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!