Throne;
Which from mere frailty burst! or feel offence,
When brother bubbles strive to dash them thence!
Bright Idols! but of fleshly matter form'd,
By Appetites, and Pride, and Passions, warm'd;
With all the Lusts which human Souls besot
Much more enthralling thro' their kingly lot.
In lofty Temple lodg'd! with gildings grac'd!
All heavenly honours paid! but most misplaced—
Like what the World to its proud Master pays,
Great Beelzebub! in countless words, and ways!
Such as above belong to Nature's God
Each cringing Courtier trembling at their nod;
More than all Heathens' adoration shown
To hammer'd Metal—chizzell'd Wood, or Stone!
Ev'n those have merits with the thriftless Throng
Which never can to Flesh and Blood belong;
For they maintain their substance, form, and size,
While Kings, Corruption, or dire Worm, destroys—
And, tho' they cost, at first, more fruitless Coin,
They want no wardrobes—costly cates—nor wine.
Need no Attendants to increase the cost,
Or splendid Equipage with gold embost—
Ne'er by their blunders Ministers mislead,
Or propagate expensive bastard Breed,
To aggravate the labouring Poor's expence
Yet yield no helps for comfort or defence.
Then are not those more inoffensive Things
Than any cunning, mischief-making Kings?
Mere Images! by subtle Mortals made,
To carry on corrupt, and treacherous Trade!
Worse than the Craftesmen's Shrines, which caus'd such fuss,
When Paul first preach'd at heathen Ephesus!
To dazzle every Dupe's devoted eyes,
Whose Soul no deeper than the surface pries;
And make each mad, infatuated, Fool,
Fit for mock Majesty's implicit Tool;
Not only to adore, with apt devoirs,
But pay all dues, and duties, it requires.
Set up, in perpetuity to stand,
For Image-worship in a foolish Land;
For when, with Age, such living Idol dies,
Its Idol-Offspring soon the place supplies,
Whose Pow'r, like eastern Lama's, ne'er expires,
Youth ever-springing up as Age retires.

Thus chousing Rascals carry on the cheat,
Who daily profit by the deep deceit;
And Kings will fondly act the cunning Farce
Till Knaves grow honest, Fools, and Coxcombs, scarce.
An old idolatrous, yea, devilish trick!
Which makes the Conscience of true Christian, sick,
To see such Pimps, with impudence endued,
Ride on and rob the misled Multitude;
And, still to strengthen their oppressive pacts,
Raise up some Oaf to sanction all their acts—
While, to make superstitious Bigots bite,
They vest the Idol with an heavenly right;
For whether learn'd or ignorant, weak or wise,
They claim full deputation from the Skies;
And, whether rais'd by Ballot, or by Birth,
Are Heav'n's Vicegerents in all Realms on Earth!

But did not one great Prophet of the Jews,
When first propos'd, the impious pact refuse?
Did he not reason with the thoughtless Throng,
And plainly prove the very wish was wrong?
And did not Heav'n itself, in anger plead,
By thunderings, to condemn the daring Deed?
Yea, did not He, who came from Realms above,
Great Source of Goodness—Knowledge—Wisdom—Love!
Did He not His best-lov'd Disciple blame,
And faithful Brother, for their haughty Aim,
When They petition'd for superior Post,
That Pride might o'er their equal Brethren boast?
How then can God, all-good—all-wise—all-just!
Vest Fools, or Knaves, with such extensive Trust?
Creatures who scarce of reasoning pow'rs possest
To rule and reign, as Tyrants, o'er the Rest?
Or give One o'er his Fellows full controul
In whom Humanity ne'er moves the Soul?

He ne'er imposes such oppresive task,
Except where impious Dupes for Despots ask;
Or still permits to punish Fools' offence
Whose vain perverseness quenches Common-sense.
Now, as the dawn of Truth grows more diffus'd,
None, tamely, will submit where Trust's abus'd,
But Men, well knowing what is due to Man,
Will form a rational, and upright, Plan;
A Plan more worthy of such added Lights,
To fix, among Mankind, more equal Rights;
Confirm'd, more full, by salutary Laws,
Alike supporting every Righteous Cause—
When Pow'r, with Perfidy, shall rule no more,
To raise the Rich, or, deeper, press the Poor;
Each Idol banish'd by more christian Scheme,
While Earth gives Heav'n again the Pow'r supreme!

