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

O'er Landskip now let Memory rest,
That, frequent, pleas'd, then pain'd, poor Crispin's breast!
Scenes, once most dear! where, still, dim vision stops,
Still charm the sight, while prompting pearly drops;
Where, with sad eyes, the Soul's keen sorrow turns,
And pours its anguish thro' those weeping urns!
A tribute poor Crispinus frequent paid,
When his fond footsteps pac'd each pensive shade;
With many a heart-felt grief, and pungent groan,
While slowly loitering round those Scenes alone.
Scenes, ever sorrowful! yet, ever sweet!
Song's first asylum! Friendship's first retreat!
Where Nature's loveliest shapes, by Shenstone's taste,
In happiest lights, and attitudes, were plac'd;
While Genius, blest! markt out Art's utmost bound,
And spread its richest captivations round!
Where simplest traits, with studied grace attir'd,
Mute Envy mourn'd, while Elegance admir'd!
Where sylvan strains, all sung in tenderest lays,
Excited sympathy, and prompted praise!
While all that Shenstone's kind attractions knew,
Confirm'd the sketch poor Crispin's pencil drew!
But ere one half the Worth, which warm'd his breast,
Were finish'd, Fate would Friendship's pen arrest;
And Death stop short the Muse's mournful strain,
While Sorrow told what Memory must retain;
For Love would prompt, and Passion, still, deplore,
Till panting pulses measur'd time no more!

There dwelt all charms while Shenstone's presence chear'd,
His Mind adduced—his Melodies endear'd—
Of all those fascinations, now, bereft,
The Spirit flown—the Body, only, left!
That Soul no longer, now, the Frame informs,
Delight awakes, or fond Affection warms—
The joys of Genius—Learning—Wit—and Sense,
With all the social Virtues vanish'd thence!
This poor Crispinus prov'd, in after-time,
When, without semblance of the simplest crime,
In those once-lov'd Domains, from Demon, felt,
With fiend-like fury by fierce Despot dealt—
A Savage! who, those lovely Scenes possess'd,
Before, by Innocence, and by Friendship, bless'd!
To all the Muses—all the Minstrels, dear!
Each Friend of Taste, of Song, and Science, near!
Now, by each virtuous Individual, view'd,
Like dreary Swamp, or dismal Solitude!
While outrag'd Crispin liked its beauties less
Than pathless plain, or woodland wilderness!
He felt astonish'd at a fate so strange—
Debarr'd about those woods, and walks, to range,
Where oft he'd calmly prowl'd with conscious pride,
And hail'd each beauty by kind Shenstone's side;
While His kind converse added new delight,
To all that caught the ear, or claim'd the sight—
But when such vile, outrageous, violence,
With savage force, had, thus, expell'd him thence,

He found his Soul despise, his Heart deplore,
The Scenes whence purest pleasures flow'd before!
Those beauteous objects, which, with Friendship join'd,
So chear'd his Senses. and so charm'd his Mind,
Now fit alone for Birds and Beasts of prey,
Or such-like furious Bands, more brutal far than they!

Hence, busy observation, wandering wide,
Where fences, fring'd, in chequer'd squares, divide
The garnish'd Landscape, in luxuriance gay,
Unfolded bright, beneath Sol's southern ray;
Beholds the Earth's best riches, spread, profuse,
For Man's enjoyment, and for Cattles' use—
The noblest births that procreant Nature breeds,
Which, while Man fosters, Heaven clothes and feeds!
Sheep—horses—oxen, animate the fields—
Fair flow'rs and fruits each home-inclosure yields—
On hills the embryo bread abundant grows,
While every vale with milk and honey flows—
One spot exempt, which heightens every grace,
Like auburn eyebrows on fair Beauty's face.
No cropless Park, or Down, or Forest, drear,
Encourage pomp, or Melancholy, here!
No Dome dismantled; field, or fence, destroy'd,
To stimulate a Lord's, or Prince's, pride!
No flocks, or herds, exchang'd for beasts of chace;
A Monarch's stigma, and a Realm's disgrace!
No wilderness where horse and hound may fly,
The Puppy's pastime, and the Madman's joy!
No tangled brakes supplant pure wheaten store—
Nor, stead of milk and honey, human gore—
Instead of cots, inclos'd, abandon'd dells—
Instead of rustic sonnets, raving yells—
Nature reduc'd to savage state agen,
Excluding culture, and expunging Men!

Will Reason sanction such a base abuse;
Which tends to mischief more than social use?
Will Wisdom warrant such preposterous plan,
Thus murd'ring Arts—uncivilizing Man?
Can mild Humanity such scheme caress,
That banishes ev'n Brutes' poor happiness?
Waste skill, and strength, with blameless blood to stain
The harmless regions of the peaceful plain?
Can generous Clemency, unyearning, hear
The cries of torment, or strong tones of fear?
Can tender Sympathy, complacent, see,
With wild convulsive motions, Meekness flee;
Or waken'd Conscience, with indifference, wink,
While dying tortures make deep Misery sink?
Can mild Morality, with ardour, glow,
While driving Innocence to depths of woe;
Or pure Religion long to persecute
The bluntest feelings of a faultless Brute,
While cruel clamour, mix'd with hostile strife,
Adds deepening horrors to departing life!

Sure sober, sensible, and manly, Mind,
By true Philosophy, and Taste, refin'd,
Devoid of moral, and religious, views,
Might more enchanting exercises chuse,
Than thus the sentimental Soul to wound,
By spreading Pain, and rude Confusion, round!
Sure Man might glean from gardens, cotts, and farms,
More chaste allurements, and more lasting charms,
Than barren blanks of undivided waste,
And roaring raptures, none but Frantics taste!
Sure mental pow'rs might find more pure employ;
More intellectual—kind—congenial—joy,
From Wisdom's virtuous volumes Truth to trace,
Than childish paroxysms that prompt the Chase—
Or in celestial tomes, of Heav'n to find
Mercy for Brutes, and blessings for Mankind!
The feeling Heart with finer transport thrills,
From scudding lambkins bleating round the hills;
From lowing kine that thro' rich valleys rove;
Or warbling love-notes fill each leafy grove—
The rustic troops engaged in gambols gay,
The ploughman's whistle, and the milkmaid's lay;
Than maddening fugitives that fright the morn,
With howling kennel, and with clamorous horn,
Proud, prancing Centaurs' two-ton'd neigh and shout,
And all the brutal Bipeds' rabble-rout!
Sure calm retirement from the thoughtless throng,
Consulting Sages, or instructive Song,
Might more sublime felicity afford,
Than noise, and nonsense, round inebriate board!

No reasoning Creature comfort feels, or sees,
In such tumultuous mobs, and tracts as these,
In folly, and fatigue to drudge all Day,
Frighting poor hind, or hare, or beast of prey!
No pensive heads, or pious hearts, delight,

In maniac din thro' Morn—or noise thro' Night—
In scrannel chorus, bawling beastly strain—
In filthy jest, or anecdote, profane—
In operose bustle, and expensive mess,
With hogs gross just indulg'd, or dogs excess—
The feverish bottle, and the frantic bowl,
That saps the Body, and that sinks the Soul—
Foul feasts to gorge the Glutton, and the Sot,
And while the Gift's ador'd, the Debt's forgot!

How different, far, delights calm Conscience guides;
Religion rules; and Deity decides—
Where Nature spreads her most propitious smiles,
And Usefulness rewards fond cares and toils—
Where Heav'n and Reason Duty's acts direct,
Nor Lust, nor Indolence, their laws neglect—
Where Intellect's refresh'd, tired Limbs are fed,
With simple beverage, and with savoury bread;
And garments grave all nervous Frames infold,
To cover nakedness, and skreen from cold;
While oil, and balm, bless'd Providence distils,
To smoothe Life's surges, and heal all its ills!
Where labouring Rustics thro' the live-long Day,
With friendly converse, gay, blest hours beguile;
Or, at more leisure moments, meekly look
To trace out truths in Heav'n's exhaustless Book—
Still, on the long'd-for sacred Sabbath-day,
God's welcome call, both morn and eve, obey—
While warm devotions, every day, begin
The condescending ear of Heav'n to win—
With joyful thanks—ejaculation calm—
Still meditation—sounding hymn, or psalm,
And solemn pray'r, the sacred evening close;
To lull the Lusts, and Passions, to repose!
Love's pious hands by Faith and Hope held up,
Bring daily Peace, to breakfast, dine, and sup!
No ghosts of murder'd mercies haunt their bed,
But Grace and Goodness fill each heart and head!
No nightly vision, with foul views, infests
The peaceful breathings of their pious breasts!
Their thoughts ne'er grope midst melancholic gloom,
Nor feel dread horrors for their future doom;
But, in each bosom, dear assurance dwells,
And sheds clear sunshine round those rustic cells;
While Conscience looking back, on hours past by,
Beholds them gilt with gleams of heavenly joy!