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

Thus twice six Years he sat, and thought, or toil'd,
While Providence, alternate, frown'd or smil'd.
Sometimes appear'd his labouring pow'rs to bless;
And, sometimes, seem'd to cross his hoped success,
But only seem'd, for oft the barren Scene
Soon wore a flowery garb, or livery green;
And fruit would sometimes flourish; sometimes fall;
But God still gave a Competence to all!
Both food and raiment, reasonable store;
His wants were few—His Family's not more—
For all those wicked wants were set aside
That flow from Fancy—Fashion—Lust, and Pride!
They never urg'd on Heav'n one impious pray'r
That they without God's Will more gifts might share;
But as Christ's word was pledg'd to clothe, and feed,
They patiently repress'd each needless Need;
While humble Hearts, and happy Spirits, felt
The gracious discipline His Gospel dealt—
And thus they liv'd by Faith, and not by Sight,
Experiencing, each Day, some sweet delight!

Crispin, aforetime, in afflicted State,
Remote from Offspring, and his hapless Mate,
With persecuted—anxious—aching—heart,
While struck with strong emotions, plann'd as part
Of what his melancholic Muse design'd,
And since atchiev'd, to chear his murm'ring Mind!

Beneath God's provident inspection, then,
With conscious awe still exercis'd his Pen,
Regarding little what weak Man might say
Of Him—his Conduct—Life—or honest Lay—
And, still, impress'd with His pure presence, now,
Felt all his faculties, implicit, bow,
With warm Affection's ever-gracious glow,
The knowledge of His righteous Will to know,
And see, thus subject to that Holy Sight
Designs, and sentiments, might both be right—
Besought His Spirit ever would inspire
What Truth should tell, and Reason ought require;
And pray'd no fouler Influence might pervert
His Muse—Tongue—Purpose—Pen—to others hurt.

He never meant the curious Mind to stir
By what frail Nature loves, and Fools prefer—
What every unregenerate heart enjoys—
That Malice hopes, but purer Minds despise—
To see a Brother's, or a Sister's, Throne
Pull'd down, to add a Story to its own—
To feel the gross delight Self-preference gives
When some Superior's Fame no longer lives—
The spiteful pleasure Self-applause may yield
When conquer'd Rivals fly the hostile field.
These form'd no part of Crispin's pure design,
Nor e'er suggested one ungracious line;
But just to vindicate his virtuous Cause—
In pure support of Heav'n's most holy Laws—
And, that the moral project might produce
Among Mankind, some cautionary Use;
To scout some foible; some base fault correct—
And rectify, or cure, some gross neglect;
By sketching out a crude, but pious Plan,
For honouring God, and moralizing Man.

Full well his Soul by sad experience, knew
What Evils, in his Heart, spontaneous, grew;
And by their natural maxims urg'd the Mind
To shake off all the claims of Human kind;
While disappointed Pride with Passion swells,
Till ev'n against its God the Will rebels;
Like that infernal Imp, for ever curst!
Whose subtle Art seduc'd frail Man at first!
How mortified Self-Love's fierce Anger grows
Against impeaching Friends, and spiteful Foes!
How vile Revenge, and sullen Envy, lurk,
To carry on, unseen their sinful work!
How Self-Conceit will fancied Worth enlarge,
And Prejudices cheat, with specious charge,
While Passion's mists, enveloping the Mind,
Make Reason blunder, and the Judgment blind!

Still more, by errless Revelation taught
How evil Demons influence human thought—
Subjoin each selfish feeling, to suggest
How foul, and frequent, Ingrates have transgrest;
Exciting Passion, permanent, and strong,
To urge revenge for every fancied wrong—
While kindling up fell Doubts, and foul Desires,
To hide Heav'n's light with fumes from hellish Fires—
Labouring to blast all Influence from above,
And put out every spark of heavenly Love!

Where is the Sceptic who will, proudly, dare
To argue no such Influences are?

Boldly obliterate all the hellish list
And say such peccant Spirits ne'er exist?
Such doubts must Infidels themselves condemn
For crimes, which Christians would ascribe to Them:
For which of all the unbelieving Brood
Will urge his acts, and aims, are always good?
Or, with a mad audacity, maintain
His heart—words—actions—stand without a stain.
Did Passion, Lust, or Pride, ne'er once betray
To wander in some wild, or devious way?
Did Fancy ne'er in Folly, Whim, or Fun,
Excite some Deeds which Wisdom wish'd undone?
Did Will ne'er yield, thro' Envy, Pride, or Spite,
To aim—scheme—act—what Reason thought not right?
Ne'er work upon the tongue to speak one Word
That Sense found sinful—silly—or absurd?
Ne'er, in the Soul, one sordid Wish arise,
That Conscience might in calmer hour despise?
Imagination ne'er Desire indulge
That genuine Judgment never durst divulge?
Or black and blasphemous Idea start,
That, instant, terrified and tore the Heart?
While every fibre, in the trembling Frame,
With horror shook, and felt Hell's shriv'lling Flame!

Whence do these vicious, vile, Affections flow?
From filthy Self, or from black Fiends below?
Or whence those foul, profane, Ideas rise
From Man's own bosom? or do Imps devise?
If such abominable mischiefs be
With all Men's Minds, in measure, or degree;
Then each must find itself a Knave, or Fool,
Or impure Spirits' unresisting Tool.
If their curs'd Influence is construed void,
Man's faults must flow from Passions—Lusts—or Pride—
And each convict Himself of every Crime
Conceiv'd, or acted, thro' his course of Time,

Such vile Affections—such accursed thought
Were oft on Crispin's Frame, or Fancy wrought;
Prompting to wanton Word, or devilish deed,
Which made his eye-lids melt, his bosom bleed:
But when foul Wish, or fiery dart, was felt,
Before Heav'n's Mercy-seat he humbly knelt,
To plead for pardon thro' that Advocate,
On whom hung present peace, and future fate!

He knew that every hour's experience, blest,
Each happy thought that thrill'd the bounding breast;
Each wiser wish, and moral Mind's desire,
Which warm'd his feelings with celestial fire;
With every prospect, every hope, sublime,
That rais'd his heart above both Sense and Time;
Must from the Source of happiness descend
The Spirit of his Father—Lord and Friend!

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