Kings, like all other Idols, rear'd to draw
Blind Bigots' loans, by formal force of Law,
The Temples, Priests, and Trappings, to supply,
With all that cheats the Heart, and charms the Eye
For Pandars', Pimps', and Myrmidons', support,
Like Locusts, swarming round each carnal Court—
Collected Troops in preconcerted spot,
For wasteful Projects met, or wicked Plot—
To squander on a Queen and royal Race,
With Priest, or Peer, which fills a Courtier's Place;
That round the Throne, or at the Altar, bend,
Beyond all Name, all Number, and all End!
Those high in Office, who, in Order, wait,
To amplify the Pomp, or stretch the State—
All placed in every perjur'd point of Trust,
To prop vile Pow'r, or feed vain Pride, and Lust—
All those that look for bread from boundless Loans,
O'er which each Landlord grieves, and Labourer groans—
And that long Train which Treasury licence lacks
To levy, and purloin, each torturing Tax—
Besides each vast marine, and martial, Band,
That plague the Ocean, and oppress the Land,
Combin'd base Idol-worship to compel,
Like that paid, hourly, to the Prince of Hell;
For That which proudly stands, without a Peer,
Strives hard to institute like worship here.
His Parliaments, but Priests, like Baal's Crews,
By cruel Acts compelling partial dues.
A mere Machine! compos'd of supple Parts,
All tamely mov'd by ministerial Arts—
Which aim, by cunning scheme, and plausive speech
To get the People's purse within their reach;
To squeeze out dribblets by the Press of Pow'r,
To deal all out again in ampler Dow'r
For Pimps and Parasites, as rich rewards
For grateful flattery, and feign'd regards;
Or on those humbler Tools in bribes bestow
For uttering simple sounds of “Aye,” or “No,”
By the strict mandate of official Friends,
To further all their selfish, subtle, Ends.

Thus, when the greedy Race of groveling Rich,
Have plac'd the Statue in respective Niche,
They call the great Arch-High-Priest to anoint
The wonderous Puppet which their Wills appoint;
Whose Pow'r, establish'd, in high Pomp and State,
May more Arch-High-Priests, in routine, create,
With all inferior High-Priests, from among
The younger Brethren of the wealthy Throng;
And they, inferior Orders—going down
To trading Squire, or agricultural Clown—
While all endeavour, in each different charge,
His arbitrary boundary still enlarge;
Making all simple Souls, from fear, submit
To all they urge as Rules of holy Writ:
This, courtly Ministers maintain, of course,
To give those gracious Themes their fullest Force,
Who, with the Priesthood banded, strongly bind
The freedom of the Body, Heart, and Mind;
While, to escape impeachment's cruel curse,
Each mean Man opens his impoverish'd Purse,
That legislative Blocks may form their Fees,
And force from that poor Fund what part they please

Then, that the shining bubble may not burst,
So full inflated, and so nicely nurst!
With bandages of gold all hoop'd about,
And fenc'd from dangerous breath of Rabble-rout;
The bloated Idol must be richly crown'd,
Still more each stupid Conscience to confound.
Those Ministers and Priests all deeply brib'd,
And secret Councils, which their Code prescrib'd,
With Senators, who sanction'd every clause,
To keep all Dupes at bay with binding Laws,
And make weak necks with deep devotion bend
Before that Phantasm Ignorance thinks its Friend:

Yea, while Themselves thus make the Image shine
They almost think the dazzling Thing divine—
At least they've so sublim'd their purblind Plan,
They fancy the frail Creature's more than Man.

When Chaldee's King, with wealth and madness warm'd,
His golden God, with countless cost, had form'd,
And summon'd all his subject realms to meet
And worship at the senseless Idol's feet,
Some heaven-instructed, honest-hearted, Youths,
Illuminated, long, with sacred Truths,
In fiery furnace rather risqu'd to die,
Than with such blasphemous behests comply;
Resolving to withstand the Tyrant's nod
In love and reverence to their Saviour-God:
And little different is this impious plan,
Tho' that was but an Image—this, a Man!
His heart, so long puff'd up with princely lot,
His great Creator and kind God forgot—
That God whose Providence gave wonderous dow'r;
This Ingrate, so possest with Wealth and Pow'r;
A Loan, so tempting! lent him for a Time,
To make more noted his enormous Crime—
Then, as a public Spectacle to all
Who felt his Greatness, and beheld his fall,
With wonderous Judgment made the Monster mute
And gave him heart, and instinct, like a Brute.

Remember this, ye mighty Potentates!
Who swell so proudly in your princely States!
Presume not to insult the poorest Slave;
Your Greatness Heav'n hath lent, but never gave!
And Slaves, degraded, who, as dirt, You deem,
Much high'r than You may stand in God's esteem,
The Poor are oft adopted Heav'n's high'st Heirs
And Earth's best happiness is oftener Theirs;
While They, thro' Faith, their Father's Love enjoy,
Who neither long to live, nor dread to die!
You are the monstrous Image Daniel saw;
And, near your exit, tow'rds destruction draw.
The golden Head, with proud imperious mien,
And silver Breast and Arms, no longer seen—
The brazen Belly and the Thighs, that shone,
And both its iron Legs have long been gone!
The ferrine Feet, mix'd up with mirey clay,
Now soon must moulder, and all fly away!
Then the pure Stone cut out without a hand
Shall fill with wonder each astonish'd Land!
Shall banish Tyranny, and plunge below
All proud Oppression—cruel War—and Woe!
Crush courtly Profligacy, Pride, and Lust,
By crumbling Kings, and Empires down to Dust!

Whence came the Grant, which Government Men call,
The privilege of Few, for ruling All?
All Pow'r, originally, rests with God—
To yield Rewards, or exercise the Rod;
And, equally, must every Soul alive
From that vast Depth all springs of Pow'r derive—
'Tis He, alone, on mortal Man bestows
All he possesses—all he feels or knows—
Corporal Beauty—Strength—and Spirits' Pow'r,
With wonderous Faculties, alike, His Dow'r—
The only difference human Minds discern
Are different Pow'rs to think—speak—act—or learn—
And every Individual Will and Sense,
To form distinctions, and repel offence.
Not One, with arbitrary Pow'rs endued,
To govern and command a Multitude.
That was, at first, by mutual Compact made,
In Time, become a mercenary Trade;
Where all with Wealth—or Wit—or Pow'r—possest,
Invent and use vile Arts to rule the Rest.
While each endeavours to acquire frail Fame;
Some empty Honour, or some noisey Name—
Labour, by Skill, or Cunning, to obtain
More faithless influence, or more graceless Gain—
To persecute—oppress—deceive—betray—
And govern others with tyrannic sway.

If earthly Kings and Princes wish to prove
How they deriv'd their Office from above,
The Deeds and Documents let Subjects see,
That They no more may wish their Wills to free,
But clearly both their Claims, and Titles, know,
And how, and when, brought down to Them below.
One only Writing, now, can well declare
What those Distinctions—Claims—and Titles are—
One Chronicle, alone, the truth disclose,
Whence each high Office—each proud Pow'r arose;
Which can alone to that blest Lord belong,

Who fashion'd Kings so like the common Throng,
That none but His omniscient Eye can trace
Such nice Distinctions in each Royal Race—
More Virtue—Merit—Piety—behold,
Beneath more gorgeous Cloaths, or Crowns of gold!

Has He superior Loans to Princes lent
Of intellectual clearness—strength—extent?
Or, can they, thro' His bounty, boldly claim
More Beauty—force—activity—of Frame?
If not, where is the prompt decisive proof
That They ought hold their haughty heads aloof—
That They should execute supreme Commands,
Before all others, o'er illumin'd Lands;
Or dare to stretch rude, magisterial Sway
O'er Men with Gifts, and Graces, more than They?
Innumerous Men, by Heav'n, made far more meet,
To hold, with Honour, such superior Seat—
Not to perform a Despot's paltry Parts
But rule all Wills by reigning in all Hearts.

Why should acknowledg'd Knave, or frantic Fool,
Be thron'd by Custom, or by Birthright rule?
Why Blockhead climb before a Fellow-Clown,
To seize a Sceptre, and to claim a Crown?
Or Frantic, in his fits, direct the Course,
Before some Sage, a Realm's Finance, and Force?

Could such a Creature Deity depute,
Whom He ne'er bless'd with one bright Attribute;
Without one spark of Wisdom, Wit, or Worth,
To be His Representative on Earth?
Can any Soul perceive one feature strike,
In Made and Maker, as at all alike?

Let dullest Rustics diligently read,
With simple Sense, in Heav'n's recorded Deed;
Or let the better-taught, attentive, look
Thro' the prime Chapters of that blessed Book,
With only natural Reason for their guide,
Unprejudic'd by Passions, Lusts, or Pride,
Then will they not need read, or reason, long,
To learn whence all such Pow'r, and Honour sprung.
Which spread their deleterious banes below;
O'er-flowing Fountains of dire Want, and Woe!
Of Envy—Hatred—Discontent—and Strife
And, choice of other chastening Ills of Life.

God never meant to mar His perfect Plan
By making Kings; He only made a Man.
But Man, seduc'd from innocence, at first;
By Satan's cunning soon became accurst;
Severely suffering now Heav'n's vengeful Rod
By aiming to become, Himself, a God!

Man never can create the smallest thing,
But can, of one created, make a King;
And, as he cannot any Thing create,
So can he not decree one Creature's fate—
Nor can his Will e'er generate, or devour,
One particle of Matter—Mind—or Pow'r—
He may a Novice, or a Knave, invest
With all the Freedom he from Heav'n possest—
That Pow'r transfer, he once could call his own,
To any Thing that occupies a Throne,
By making independent Will submit
To That in all Things, whether fair, or fit.
Or whether wise or honest, Knave or Fool,
Becoming, simply Its obedient Tool.

Thus Men made Kings—and, when they once were made,
All Man's remaining Rights were soon betray'd;
His heart soon made repent such headlong choice
By Pride—Oppression—Vanity—and Vice.

But how shall They such priceless Rights retrieve,
Who venal Statesmen, or base Priests, believe?
Who boldly urge Man ought no more endeavour
To claim them back, for ever and for ever.

What! may not Man reclaim deputed Pow'r
When Despots, Rights reserv'd, at once, devour?
And may not all such mutual Pacts be broke
When Truth and Justice Tyrants turn to Joke?
Are They not everlasting, like their Sire?
Nor can become extinct, as Rogues require?
And ought they not in every place prevail,
Tho' Courtiers, High-Priests, Kings, their pow'rs assail?
Who, to indulge their Passions—Lusts—and Pride,
Set all their Influence, and Force, aside.

Ought then base Kings by Man created, stand
Against the Judgment of an injur'd Land?
And may not large majorities made known
The Despots, they ordain'd, again dethrone?
Again the Creatures of their Pow'r depose
When those embraced as Friends become base Foes?

But let not Man endeavour to destroy
That Life Man's labour never can supply—

No! let sweet Mercy still the Tyrant save—
None may reclaim the Gift he never gave—
That were attempting Justice most unjust;
Destroying Truth which God ne'er gave in trust,
Life, to no Being but Themselves, assign'd,
Among the various Ranks of human Kind—
Nor can a Creature as a right resign
But only Him, who made it Mine, or Thine.

While, thus, my Pen pursues politic task,
Some Hypocrite may, here, this question ask,
Would such lax Doctrines Christ's Apostles please?
Will modern Prelates relish Rules like these?
Or will the Pensioner, or Placeman, find
Such sentiments suffice their slavish Mind?
They see their views best serv'd by kingly sway,
Fix'd in good quarters, and with present pay;
And from the greatest, even to the least,
All Kinds embrace the antichristian Beast:
While those who dare Hypocrisy condemn,
Alike abominate the Beast and Them.

“Bow to the higher Pow'rs,” the Priesthood preach—
“Bow to the Pow'rs that be,” proud Statesmen teach—
For while this maxim's forc'd on Fellow-elves,
They hope more honour—Wealth—and Pow'r, Themselves—
Each Tory says the same—and so say I,
To Pow'r supreme, which rules o'er Earth and Sky!
He, as His due, all Honour may demand,
From every Creature both by Sea and Land!
From Saints, and Angels, in blest Realms above,
All glad Allegiance, Gratitude, and Love!
But what have carnal, dying, Kings to do
With such Devoirs from either Me, or You?
'Tis base idolatry, to Creatures shown
The sacred Right of Heav'n's high Lord, alone!

What! with a Crown shall Dupes a Creature deck,
Then bend and bow blasphemous Knee and Neck?
A mortal Man like Deity adore
That Fools, and artful Knaves, have badg'd before?
This was a meaning Peter never meant,
Or Paul, or any Spirit Heav'n e'er sent,
But in base Comments made by Blocks, or Thieves,
Like vile Sacheverel—Filmer—miscreant Reeves!

Paul ne'er could construe such rash conduct right,
By reason led—much less by heavenly Light—
For God had signified from Sinai's throne
His Children, all, should worship Him, alone.
Would God, in Goodness, light a lamp, in Men,
And then, capricious, put it out agen?
Was glorious Reason to a Creature giv'n,
Man's brightest Attribute! from funds of Heav'n,
Then order Priests' extinguishers to place
To quench its rays in all the human Race?

Fixt Stars, and Planets, feeble beams retire,
Before the risen Sun's resplendent fire,
So must mere human Reason's glimmering rays
Oppos'd to Revelation's brighter blaze;
But useful, still, is their inferior light
To shed their lustre o'er the shades of Night;
Nor are the feeble beams with which they shine,
Less than the Sun's more brilliant blaze, divine!
For, while the Sun performs its Maker's Will,
The Moon and Stars, alike, His Laws fulfil—
O'er all the Earth their different helps bestow,
Thro' various offices, of Life, below;
So was bless'd Reason ne'er bestow'd in vain
But ought its destin'd post and task maintain—
And still with strong, but humble, influence, may,
Distinctly temporary truths display.
While Revelation, with its brighter beams,
Diffuses light o'er everlasting themes.

There needs no Revelation to disclose
What Man by Reason, and by Instinct, knows—
The clear connection Brother has with Brother,
And moral rules respecting one another—
That Conscience promptly shows, by shorter plan,
Intuitive, what's due from Man to Man.

Here let me state what Paul and Peter urge,
And see what light from darkness may emerge—
But first let's lay some full position down,
To suit the sight of Courtier, King, and Clown;
That Kings themselves, tho', commonly, so dull,
Must feel the inference strike them, fair, and full;
They ne'er can be so ignorant, gross and blind,
But they must mark its force, like all Mankind!

None, sure, will aim to shine in Reason's list,
And say no Truth, or Justice, now exist—
Or with a proud effrontery try to show,
Such Beings, now, are never known below;
But can alone exist with hosts above,
Angels and Saints, in Holiness and Love!

That Heav'n's bright Image, now, is full effac'd
And all its right Inscriptions clean eras'd;
No! those bright Essences, tho' faint, are found,
In gracious Christians' hearts on earthly ground;
And well 'tis prov'd that every perfect Thing,
Reflects the Deity, from whence they spring—
But that whose Nature has no heavenly trace
Could ne'er arise from such celestial Race;
Thus Kings display so much of hellish leav'n,
Fools only fancy such can come from Heav'n.
The British Muse dare this bold Truth advance,
Who marks the Fiend which governs Fools in France.
Besides this stands indisputable Truth,
Well-known to learn'd and unlearn'd Age—and Youth—
The Pow'r, whate'er it be, which can create
May justly close, at Will, its Creature's date.
And, tho' it be not part of Nature's Plan,
That Man, created, can create a Man—
Nor, in Man's pow'r, by Sciences, and Arts,
To give his Fellow Grace, or Sense, or Parts;
Yet, when the mighty God hath made such Things,
Man, then hath Pow'r to make such Creatures Kings.

In this the Author of the Fable-Book;
Thro' ignorance, trick, or knavery—much mistook—
Tho' Jupiter may make both Cranes and Logs,
Yet Monarchs must be made for Frogs, by Frogs.
Thus, if a Number, of fool-Frogs, propose
To make their Sovereigns of such Things as Those,
And mutual Compact is both sign'd, and seal'd,
It cannot, then, in Justice, be repeal'd,
While those acknowledg'd Monarchs Lives endure,
And Ifs, on both Sides all are kept secure—
But Log, or Crane, that holds deputed Pow'rs,
If ignorant Log neglects, or Crane devours,
And thus the binding Articles be broke
Then Frogs not only have a Right to croak,
But Kings cashier, for Perjury—Pride—or Spite—
And set aside each delegated Right.

