The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse (1735-1820): Edited by the Rev. R. I. Woodhouse |
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CHAPTER 17th.
The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse |  |
Tho' Crispin, thus, with Tyrants dar'd contend,
Obedient Order still found him a Friend;
For while he strove each Duty to fulfil
He urg'd pure Order—Truth, and Justice, still.
Tho' lawless strife he labour'd to restrain,
Yet judg'd consistent Christians might complain—
And whether Property were more, or less,
Ought use all fair endeavour for redress—
Not mov'd by foolish fear, or ignorant ruth,
To sacrifice the cause of sacred Truth;
Or so blind Bigots superstition trust,
Injustice dreading, to become unjust;
For all who at injustice dare connive
Conspire to keep improper Pow'rs alive!
Obedient Order still found him a Friend;
For while he strove each Duty to fulfil
He urg'd pure Order—Truth, and Justice, still.
Tho' lawless strife he labour'd to restrain,
Yet judg'd consistent Christians might complain—
And whether Property were more, or less,
Ought use all fair endeavour for redress—
Not mov'd by foolish fear, or ignorant ruth,
To sacrifice the cause of sacred Truth;
Or so blind Bigots superstition trust,
Injustice dreading, to become unjust;
For all who at injustice dare connive
Conspire to keep improper Pow'rs alive!
Judge not so false, ye foolish, jealous, Great!
Who hold all posts and profits of the State,
And all its honours—influence—pow'r—enjoy,
He ne'er look'd on You with envious Eye!
Think not he wish'd his Name to Millions known,
Or long'd to twinkle near a Tyrant's Throne!
Deem not he grudg'd your Grandeur—Pay—or Pow'r,
Ye gaudy Dolls that dance your idle hour!
Or grudg'd you greedy Pensions—Pomp—or Place—
True Christian's hatred—Honesty's disgrace!
Believe me, One who best his bosom knew,
He saw no Sycophant with Rival's View—
His Heart would scorn to take the proudest Posts,
Among the Slaves which form such servile Hosts;
Who worship frequent round a Fellow-Clod,
With adorations only due to God!
Who hold all posts and profits of the State,
And all its honours—influence—pow'r—enjoy,
He ne'er look'd on You with envious Eye!
Think not he wish'd his Name to Millions known,
Or long'd to twinkle near a Tyrant's Throne!
Deem not he grudg'd your Grandeur—Pay—or Pow'r,
Ye gaudy Dolls that dance your idle hour!
Or grudg'd you greedy Pensions—Pomp—or Place—
True Christian's hatred—Honesty's disgrace!
Believe me, One who best his bosom knew,
He saw no Sycophant with Rival's View—
His Heart would scorn to take the proudest Posts,
Among the Slaves which form such servile Hosts;
Who worship frequent round a Fellow-Clod,
With adorations only due to God!
Why should He envy? He who felt no wish
For prouder dwelling, or more pampering dish!
For crowds of Slaves, or Sycophant's caress!
Fantastic Equipage, or costlier Dress!
For mad Amusements—or expensive Sports—
False Pander's praise—or compliments at Courts!
For prouder dwelling, or more pampering dish!
For crowds of Slaves, or Sycophant's caress!
Fantastic Equipage, or costlier Dress!
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False Pander's praise—or compliments at Courts!
One who must soon be number'd with the Dead,
Hath little here to hope, and less to dread!
He wants but little this World's wealth can buy,
Its Power protect, or Despotism destroy!
The greatest stretch its Tyranny can go,
Is temporal persecution, want, and woe;
And, at the last, with arbitrary Will,
The faded Frame with cruelty to kill—
But when, beneath its doom, the Body drops,
All want, and woe, with persecution, stops!
Oppression's pow'r, in action, or in speech,
No more pure, disembodied Spirit, reach;
It still may champ the bit, and madly chafe,
Dead christian Poors' departed Souls are safe!
Hath little here to hope, and less to dread!
He wants but little this World's wealth can buy,
Its Power protect, or Despotism destroy!
The greatest stretch its Tyranny can go,
Is temporal persecution, want, and woe;
And, at the last, with arbitrary Will,
The faded Frame with cruelty to kill—
But when, beneath its doom, the Body drops,
All want, and woe, with persecution, stops!
Oppression's pow'r, in action, or in speech,
No more pure, disembodied Spirit, reach;
It still may champ the bit, and madly chafe,
Dead christian Poors' departed Souls are safe!
Why should His humbled Mind with Envy mourn,
While viewing Vice, tho' in bright Chariot borne?
Mere groveling Miserables! Great misnamed!
Alone for Lust—Pomp—Pride—and Falshood, fam'd!
All, weighing well their Pow'r, and temporal State,
Must mark their Fruits and judge their future Fate!
Yea, ev'n their present shame shall plainly show
They're not much blest 'mid bounteous lots, below;
For their foul conduct, every day declares
His thriftless lot is happier far than Theirs.
His pardon'd Crimes, and peaceful Conscience, now,
Had calm'd his breast, and smooth'd his tranquil brow;
And tho' subjected, still, to changes, here,
Heav'n banish'd from his Heart all slavish fear—
O'er fairer prospects Faith, with Hope, would roam,
And Love still look'd to find her happier Home;
While Christ's blest Spirit spoke, with whispering breath,
A Destiny far different after Death!
While viewing Vice, tho' in bright Chariot borne?
Mere groveling Miserables! Great misnamed!
Alone for Lust—Pomp—Pride—and Falshood, fam'd!
All, weighing well their Pow'r, and temporal State,
Must mark their Fruits and judge their future Fate!
Yea, ev'n their present shame shall plainly show
They're not much blest 'mid bounteous lots, below;
For their foul conduct, every day declares
His thriftless lot is happier far than Theirs.
His pardon'd Crimes, and peaceful Conscience, now,
Had calm'd his breast, and smooth'd his tranquil brow;
And tho' subjected, still, to changes, here,
Heav'n banish'd from his Heart all slavish fear—
O'er fairer prospects Faith, with Hope, would roam,
And Love still look'd to find her happier Home;
While Christ's blest Spirit spoke, with whispering breath,
A Destiny far different after Death!
Their graceless, gross, pursuits, all plainly tell
They're framing Souls and Bodies both for Hell;
While by false bustle, and confusion's shown,
Their Souls would grieve to live with God alone!
Each sordid, selfish, mad, Amusements sought
To thrust His presence from their painful Thought.
Their Hearts, tho' hard, thro' Habit, still believe
His eye surveys whate'er their Souls conceive;
While their unwilling Minds discover, clear,
What rank Abominations harbour there!
Through each wild Babel-Scene the Body's steer'd,
Lest calls of whispering Conscience should be heard;
Or louder cries should short-lived blessings blast,
Proclaiming Crimes thro' all their Conduct past.
They're framing Souls and Bodies both for Hell;
While by false bustle, and confusion's shown,
Their Souls would grieve to live with God alone!
Each sordid, selfish, mad, Amusements sought
To thrust His presence from their painful Thought.
Their Hearts, tho' hard, thro' Habit, still believe
His eye surveys whate'er their Souls conceive;
While their unwilling Minds discover, clear,
What rank Abominations harbour there!
Through each wild Babel-Scene the Body's steer'd,
Lest calls of whispering Conscience should be heard;
Or louder cries should short-lived blessings blast,
Proclaiming Crimes thro' all their Conduct past.
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CHAPTER 17th.
The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse | |