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.