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

Thus Crispin, warm'd with patriotic sparks,
On Rulers, and false Rules, made free remarks;
Which as his Duties left much leisure Time
He oft essay'd to sketch in rustic Rhyme.
Time, he well knew, throughout its whole amount,
Was noted down, by Heav'n in clear account;
And was to Man, like all his Talents, lent,
To exercise for good—not idly spent—
Each hour to urge some useful task assign'd,
To honour Heav'n, or benefit Mankind.
Not slattern'd o'er, without one worthy Thought,
Or useful Action, as a Thing of nought;
Not thrown away, like thoughtless Infant's Toys
Without once judging future pains and joys.

What Man can fail to mark, who once reflects,
How Mind degenerates 'mid such loose neglects;
For Thought, when disengag'd from useful Themes,
Will wildly ramble in delirious Dreams;
In wanton reasonings, or weak reveries,
The Heart's impure propensities to please,
Till Christ controuls the wayward Will, by Grace,
And pure Reflections fill their proper place.

When Spirit's nobler pow'rs are all employ'd,
With Virtue's growths to fill gross Fancy's void;
Or lifts, to Heav'n affections most sublime,
For every Gift and Grace vouchsaf'd in Time;
Christ, condescending such attempts to bless
Pours thro' each pulse Earth's highest happiness:
But when its Faculties no farther strive
To keep that pure Felicity alive;
Then, Spirit, struggling to be happy still,
Makes Passion operate on suspended Will—

To ease the Heart of every wearying weight,
Wakes prurient Appetites from torpid state;
Or sends Imagination gadding round
To find gross pleasures on forbidden ground—
Decided, oft, by carnal Nature's voice,
To make mistaken, vain, or vicious choice;
And bringing home Companions to the breast,
Which rob the Conscience of accustom'd rest.

To give full exercise to all the Soul,
Some portion of that precious time he stole
From silent Morn's most salutary hours,
When rest had renovated all his pow'rs,
While morbid Minds indulg'd their sinful dreams,
O'er carnal crimes, or wicked worldly schemes;
When all the Progeny of Pomp, and Noise,
Were just retir'd from Fashion's jabbering Joys;
From foolish fulsome Scenes of Wealth, and Wit,
That make the Mind for Death and Heav'n unfit—
To seek fresh solace in the arms of Sleep,
While those who lend their luxuries work and weep,
When Riots' crews relinquish worn delight,
Urg'd thro' all hours of dear departed Night;
Now striving to discharge dull'd Nature's debt,
To lull their Conscience, or their Crimes forget;
Who with intemperance and debauchery drown'd,
Had just now finish'd their infernal round;
While those that feed their Follies wearied wake,
For graceless Lusts to toil, or gambling Stake.

Confined, in silence, he conferr'd alone
With Understanding, on his mental Throne,
Amidst Imagination's throngs of thought,
And fairy broods by procreant Fancy brought;
Reason, at his right hand, her place maintain'd,
And all her faithful groups full audience gain'd,
Whose clearest arguments would recommend
Religion's Advocate, and Virtue's Friend;
While Judgment sat and heard each honest plea,
And fix'd each Verdict with his firm Decree.

Those active Pow'rs by Passion undisturb'd,
No Bribe corrupted, and no Business curb'd;
But each ideal Image, gliding by,
March'd, in review, before his mental eye,
That false, or foul, right Judgment might reject
Or Reason plead for those that claim'd respect.
Thus recommended, he, with cautious Muse,
To entertain as Favourites, or refuse,
Selected, careful from the motley mass,
For taste to shape—clothe—educate—and class—
To group for grace, or form familiar trains,
To tell true tales, or chaunt his choicest strains.

	CHAPTER 17th. The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse