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

Now turn, my Muse! from Scenes with sorrow fraught,
Which dim the misty eye thro' torturing thought!
Turn to where happy Penury works, and sings,
Feeling Life's comforts clear from future stings!
Where cots bedeck the populated downs,
Or rise, in rows, completing rustic towns.
Not dark and squalid huts of dirt and straw,
Which dread some feudal Despot's griping Paw—
Not meagre habitants, whose looks, aghast,
Implore the pity of the brumal blast,
To spare their fleshless frames, and wrinkled skin;
So poorly fenc'd without, and fed within!
Who shun to plant the shrub, or foster flow'rs,
Virtuous employment of their vacant hours!
To train the fruit-tree, or to trim the fence,
Lest their unfeeling Lord should force them thence!
Avoid even lures of Love, in wedded Wife,
With all the social sympathies of Life!
The ties of wedlock, and the teeming womb,
Like Death's strong grapple, and the gaping tomb!
But where Cotts grow, that boast superior grace,
To charm their occupants, and chear the place—
With stable bricks, and crimson coverings, neat;
For labour, and for love fair mansions, meet
With well-clos'd doors, and windows clear, and warm,
To skreen the tenant and controul the storm.

Environ'd with rich vegetation round;
Gay orchard growths, and garden's manag'd ground—
While numerous offsprings, healthy, comely, clean,
Add chearful feelings to the chequer'd Scene;
And all these calm delights, much more endear'd,
From injuries never felt, or dangers fear'd!

Such are the sights that glad those parcell'd plains,
Where fair Philanthropy, with Prudence, reigns;
And sweet Urbanity benignant smiles,
Endearing every Rustic's cares, and toils!
Where Industry erects its honour'd head,
And fondly sees full population spread!
Kind christian Charity's pure strength, restor'd
Bids rigid Justice sheathe her threatening sword,
While genuine Patriotism, by practice shown,
Expels each Despot from tyrannic throne;
And marking energies, with Hopes, increase,
Promotes its progress, and partakes its peace!

If He deserves the Patriot's noble name,
Enroll'd in leaves of literary fame,
Whose toils, advancing vegetable store,
Makes two bents flourish where one starv'd before;
How much more He who plants the steril plain,
With fruitful gardens, and rich fields of grain?
And, still increasing genuine social joys,
Makes pleasing domes, and happy hamlets, rise!
But to His merits, rare, Mankind should raise
All arts of eloquence, pronouncing praise;
With all the charms of chissel—pencil—pen—
Who fills the Wastes of Earth with useful Men!
Not sordid Sensualists, whom Lust depraves,
Who live like beasts, and glut untimely graves;
Or plants that perish on their native spot,
That feed on filth, and, when once gone, forgot—
Nor idle drones, who ne'er, by labour, strive
To bring pure wax, or honey, to the hive;
But such as exercise both frame and mind,
To benefit their Kin, and bless their Kind!
Whose waken'd Conscience, asking Heav'n's controul,
See the vast value of the human Soul;
And, finding sweet, celestial bliss begin,
When Grace has gain'd some conquests over Sin:
Still find that holy happiness enlarge,
As piety fulfils her faithful charge!
Who strive to banish Pride, with deep disgust,
And subjugate each base, and brutish, Lust,
With each gross Passion, whose intemperance glows,
To anger God, or injure Friends, or Foes!
But while their bosoms fan Love's holy flame,
Still wish, and work, to make all Souls the same!
Such is the Scene which, here, my Muse describes—
Such the pursuits of those Plebeian tribes—
Whoever marks the spot, and minds the plan,
Must laud such measures, and admire such Man—
And, seeing all the signatures agree,
Ne'er doubts but noble Dartmouth must be He!

But Thou, just Reader! judge not Nature's Bard
Thus labour'd to engage high Birth's regard—
Thus complimented Power, or courted Place,
From recent member of the titled Race—
It formed no part of mine or Crispin's hopes
To wheedle Wealth with Flatt'ry's fulsome tropes—
Nor praise withold thro' Envy, Pride, or Spite,
Where every christian Grace might yield delight.
Nor Crispin, or his Friend, can ever fear,
The Critic's groundless accusation here;
To neither were His face, or favour, shown,
His virtues, and his talents, all unknown—
Nor could e'er come, within my Muse's view
The smallest profit, or some friendships new;
For, like the noble Friends Love nam'd before,
Dartmouth, with Ward and Lyttleton's, no more!