Should Log, or Crane, by no intemperate act
Infringe a portion of that mutual pact;
But without painful burden, fraud, or strife,
Conclude their terms of dull, or dangerous, Life;
Yet if the cunning scheme was so contriv'd,
Young Block or Bird, which regal Sire surviv'd,
With wooden hand, or claw, should hold the Helm,
And Logs or Cranes, for ever, rule the Realm,
Tho' Providence should so far change their Nature
In bulk, and burden—fierceness, strength, and stature—
That One should kill all comfort with its weight,
Or t'other greedy, gulp ev'n Imps of State;
It seems unjust—unsufferably hard—
Those Frogs might not such scoundrel Kings discard.

What right had their Forefathers, thus to bind
Their Children to churl Kings, of either Kind?
As well they might oblige their Brats to lie,
Bound down in lake, or bog, till both were dry;
Nor suffer from the mud to leap, or crawl,
Till Summer-Suns had broil'd, or bak'd, them all—
Meantime lamenting o'er their lot forlorn,
And cursing Fate because they there were born.
What madness must it be, if e'er 'twas done
That foolish Sire should so confine the Son,
And thus with Kings, and graceless Knaves, engage—
To bind his injur'd Brood from Age to Age!
Could we conceive a large Land-owner wise,
Who should with honest Servant so devise,
That He, and His, to Time's compleat extent,
Should act as Stewards, and receive his Rent—
Make all Agreements what each Hind must give
That each, in Peace, and Competence might live;
While selfish Offspring, at some future Time
Should grow regardless both of Cost, and Crime;
And, heedless of Dependant's deep distress,
Still, proudly, on complaining Tenants press,
By that rude Pow'r claiming much more than dues;
Condemning all as Foes who dared refuse—
When, in default, the small remainder seize,
Robbing their Frames of rest, their Hearts of ease:
If still deficient fix in prison fast,
To vex, and starve, till robb'd of lives at last;
And all for selfish, vain, or vicious Ends,
To serve Themselves—their Families—and Friends—
Without attention to deputed Trust
And right regard to what was true—or just.
While, to support their Pomp—their Pride—their Place—
And shun the shameful danger of disgrace,
With neighbouring Breed litigious claim commence,
In spite of Justice—Truth—and simplest Sense;
And risque to ruin, midst their clamorous cry,
His Heirs who gave their Parent first Employ.

But must not Men be base—or frantic Fools,
To make twelve millions one weak Tyrant's Tools?
Or must not those in Pow'r be arrant Knaves
Who aim to make all others abject Slaves?
Striving to keep a Successor in Pow'r,
Whom Providence denies Man's common Dow'r?
Tie every Man of Wit, or Wisdom, down
By trammels only meet for Fool, or Clown?
As well might Blocks oblige gigantic Heir
The pigmy Parent's cast-off Cloaths to wear;
Or Titan Sire's by dwarfish Sons be worn
Proud Spectacles of ridicule and scorn!
With childish toys groups of grown Men amuse,
All reasoning Tyros would with scorn refuse;
Or go to Goody's scolding School agen,
To con their Alphabet when classic Men.
Were any earthly Kings become discreet,
Knaves only would disturb their snug Retreat;
Or when found just, and watchful, tho' not wise,
Fools only would affront, or Dupes despise;
For now the wicked World's become so bad,
Such necessary Evils must be had—
But when they aim at arbitrary Pow'r,
To spoil—oppress—to vex—or to devour—
All, who love Justice, and respect the Poor,
Must wish such worrying Monsters were no more—
Yea all who worship Heav'n, and honour Worth,
Must beg such Brutes may soon be swept from Earth!
Draw Contrast close, and see how ill they suit,
'Twixt British George, and Gaul's Imperial Brute
Each Vice and Virtue weigh, then truly tell,
How this is fit for Heav'n and that for Hell!

	CHAPTER 16th. The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse