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

First beauteous Nature caught Crispinus' view,
While Time was young, and all the World was new!
When, every day, both Health, and Hope, endear'd;
The present happy, nor the future fear'd!
No troubles Conscience posed—no Cares perplex'd!
By Want unwounded, and by Vice unvex'd;
No saddening sorrow, Shame, or Misery, shed!
No fell Misfortune rear'd its hydra head!
Each Morn was mirthful, and each Eve serene,
While eager wonder eyed the chequer'd Scene!

Long thro' the World, his untaught Spirit stray'd,
And, fond, its vast Phenomena survey'd.
Astonish'd Reason, led by simple Sense,
Could only draw crude arguments from thence.
He ponder'd o'er the Parts, and weigh'd the Whole—
Saw Matter mov'd, but saw no moving Soul.
In countless forms, and colours, Beauty view'd,
But found no hand that fashion'd, or renew'd.
Found proud Philosophy, with tindery spark,
Tried to instruct—but blunder'd in the dark.
Till Israel's Chief, with Inspiration's pen,
Inform'd such poor Pretenders, how, and when,
Earth's fabric first was built, and Time began,
With both high prime Progenitors of Man—
While Fellow-Scribes, with like-dictated strains,
Removing more of Nature's dim remains,
Their pens all dipp'd in Heav'n's ascending Sun,
Drew radiant types to tell why all was done!
That Sun, which, darting wide its golden gleams,
Dispels dead sleep, dissolves all idle dreams,
Illum'd our Hero's intellectual part;
Diffus'd kind influence thro' his kindling heart;
And while he felt the warmth that wak'd his Mind,
He traced that God in all those Works enshrin'd!
Look'd, with a keen, and scrutinizing, eye,
O'er magic miracles of Earth and Sky;

And, while he mark'd Pow'r—Wisdom—Goodness—Love—
In all the Objects round—below—above—
Found his fond heart with pure Ambition burn
To trace those truths dull Idlers loath to learn,
And grateful glow to make some true return!

DEPRECATION.

Scoff not, proud Critics! while I note this Youth,
This Child of Song, Simplicity, and Truth!
Nor mock, rash Muses! while my artless Rhyme,
Declares the schemes and practice of his prime;
Who ne'er fair Morals, or Religion, flew,
But honour'd God, and gave Mankind their due!
May not the Swain, who, slides thro' noiseless Life,
Remote from fame and flattery, trick and strife,
Pattern more pure, more useful facts, display,
Than Kings who scourge the World with sovereign sway?
Statesmen, whose Systems base, and Spirits blind,
Thro' Pride, and Passion, ruin half Mankind?
Or Heroes, who both Mind, and Might debase,
By murdering millions of the human race?
More Piety than impious, proud High-priests,
Who look like Cherubs, but who live like Beasts?
Teach others how to live, and how to die,
But act, themselves, as tho' 'twere all a lie!
May not his Penury purer lessons give,
Than Wealth, which scarce on kingly Incomes live?
Than courtly Commoner, or pension'd Peer,
Who pinch on twenty thousand pounds a Year!
Who, ruin'd by their Pride, and Lust, and Sport,
Become base Beggars, cringing round a Court?
How much more noble are those honest Clowns
Who court not Mortals' smiles, nor fear their frowns;
But, with clear converse, prompt examples, pure,
Convince by Virtue, and with Love allure!

Vast are the views, and complex are the schemes,
O'er which the Monarch ruminates, or dreams;
Who, frequent led by false, politic, plan,
Mocks Majesty supreme, and purjures Man;
Reckless of Reason's, and Religion's, ties,
And that omniscient Spirit's piercing eyes,
Who sees all pondering thoughts, and secret pacts,
Clear as Lust's hints, or Pride's and Passion's acts;
And turns them by His Pow'r, with perfect ease,
To execute His Will's all-wise decrees!
These, in His hands, but providential tools,
To counteract, and manage, Knaves, and Fools,
By rendering Vice and Virtue both their due—
But, in Life's schools, are kingly Scholars few.
Among that few where can a Christian find
One real Friend, and Patron, of Mankind?
Who seeks not sordid interest's fruit alone,
A larger Revenue, or a loftier Throne?
Who dares not Rights, and Liberties, devour,
By stretch of Privilege, or strain of Pow'r?
But, greedy, grasping Influence, Pomp, or Pelf,
Regards no Gain which centers not in Self!
Where's the just Prince whose virtuous View extends
O'er mix'd Communities for upright ends?
Who holds the Balance, and the threat'ning Blade,
O'er complicated Commerce, Toil, and Trade,
Adjusting each well-pois'd and equal scale,
Nor lets lov'd weight of Wealth, or Pow'r, prevail?
But makes the vengeful steel, unvaried, strike,
Unequal Culprits, when their crimes are like.
Whose thoughtful Mind surveys the mingled Throng,
To patronize what's right—repress what's wrong—
Selecting Merit from the motley Host,
That moral Worth may win superior Post;
And Piety obtain the noblest Place,
While Vice and Folly suffer due disgrace!
That Sovereign, vile! who dares these Rules reverse,
Deserves his bleeding Country's bitterest curse!
How much more princely is the poorest Swain,
Who plies his Craft, or cultivates the Plain;
Who, prompt in every duty, Vice decries,
Shines more sublime in Saint's, or Angel's, eyes;
At once becoming, on the Bible's plan,
His Maker's Fav'rite, and the Friend of Man!
If one wise Monarch now such Plan pursue,
Adoring God, and giving Man his due;
Feeling his heart from every crime recoil
He must be sought on Britain's blessed Soil!
Or sought in secret by true prophetic Seers,
In Russia's, or in Prussia's, crown'd Compeers.

The pond'rous tasks proud Statesmen must profess,
Have difficulties, like scarce dangers less,
Important cares their prompt attentions claim;
Occult their Calling—fatal loss of Fame!
Their pow'r portentous to each sovereign State,

While, from their frailties, millions meet their fate!
But, like their Masters, should their tyrant sway
Oppress the People, or true rights betray,
Stern Conscience will condemn, some future hour,
Such base abuses of perverted Pow'r!
But should their feelings from such scourge escape,
With all Life's ills in every varied shape,
Yet Death will come, when strong remorse must sting
Immoral Minister, and cruel King!
And both with envy look on landless Boor,
Obscure, but moral—pure, tho' mean and poor—
By Heaven blest beneath his lowly lot,
His quiet Conscience, and his tranquil Cot;
The King of Kings his Father and his Friend,
With trust for fuller bliss, when Life's short Bustles end!

An Hero's occupations more conduce
To social happiness, and civil use,
Than agricultural, and mechanic, skill—
That build the House, and beautify the Hill—
That plant the Garden—irrigate the Plain—
Rear flow'rs and fruits—rich grass, and varied grain—
Man, free from guilt of guile, and fraud, and Strife,
Feels countless comforts, thro' the lapse of Life.
Are Earth's inhabitants more highly bless'd,
Where falsely honour'd War's fam'd Arts' profess'd?
Where every blood-drench'd space lies, deeply spread
With crowds of dying, or corrupting Dead?
Than where fair herds and flocks the heights adorn,
The dell's deep herbage, hill's wide-waving corn?
Are landscapes lovelier, to the well-taught eye,
Where hamlets flame, and trembling tenants fly,
Than where the cottage stands, with garlands crown'd
And happy groups play, laugh, and sing, around?
Or sounding weapons, of that Art, austere,
More pleasing to the heart, or polish'd ear,
Than instruments, and thrifty tools, which tend
To further every good, and graceful, end?
Where skill contrives, and all hands execute
What raises reasoning Man above the Brute?

The Art of War, oh! what a hellish Art!
Where Men and Demons act their compound part!
A Fiend begot by Lust, and borne by Pride;
Who cuts the Gordian knot which Heav'n hath tied.
Parent of Terror—Poverty—and Pain!
By Satan taught—his pristine pupil, Cain.
Thence, thro' each Age and Clime, the College grew,
The Ushers many—Masters not a few—
But the base Pupils who that Art profess,
That cruel, cursed, Art! are numberless!
Lightning and thunder make its tenets known,
Engrav'd with steel, on tablets form'd of stone.
Proclaim'd with trumpets—earthquakes—hideous yell,
By Furies, here, and echoed back by Hell!
Confirm'd with shrieks, and groans, and sobbing sighs,
Which curse the Conquerors, and impeach the Skies!
Earth's vast-extended volume, wide unfurl'd,
Displays terrific types throughout the World!
O'er plain, and hill, o'er forest, field, and flood;
Both page, and rubric notes, impress'd with blood!
Which, while the startled eye, with trembling, reads,
The sympathetic bosom throbs and bleeds—
And, while, by fire, both cells and cities, fall,
Dismay and misery fill the frighted Ball!

The Priests' fraternal Duties, deviate, far
From peccant wiles, and practices, of War,
Tho' their true studies, and calm labours, climb,
Beyond base objects both of Sense and Time;
And, promptly plied, must constantly increase
The blissful boons of Plenty and of Peace!
Nor ought their heart the Peasantry despise,
Whose skill and labour yield their temporal joys,
But all their efforts, fair, directed right,
Show Man must live by Faith and not by Sight!
That principles of Faith, and Hope, and Love,
Will value nothing, here, like bliss above!
Still, numbers, by sham practice, plainly show,
They only look, and long, for things below!
From both, the Muse must this fair inference draw.
They're like the Figs the Jewish Seer saw—
Furnish'd with first-ripe fruit, one basket stood,
Such as each perfect gout pronounces good;
The other, seen, discov'ring sad reverse,
The filthiest fruits on Earth were never worse!

Ah! might the Christian compact stand express'd,
With full effect, in every human breast,
Then would be useless, Chief's, and Statesman's, toils—
Imperial statutes, and Satanic wiles—
The Pulpit's loose harangue—religious jar—
With cramp discussions of the Bench, or Bar!
No longer, then, would Kings behold, with scorn.
Unscepter'd Brethren, tho' in Stables born.
No longer Courtiers flout, or Warriors frown,

O'er tax-press'd Tradesman, or pacific Clown.
Proud Peers, or classic Scholars, mock no more,
Untitled Yeoman, or unletter'd Boor.
No more sleek Merchant, in high Mansion swell,
O'er the poor Peasant in his sordid Cell.
No Priests impeach the Dupes of different Creed,
Or laugh at Bigots while they blindly lead—
For mere Opinion—speculative turn,
Their fellow-Sinners banish, hang, or burn;
Nor one keen Advocate, in Fraud's defence,
Plead hard for Vice—or pocket Villain's pence,
But let pure Justice, Truth, and Virtue, stand,
The heavenly Rulers in each happy Land!

See unassuming Swains, with thought, and toil,
Inclose the waste, and drain the sedgy soil—
Slit the tough sward, and cleave the fallow clod—
The garden pulverize, and dress the sod—
Ply useful Arts—inform the infant Mind—
Feed—clothe—adorn—and meliorate Mankind—
To God, and Man, all dues, and duties, pay,
Serving their Generation, day by day!
These—then, are they, whose right examples reach
Beyond what Kings decree, or Prelates preach—
Tho' far remov'd from where proud Princes shine—
Or Priests who press Man's orders as divine—
Below where Magistrates, or Heroes stand,
To guard, or grieve; to save, or sink a Land—
Still far above all Peers' and Monarchs' claims
Not founded on Desert, but built on fictious Names.

Such imitable Patterns all belong
To the mix'd myriads that compose the Throng;
Whose Maxims, Morals, and Religion, lie
On the broad level of the general eye—
Where every head, and every heart, agree,
“Their sphere is mine—Their conduct calls on Me.”

Hear then, ye sister Nymphs! and brother Swains!
Who ornament the hills, and group the plains;
Accept my Song! attend my tale as true,
For what a fellow felt may hap to You!
But, oh! Ye Sons, and Daughters, of the Earth,
Whose merits rest, alone, on boasted Birth!
On Fame, or Influence—Gold, or idle Gaud;
(Each filch'd, perhaps, by Impudence, or Fraud.)
Which none but Fools admire, and Fops applaud!

Ye Self-supposed! Ye King-created, Great!
Worshipp'd for wealth—or titled for Estate.
Whose proud Pre-eminence erects its rights
On empty Honours, and mere Sounds, or Sights!
Frail, fragile Temples! painted, gemm'd, and gilt;
On mocking clouds, with borrow'd moonbeams built!
Whose haughty Tenants labour to degrade,
Industrious Peasants, and poor Imps of Trade;
While they their haughty heads imperious, raise,
As tho' mere Pride, and Pomp, might merit praise!
Seem just descended to this wond'ring World,
With shining plumes, and pinions full, unfurl'd,
With Angel features, forms, and god-like Grace,
To show Us, Creatures of a diff'rent Race!
But what does genuine Wisdom see, and hear,
When such assuming Sprites on Earth appear?
See! but frail Meteors flit, in mock parade!
Bright Rainbows, melt! fleet lunar halos, fade!
Or painted pictures, which, successive, pass,
Like gaudy shapes, pourtray'd on Showman's glass!
A mimic series of unmeaning Sounds,
Dancing, like Atoms, in their airy rounds!
Kings, and their Courtiers, arrogant, and proud!
But Morn's vain Vision—or Eve's colour'd Cloud!
Fashion's gay Children! grosser Fools of Fun!
Round Vice's rapid vortex rashly run,
A moment's masquerade—in keen career—
Then drop in Death's deep gulph, from all held dear—
And instant go—no human Mind knows where!

Ye, who lay house to house, and field to field,
And claim each mite your manag'd acres yield—
Those hard-earn'd fruits all shamelessly consum'd,
That Pride may vaunt, and Vanity be plum'd!
Destroy'd in hunting after loose delights,
Still pampering cloy'd, yet craving, Appetites—
In gross amusements of the graceless Gay,
With mirth and madness wanton'd all away;
Or the vain treasures covetously stor'd,
As golden Idols, more than God ador'd!
Not one doit dropp'd from all the mass, immense!
A loan to Heav'n in aid of Indigence!
Wretches! whose harden'd Habit ne'er attends,
When Want, with strong petition, bows and bends;
But shut their eyes, and turn their heedless ears,
When Misery moans, or Grief distils her tears!
Whose Pow'rs with Pity's conflicts never strove
With kind Compassion supp'd, or lodg'd with Love!
No plaintive Strain such Spirits wake, or stir!

No tender tale e'er make such Souls demur!
No Ditty move, nor melancholy Dirge—
No Lampoon, Libel, or satyric Scourge—
Nor flattering Ode, nor sweet Epistle, serves,
To rouze their Hearts, or thrill their senseless Nerves—
Their booby Minds unmov'd by Sense, or sound,
When Flattery fain would please, or Wit would wound—
In vain pure Pathos labours to create
Kind sympathy for Fellow-creature's fate!

Begone, ye Profligates! ye proud! ye vain!
With all the sordid, silly, trifling, Train!
No rythmic Numbers, here, I tune for You;
I chaunt, alone, to charm the favour'd Few,
Whose warm, and feeling, bosoms, bask, or freeze,
In Joy's bright sunshine, or bleak Sorrow's breeze!
Hearts, whose best energies, elastic, bound
To seek the cell where Want and Woe are found!
Whose waxen Hearts with warm emotion melt,
While Bounty blesses where Affection feels!
Fix'd in the focal gleams of that great Light,
That rules all realms of Nature, day and night!
Nor only governs mere material parts,
But thro' all Intellect full influence darts!
Not flickering flames, like Passion, Lust, and Pride,
Which twist Simplicity, and Truth, aside;
Impressing spurious hopes, with fickle fire;
Which Pilgrims tempt to snares, then, soon expire!
Not Ostentation's self-absorbing rays,
Where light-wing'd Moths whirl round each worshipt blaze—
Not glow-worm Vanity's poor, glimmering, spark,
That lights its lamp to show the World it's dark—
Nor hypocritic glare, like phosphor, glows,
Stinks, quick, or dead, but no bless'd heat bestows—
But those bright beams, descending from above,
That light up all things with the warmth of Love!
That constant Sunshine which irradiates Thee,
Thou sky-born Beauty, fair Philanthropy!
How different earth-begotten Passions shine,
Celestial Paragon! compared with Thine!
Different as Lightning's instantaneous gleams,
Compared with unabated solar beams.
Thy fadeless charms in Form—Face—Mind—endure,
Of perfect mould; and, like thy Maker's, pure!
Thy unaffected air, and modest mien—
Thy placid cheek, closed lips, and eye serene—
Thy candid judgment, sprung from purest thoughts,
Applauding Worth, and pardoning Nature's faults—
Disinterested deed, and right intent,
Declare true dignity, and sky-descent!
How much unlike the cunning, courtly, Elves,
Whose drift still tends to heighten idol Selves!
Concealment, or deceit, each hour employs
Their loom of Life, in tissues wove with Lies!
Each plan so doubtful, and each plot so deep,
Experience, thro' them, scarce procures a peep—
Their constant study, and labourious task,
Still painting, and applying, Merit's mask,
To outwit Wisdom, cozen sober Sense,
With works resembling sweet Benevolence!
Thus, wearying Reason with bewildering themes,
Fantastic projects, and confusing schemes!
Still mimicking Sincerity's most simple smile,
To cloak deception, and their dupes beguile;
Or, with Art's mocking vizors aim, in vain,
To look like true Religion, pure, and plain!
But She, beauteous Maid, so blest, meek, and mild!
Her manners, when mature, a modest Child!
Like fair Philanthropy, her Sister bright!
Chears every Soul, while charming every Sight—
Engaging all with soft, symmetric grace;
Like Fancy's efforts figuring Seraph's face!
Celestial Twins! their visage needs no veil—
Their breasts no cloak—no Crimes their Souls conceal!
Each thought transparent—lucid every look—
Illum'd by Heav'n's much-reprobated Book!
Each Votaries heart Faith fills with rapturing joys,
While Christ's pure Spirit all its truths applies!
Infixing, firm, Hope's anchor in the Soul,
With Love, the Lusts and Appetites controul—
Those truths, which Ignorance, while it runs, may read,
And regulate each thought, and word, and deed.
Encouraging those gracious thoughts, alone,
That spring from holy seeds, which Heav'n hath sown,
That shoot in words, like fairest leaves and flow'rs,
With fruits of deeds bestow'd in bounteous dow'rs!
Ne'er wasting Wealth in glittering useless glare,
To make Fops flatter, while the Stupid stare!
Nor squandering Coin in wasteful festive cheer,
Exciting Envy in each proud Compeer!
Not offering loans for ostentatious ends,
To gain false glory from gross-flattering Friends;

Nor tendering trifles with insidious aim,
To boast a Benefactor's generous Name!
From scatter'd handfuls hope large crops to reap,
The scheme declared—“To purchase Heav'n cheap!”
Ne'er, 'mid applauding trains, superbly, stand,
Small alms in this—large trump in t'other hand;
With swelling blast, in every ear, to say
How well their Souls the Saviour's laws obey;
That Ostentation may all Heav'n's honours win
While Wisdom deems the whole Self-love, and Sin!
Not so those Sisters form their social plan,
But honouring God, while benefiting Man!
All Pride and Self-idolatry to shun,
Their left-hand knows not what the right hath done!
They never vainly lend their venal pelf,
By serving Others doubly-serving Self—
Ne'er deal out meagre broth, with mammock'd bread,
That Vanity may vaunt, while Famine's fed!
Ne'er spread out public Benefits abroad,
That Mobs may echo back what Dupes applaud!
Ne'er look to graceless Man for frail regard,
Or claim, from Heav'n, their well-deserv'd reward;
But, with their kind Redeemer's Grace content,
Repay, in part, what His blest Boons have lent!
By Love constrain'd, with Love each bosom burns,
And sighs, and sorrows o'er such small returns!
Bend humble beggars, at their Master's feet,
Nor dread repulse—nor meditate retreat!
Expecting sure support from Mercy's store,
And groan, and grieve, they love their Lord no more!
They own His Love, and Pow'r, their all supply;
Would, for His honour live—His glory die—
But, still unable meet returns to make,
Love all His Friends, and Brethren, for His sake!
Would fain full proofs of love on Him bestow,
The whole of what they are—and have—and know!
Heav'n's gifts and graces, tho' on Earth confin'd,
They'd gladly light the lamps of all Mankind!
Would promptly bring to Heav'n their best appeal,
That all might find the bliss their bosoms feel!
Thus blest Benevolence, with kindling Love,
Would spread the bliss she borrows from above!
With kindling countenance, and wishes warm,
Much more she longs, and labours, to perform;
While Piety, and Wisdom, still prefer,
Those Themes which Duty dedicate to Her;
And when kind lays to sacred Love belong,
Heav'n's imprimatur stamps the simplest Song!

GENERAL OBSERVATIONS AND DESCRIPTIONS.

Now let my Numbers faithfully recite
The toilsome workings of this tuneful Wight!
Tell how corporeal, wrought by mental, pow'rs,
Fulfill'd their offices, in future hours;
For soon Necessity, and Reason, show'd
The obvious drawings of his destin'd road.

He was not form'd at that high-favour'd time,
When Plenty sported gay in golden prime—
When feasts were shower'd on Luxury and Sloth,
From Ground's abundance of spontaneous growth;
But in that harsh—degenerate—iron Age,
Whose wants all knowledge, and all nerve, engage—
Nor was he nurs'd in that delightsome Land,
Where Nature's Hords are fed by Nature's hand;
But where Man's faculties must all he stirr'd,
Or feel the curse his fatal fall incurr'd.
Not bred by Parents, who, with Wealth immense,
Could satiate every call of Soul and Sense—
Indulge wild Whim, till, weeping o'er the store,
It loath'd that Life where Novelty's no more—
While each capricious lust invents in vain,
Till rest feels wretchedness, and pleasure, pain—
Not yielding half Life's pains, and vigorous parts,
For needless Languages, or useless Arts;
But urg'd endeavours both of hands and head,
Ere Nature's fleshly cravings could be fed.
While Comeliness and Conscience laid their claim,
To dress for decency, or shrowd from shame;
When filial Duties urg'd their pow'rful rules,
To press acquaintance with parental tools,
That Nature might not feel a future lack,
Expedience pointed out Art's useful track.
Till Industry, completing tasks decreed,
Hush'd harsh remonstrance, and precluded Need.

But, as his frame, and mental forces, grew,
Crispinus more than corporal cravings knew;
Cravings more keen—less subject to controul—
The sateless longings of a famish'd Soul!
Man's intellectual Appetite, in Youth,

Yearns more intense while banqueting on Truth.
The Glutton, fill'd, fond gust no longer feels,
But conquers all his cravings midst his meals;
For Mind, far more voracious, reads, and reads,
Still growing greedier whilst it fonder feeds.
The Drunkard, with indulgence, quickly cloy'd,
Soon sets his beverage, so belov'd, aside;
But Intellect, athirst, intenser thinks,
And finds the drought increasing whilst it drinks.
The Body, when from cold well-cover'd o'er,
Secure from present misery, seeks no more—
Ev'n fleshly Lust, its fuel promptly spent,
Requires a truce and feels, a time, content—
Fruition soon puts out its fiercest fires,
And quickly deadens all its keen desires—
But Spirit's pure pursuits are never null,
Tho' Haram's furnish'd, and tho' Wardrobe's full—
Tho' cellar—larder—table's, well supplied
The Soul's keen craving's still unsatisfied—
Still, like the Miser, mid profusion pines,
Still poor—still pennyless, 'mongst golden mines!

Poor Crispin's Mind possess'd such Appetite,
Which kept it hankering, still, for fresh delight—
Delight that makes immortal Spirit glow
Found only whence all Truth and Wisdom flow,
Giving Man's mental tastes more grateful gusts,
Than all that feasts his looks, and feeds his lusts.
Had he been furnish'd with those full supplies
That Heav'n still offers for Earth's temporal joys—
Affords, for all that live, full, sensual, feasts,
Sole bliss of Insects—Reptiles—Birds—and Beasts—
These, ne'er had fully fill'd his hungry heart;
For temporal objects ne'er full bliss impart,
But leave within the Soul a lasting void
Its noblest pow'rs, and hopes, unsatisfied!

Small part of time had he for such pursuit,
To raise the reasoning Man above the Brute—
But small supplies to purchase things of Sense
For Body's frail support, or due defence—
No environs had he, or dainty dome,
Where listless limbs could rest, rapt looks could roam—
No splendid equipage his table spread,
To grace each grateful dish, whene'er he fed—
No food high flavour'd—no exciting swill
On which his Frame could feed, his Thought could thrill—
No ornamented stole, to pamper pride,
But paltry russets, extra-toil supplied.
The want of dainties rais'd no deep regret,
Of culinary luxuries ignorant, yet;
And tho', in after times, his trying fate
Found full indulgence, 'mong the Good and Great,
Yet when witheld, like all Earth's dung and dross,
His heart, once well-inform'd, scarce felt the loss!
For when his Mind once tasted Wisdom's treat,
Her luscious liquors, and pure mental meat,
His Spirit, raptur'd o'er the rich repast,
Soon shrunk to learn life must so shortly last!
He forward look'd, but with abated joy,
In doubt when Heav'n would deign some fresh supply.
Full soon his Soul devour'd each scanty stock,
And felt more sharpened fears of famine shock;
While wishes, prompt, o'er meagre morsels pin'd;
Mere mock reflections for a famish'd Mind!
For, as internal stimulants excite
More painful efforts, than improv'd delight;
So these, with ceaseless inward strivings, wrought,
To urge more energies of act, and thought.

Were Man's perpetual wants, at once, supplied,
The calls of Lust, of Passion, and of Pride,
In full profusion, by divine command,
Without the labours of his head, or hand,
Misery would soon o'erwhelm the wretched Race;
The sluggard Body would preserve its place;
Soon gain, inert, its vegetable growth,
And soon decay, frail sacrifice to Sloth;
While brutal Instinct, teazing, day by day,
Would vex thro' Life; at Death desert its clay!
The Soul would suffer from its unquench'd fires,
And sprawl, in puddles, deep with dark Desires;
Wallowing, awhile, with dead connected Dust,
In all the basest lees of beastly Lust,
Without impulsive wish, or hope, or fear,
To push tir'd Comrade round respective sphere;
Without one promptitude of love, or hate,
For Maker; fellow-Man; or listless Mate!

In wisdom Providence preserves the whole—
Thro' Matter's medium goads the sentient Soul—
On every Sense impresses hopes and fears,
Thence, firm, o'er Mind, fix'd resolutions rears—
Imprints emotions both from pain and bliss,
By irritating stroke, and kindling kiss—

Still furthering useful ends thro' wants, and woes,
Sickly conceptions, and obstetric throes.
Inflicts fresh pains to spur the weapon'd Will—
Guards greater good by levying lesser ill—
Like a kind Parent, with true tenderness,
For crimes, committed, oft afflicts, to bless!
Not suffering Souls in fleshly cells to lie,
Like the stall'd ox, or glutton of the stye;
But shows that labour with reflection join'd,
Yields Body health, with happiness of Mind!

Instructed, thus, he turn'd his leisure time
To Nature's exhibitions—most sublime!
To seek acquaintance with its varied store—
Its mysteries most profound, in part explore—
Thence gathering knowledge, free from care, or cost,
Let scarce a single sand of Life be lost!
The leaves of Earth's large folio, eager, turn'd,
And, from each nascent line some science learn'd;
Each page, so pure! embellishment, so bright!
Joy fill'd his heart, while beauty bless'd his sight!
He view'd each lineament of form, and face;
Each lustrous feature, and each living grace—
Inert, or active—measureless, small—
Constituent atom, or compounded ball—
The wonderous whole—the well-proportion'd parts—
Rich source of Science! endless fund for Arts!
And found, as far as Sense, and Reason, reach,
God's Wisdom, Pow'r, and Goodness, grav'd on each!

Won with these charms, he foolish sports forsook,
To learn fresh lessons from Earth's burnish'd Book;
Whose mystic Maxims Deity indites,
And while Truth dictates Pow'r, with Goodness, writes!
Where every shining page—line—letter—show
'Tis Wisdom's bounteous work of Love, below!
Each proof so perfect, and each type so fair,
None needs fresh form, correction, or repair!
Yet, part, tho' finish'd, thus; complete, and clear,
Needs new impressions publish'd every year—
The style, so simple—the design, so grand,
All speak the product of an heavenly Hand—
While all the ornaments, in every part,
Prove none could compass but celestial Art!
The shapely pebbles, on Earth's bosom thrown,
And figur'd fossils lodg'd in beds of stone—
The curious crop investing every clod,
And pencil'd flow'rs that sprig the silken sod—
Low shrubs that bloom, like nosegays, on its breasts,
Or towering trees, which form its fluttering crests—
Mere particles of life that swim, or creep;
Or atoms, plum'd, that pierce the airy deep—
Vast broods that fill the watery waves profound,
Or groups that forage o'er the furnish'd ground—
The haze of morn, fresh dews, and evening fogs,
That weep o'er waters, or that brood o'er bogs—
Proud mists that up the mountain slopes aspire,
Or cloudy caravans, which, wandering high'r,
Display their shining, pantomimic, show,
Each semblance bright of solid shapes below!
The zigzag flash that cleaves the sable cloud,
And deep-ton'd thunder, echoing long, and loud—
Ethereal rockets, that, all silent, fly,
And spin their threads of light o'er half the sky;
Or arctic armies, waving banners, bright,
Wield wide their noiseless weapons through the night—
The meek-ey'd Moon which swells the watery tide—
Orbs, more remote, that larger circuits ride—
The central Sun that rolls its brilliant ball;
Enlightening—warming—and propelling all—
And myriads more just twinkling to the view,
With attributes, like this, all ether through.

But more than spangled hemispheres unfold,
In lunar silver, or in solar gold—
More than curtain'd sky's rich wardrobe shows,
Magnificent festoons, or brilliant bows—
More than all products of mere procreant Earth,
Fair shapes, and hues, of vegetable birth;
Beasts—insects—reptiles—fish—and feathery race,
He found in female form, and female face!
Those peerless beauties, which, so bright, dispense
Charms to Man's Sight and chear each mental Sense—
His passions—pow'rs—and appetites, controul,
And wake his warmest sympathies of Soul—
Soft sympathies, no pen, or tongue, describes—
Each secret sentiment, which Beauty bribes,
With every faculty's peculiar tone,
Excited, and receiv'd, by Love, alone!

He spent no needless hours in barren bed
While fertile tomes of knowledge lay unread—
Let not meet matin-times still fruitless fly,
While Nature's gilded volumes woo'd his eye;
But needful nightly rest, for books, purloin'd,
And scann'd Earth's columns while mild Morning shin'd.

His early lids burst the weak webs of sleep,
With Lover's pulse exploring eastern steep,
When Phœbus, first, of shining tresses, shorn,
With broaden'd visage, blink'd thro' misty morn;
Watching, with eager gust, but weakening gaze,
His solemn—slow—ascent, and brightening blaze.
There fed his fill, at Nature's brilliant board,
When richest dainties Summer's table stor'd,
And all her handmaid's virgin charms display'd;
To draw dull Mortals from Sleep's morbid shade.
Not to seek sordid, poisonous, bliss, by stealth,
But drinking raciest draughts of rosey health;
While fully feasting hearing, sight, and smell,
From warbling bow'r, hale height, and odorous dell,
Pure Air, suffus'd with every rich perfume,
In field, and wood, from bud, and leaf, and bloom,
His nostrils snuff'd, that fann'd the vital flame,
That urg'd Life's tide more strong thro' all his frame,
While fascinating fugues, entranc'd his ears,
In symphonies more sweet than fancied spheres;
Which, thro' the skies, in liquid cadence run,
To greet, with grateful songs, the new-wak'd Sun;
Till all the heav'nly vault with fragrance fill'd,
And ever-varying strains, his bosom thrill'd;
Suspending all his pow'rs with two-fold flood,
Pour'd, pure, from each glad hedge-row, grove, and wood!
But oft, by fits, on visual beauties bent,
His nostrils miss'd each aromatic scent;
His ears, unbraced, forgot each blissful sound,
While wondering eyes rang'd all Creation round,
To catch enchanting charms from pole to pole,
Till boundless bliss absorb'd his raptur'd Soul!
With mix'd attention, and amaze, he view'd
The azure canopy's vast amplitude!
Thin mists that circumscrib'd unmeasur'd skies,
When first the Sun uprose, with sanguine eyes,
Like a dull drunkard, creeping from his bed,
With bloated feature's blazing, fiery-red;
Whose ampler powers the foggy fumes disperse,
Throughout the boundless bright'ning universe;
As though his fires were fitted to absorb
Earth's humid meteors, by his burning orb,
Till, all the filmy haze, dissolv'd in air,
Had left his flaming face full bright and fair.
The distant hills, in tenderest azure dress'd,
Stirr'd blandest feelings in his fluttering breast;
While objects, more distinct, in circles nigh'r,
With mix'd emotions rais'd his raptures high'r.
Earth's verdant carpet spread his velvet road,
With glittering dew-drops, thick, like pearls, bestrew'd.
On plants—shrubs—trees—like brilliant bracelets strung,
Or, on each grassy point, like diamonds, hung;
Whose pure prismatic colours form, or fade,
As whisp'ring zephyrs fan the bush, or blade—
All borrowing from Apollo's pregnant beam,
Their mimic glow, and momentary gleam;
Resembling brightest gems most dazzling dyes,
Or clearest rainbows ere full colouring flies—
Now dipp'd in Sapphire's or soft Violet's hue—
Now in bright Indian drugs of deepest blue—
A moment, now, like mildest Emerald, seen,
Or Earth's most favourite robe of grateful green—
Now, instant, chang'd to polish'd globes of Gold—
And now the fairest orange tints unfold;
Then instantaneous turn to ruddiest red,
Like Rubies blushing on a verdant bed—
All dropp'd, profusely, from the lap of Night,
While flying from the face of solar Light;
Descending, silent, in a shining show'r,
To spangle pile, and leaf, and fruit, and flow'r,
As tho' the stars, which twinkled in her train,
Had left their spheres to sparkle on the plain.
Thus, while the beauteous views his eyes beheld,
Expanded wide with bliss his bosom swell'd;
And, as the Spirit caught each scent, and sound,
That spread their dulcet notes, and odours, round;
His mental pow'rs, all deep-imbued by Love,
Pour'd, plenteous, down from bounteous founts above—
His Body, deep, in seas of Sunbeams bath'd,
Which all his frame, with golden garments, swath'd;
Sublime, like Earth's primeval Prince, he trod,
Breath'd airs of Paradise, and talk'd with God!

Pure is the pleasure sky-form'd Spirit feels,
Which, from Heav'n's holy streams pure water steals;
And deathless is the Soul, whose Life's full fed
By blessed crumbs of Christ's unleaven'd bread!
Soft is the Sense—unblemish'd is the bliss,
That spring, like that—and spread thro' Scenes like this!
From unperturbed Earth, and tranquil Skies,
Whence pious Man's most perfect pleasures rise!
Ere sinful tumults such bless'd silence break,
When Folly, Falshood, and Prophaneness speak!

Ere Vanity's weak votaries wildly stray,
And Innocence becomes the Scoundrel's prey!
Ere Flattery fawns, and Simulation smiles,
And cautious Cunning weaves her woof of wiles!
Ere Sensibility beholds, with pain,
How, o'er Creation, endless evils reign!
Sees, while she walks her necessary rounds,
How Virtue's banish'd, and how Vice abounds!
Ere Sympathy repines o'er Want and Woe,
Nor comfort—coin—or blessings, can bestow!
Contemplates Misery's moans, and Sorrow's cries,
But can alone relieve with tears and sighs!
Ere strong Oppression, with proud visage, stern,
Makes humble Merit bend, and Justice burn!
Ere Pomp, with insolence, o'er Penury swells,
Till Meekness bursts, and Modesty rebels!
Ere gracious Piety's griev'd bosom bleeds,
While marking fellow-Mortals' desperate deeds;
And, to sequester'd cells, or covert, flies,
To shun Man's madness, perjuries, oaths, and lies;
Thence, to the skies, with warm petitions, climbs,
Imploring Christ to pardon all their crimes!
Ere loathsome objects banish Love's delight,
By sore obtrusion on the troubled sight;
Or noisy crowds confound the feather'd choir,
And loud Contention stuns the Muse's lyre—
Ere the bright Sun's contaminated beams
Catch dark pollution from Man's waking dreams;
Or the distracted Air, with endless din,
Conveys, to Heav'n, continual sounds of Sin!

Short is the Dawn of bliss, by Virtue trac'd,
Ere Day, by Wretches darings, glows, disgrac'd!
The conflict's irksome—and the wrestling's long,
While mix'd, and meddling, with Earth's thoughtless Throng!
Where Christians labour on—a warring Life;
O'er Seas of Sorrow, and o'er Lands of Strife!
Thro' tracks, untried, where endless objects start,
To force the eye, and fascinate the heart!
Still tempted every hour, 'mong human kind,
By Nature—Custom—Fashion—Habit—blind!
'Mid trying stratagems, and contests, keen,
From flattering Self, and subtle Foes, unseen!
Where Earth's, and impious Hell's, dark Demons prowl,
To kill their comforts, and ensnare their Soul!

Such is Man's mortal warfare, fix'd on Earth,
Where five Abortions match one perfect Birth!
Ten torturing Visions one transporting Dream,
And months of gloom contrast one moment's gleam!
A hundred weeds for one sweet flow'ret's found—
Sharp thorns, by thousands, stood, each rose-bud round!
And should the favourite bloom be fondly press'd,
By easy Faith, on Friendship's open breast,
The thorns oft pierce within the vital part,
And fix—and fester—in the tortur'd heart!

Thus credulous Affection often fares—
Thus feels the sharpest conflict Virtue shares—
And such experience Providence decreed,
Should prove meek Piety's terrestial meed;
To wean the Soul from such frail Scene as this,
And fit it for unending, boundless, bliss!

Who, then, can countenance the stale pretence,
False Infidels propound for sterling Sense,
That happiness is Virtue's portion here,
Nor hope a happier clime, or calmer sphere.
They court their Pupils to the Pagan code,
To Nature's nudities, dim Reason's road;
Philosophy's and Fancy's rules to read,
To form their Conduct, and to fix their Creed.
From reasonings, oft disprov'd, false inference draw,
To prove their lov'd Hypothesis a Law;
A Code convenient youthful hearts to win,
To pamper Pride and Lust, and sanction Sin!

CALM ADVICE.

Ah! would the hearts of energetic Youth,
Store their Mind's treasuries with important Truth—
With calm, but sedulous, attention, look
Thro' the blest plan of heav'n-dictated Book!
Weigh well each part with watchfulness and pray'rs,
To understand the truths that Tome declares—
Not meditate on Fortune—Chance—and Fate,
Nothings! that nought can rule, much less create!
But that inspir'd—pure—clear—and perfect Scheme,
Which drives, or dissipates each heathen dream!
Make the true bearings, in that blessed Chart,
Imprint the memory, and impress the heart!
From that eternal, that perspicuous, plan,
Deduce the End, and Happiness, of Man!
A clue to lead through labyrinths of doubt,
This dreary wilderness of woe, throughout!
Where wonderous facts with prophecies, combine,

To prove the plan, and doctrines, all divine!
While precepts, new, with promises, unite,
To teach the head, and yield the heart delight!
Like stars to lead them lest their steps might stray,
And draughts to chear them on their weary Way!

Thence pensive Crispin sketch'd his simple schemes,
His happiest prospects! most delightful themes!
Thence found that things, within this nether Sphere,
Must claim, in part, Man's time, and talents, here;
In part his mental, and corporeal, pow'rs,
But ne'er monopolize his Heart, or Hours!
Found all its truths to one pure purpose tend—
Shew'd Man's beginning—nature—use—and end.
Whose wonderous facts, and prophecies, receiv'd,
Its promises, and threatenings, both, believ'd;
And well its precepts, and behests obey'd,
His labours, bless'd—experiences, far o'er-pay'd;
For all were meant, by everlasting Love,
To yield pure peace below, and endless bliss above!

Crispinus found Heav'n's first command, in place,
Like all the rest, compriz'd the human Race;
And, sanction'd by the perfect Pow'rs, on high,
Stands thus express'd—“Increase and multiply.”
The same kind condescension taught him how—
To plight his troth to One, and keep his vow.
Taught him 'twas Nature's—Reason's—Heaven's, voice—
His first, chief, Parent had no other choice.

If Adam's Maker, when the childless Land
Lay waste, and subject to his sole command—
If He, whose Grace, and Goodness, knows no bound,
Had, by His full, and faultless, Wisdom, found
A proud plurality of Partners best,
His loving-kindness had the scheme caress'd:
But, as His Prescience view'd that plan revers'd,
The obvious demonstration proves it curst;
For all who Heav'n's most holy Word believe,
See Providence design'd no added Eve.

MORE SERIOUS REMARKS.

Thus early learn'd this conscientious Youth
Obediently embraced this Test of Truth—
From full conviction view'd the rest as right—
That Heav'n's clear eye still kept his heart in sight—
Beheld each embryo wish that work'd within,
Begot by Grace, or hatch'd by inborn Sin;
And would, when Time had run his shortening race,
Decree his deathless glory, or disgrace!

Tho' female beauty trapp'd his eye, and heart,
The source of many a pleasure! many a smart!
Not those pernicious pleasures frequent found,
Combin'd with grief, on foul, forbidden, ground!
Not devilish joy seducing Villains feel,
Inflicting wounds no time, or drugs, can heal!
Not the licentious Letcher's dire delights,
Whence wasted spirits, pains, and body's blights;
Link'd with keen lashes Conscience still bestows,
When forc'd to feel their own, with others, woes,
When Sickness, Pain, or Misery, sinks the Mind,
Or Age forbodes far bitterer things behind—
No! his prompt pleasures from amusement sprung;
Fancy's free exercise of thought, and tongue;
When he, like all vain Youth, oft, sportive, spoke
Each arch conception, or ingenuous joke.
His pains were those Imagination brings,
When Hope expires, while ardent Passion springs;
Which Love's imprudent darings must endure,
Till Time, and clearer Wisdom work a cure.

With simple views he sought the virtuous Fair,
To lighten labour, and to combat care;
But ne'er with deep dissimulation meant
To stir fond feelings, and destroy content;
While feign'd attention, and false flattery, tried,
To spoil simplicity, or heighten pride—
To wake affection in the female breast,
Then sport with passion by ungen'rous jest;
Nor, to confirm false hopes base treachery strove,
By spurious promises, and vows of Love—
Ne'er aimed their honest chearful hearts to chain,
Or felt a pleasure while they felt a pain;
Much less with cruel Cunning's wildering way,
To gain their confidence and then betray!
With wiley Scoundrel's artful schemes to win,
And tempt their footsteps to the paths of Sin,
Then leave them to the World, without a Friend.
Till shorten'd Life in shame, and misery, end!
Curs'd be the Scoundrel, whatsoe'er his place,
Who sinks his Mate to misery and disgrace.

Before his five-and-twentieth year was o'er,
Heav'n's moral maxims, well-imbib'd before,
Tho' with some whims, and queer conundrums, mixt,
Firm in his head, pure principles had fixt;

Which check'd his wanderings, while in choicest prime,
And kept his conduct free from flagrant crime.
To give each gracious thought still stronger aid,
Religion long had firm foundation laid;
And deep-impress'd her truths, with graving Art;
Like marble mottos, on his Heav'n-touch'd heart.
He thought—and Revelation show'd it just,
That Soul and Body, both, were held in trust;
By God, in grace, and loving-kindness, lent,
To double Man's delights, thro' Life's extent;
While God's free Pow'r, and Goodness, both forbid,
That Body's talents should in Earth be hid.
That would at once destroy the compound plan,
Mark'd out, by Wisdom, for the weal of Man;
And robbing Heav'n of all the honour due,
From Man's immortal Race when rais'd anew.

Nat'ral, and moral, rules, derive their source,
Alike, from Heav'n, and act with equal force—
Ev'n carnal Instinct never acts amiss,
While proper objects yield their proper bliss.
Thus, argueing up from fundamental Truth,
He curb'd the prancings of impetuous Youth;
And while right Reason show'd the fair, and fit,
Conscience, instructed, strain'd the bridling bit;
Lest youthful Fancy should from Duty stray,
And lead Affection in forbidden way.

Blind Appetite and Passion, unrestrain'd,
Oft bound o'er needful barriers, Heav'n ordain'd,
Spurning each pure restraint and social tie,
To compass objects offering ready joy;
Each pious obstacle's trod down, or skipt,
When spurr'd by Pride—by weak Ambition whipt.

He, deeming Heav'n's original decree
Left neither perfect Male, or Female, free,
Judg'd it but just, on that bless'd mandate built,
All deviation grows to dangerous guilt;
And, humbly honouring such sublime behest,
Resolv'd—and left with righteous Heav'n the rest;
Believing all who wisht what Heav'n had will'd,
Would prove each promise faithfully fulfill'd.

But having suffer'd much from false Coquette,
The trammell'd captive of her artful net;
A prison'd slave, without the curse of crime,
Thro' ample period of his youthful prime—
Where love of liberty had struggled long,
With Circe's philtres and frail Syren's song—
Loathing all graceless Flattery's faithless treats;
Empoison'd potions mix'd with mawkish sweets!
Pall'd with weak pleasures, hollow Hope's awards!
Ensnaring smiles—false vows—and feign'd regards!
Determin'd, now, no longer to submit
To treacherous beauty, and all worthless wit;
To sham endearment, or coquettish scoff,
But break his yoke, and tear his fetters off—
Yet, not relinquishing the Lover's name,
A foe to female charms, and Cupid's claim—
Nor, like the Moth, with ever-devious flight,
To sip each honey'd flow'r, with frail delight;
But fully fix'd, with virtuous views, to try
What wedded Love with plighted troth supply;
He wished in faithful Wife a Friend to find,
With pious Truth and genuine Morals join'd;
For Heav'n had made this added maxim known,
“It is not good for Man to be alone.”

PURSUITS OF LOVE.

Taste, used with Prudence, travers'd hill and plain—
Mark'd every Maid that grac'd the village Train—
Not to find out beauteous, foolish, Bride,
Whose best endowment was a bright outside—
Nor yield to Friends' or Parents' cold advice,
While interest only sway'd their selfish choice;
But maugre every view of pomp, or pelf,
Resolv'd to seek, himself, his Fellow-Self.

His Heart by native Intuition taught,
And what unripe experience dearly bought,
Was now confirm'd by long-establish'd laws,
Fix'd in the Soul by first creative Cause,
With Understanding—Reason—Judgment—join'd,
By emanations from eternal Mind;
In finish'd form, and love-illumin'd face,
The placid cheek, and lucid eye, to trace;
What sweetness, truth, and sense, the Soul conceal'd,
By lilies bright, and blushing roses, veil'd;
A pleasing Partner to select for Life,
To fill each office of a faithful Wife—
A Consort shap'd to share his future fate,
The pains and pleasures of connubial state;
Engag'd, till death, for better, or for worse,
Life's noblest blessing, or most cruel curse!

Fancy, sole Arbitress in such affair,
Looks not for bullion gold, but burnish'd glare.

Not for the genuine gem, but glittering glass—
To modest Maid prefers the flaunting Lass—
Views flow'rs and foliage in their trickt attire,
Frail objects! fitted with undue desire!
But, in the bustle of her prompt pursuits,
Ne'er looks for future satisfying fruits.
Her light wings whirl round all the beauteous blooms,
To sip their sweets, or snuff their fresh perfumes—
Surveys their fine contours, and colours fair,
But weighs no worth, or values virtues rare!
Eternal charms, alone, attention strike,
The poisonous, and balsamic, both alike!
The present moment all her hopes employ,
To 'scape from pain and catch some frail joy;
No Grace, or Virtue's growths, her views engage,
True stores for Winter's wants, or joyless Age!
Like the proud Moth that sports warm Summer through;
Flirts, with fond plumes, and pants for something new—
That feather'd kind, which, thro' weak twilight, strays,
And burns its pinions in the taper's blaze—
The light-wing'd troops that wanton thro' the air,
Till trammell'd in some subtle spider's snare,
Or that frail fly, whose extacies decay,
And ends Life's flutter in one fleeting day!

Reason should still attend fond Fancy's side,
To choose the Bridegroom, or select the Bride,
And let pure Prudence, and true Judgment join
To guide her ardour in such great design.
Make frail Imagination's bias bend,
And head-strong Passion stoop to find a Friend;
Let Caution check her in her eager choice,
Ere sad Repentance proves their sage advice.
As thoughtful Farmers take their sober stand,
And judge before they join in lease of Land;
Or faithful Stewards their tried pow'rs employ,
To weigh its genuine worth before they buy—
So every mental pow'r should amply act,
Ere Christian close this more important pact.
Fancy may scan the coverings of the fields;
Sense note what growths their graceful surface yields;
But Prudence, while she spies gay flow'rets glow,
Will ponder well what Merit lies below,
Reason's divining rod will, prompt, explore,
Where noblest brilliants lodge, or useful ore;
And Judgment's beam, infallibly, unfold,
What's tin, or silver, copper, brass, or gold—
With clearest tests will note, distinctly known,
The genuine jewel, and factitious stone;
But readily reject ungracious ground,
Where nought but barren rock—sand—gravel's found!

Prompt Choice is, now, no plaything for a Child,
One hour weak Passion's pet, next moment spoil'd—
Not the fond Sport of Youth's capricious freak,
Embrac'd a Day—abandon'd in a Week—
Not Lust's; who, rashly, to fresh Fair-one runn'th,
Completely cloy'd in less than lunar Month;
Nor fickle Whims, which finds it, first, so dear;
Fond—dull—dead—loathsome—all within the Year!
'Tis not a dye, with cold indifference cast,
Whose joys, or griefs, but one Olympiad last;
Nor a mere listless Game, for loss or gain,
An Evening's pleasure, or a Morning's pain!
Not a frail Bargain struck in strife, or fun,
A shortliv'd plague, or pastime, lost, or won—
A bartering Stock, while baffled Buyers grieve,
Some luckier hit may, soon, their Souls relieve—
No trifling Ticket found in Fortune's wheel,
Whence Gamblers frequent gusts, or grudgings, feel,
But may, should cruel blanks their blessings cross,
Hope next-Year's Prize may thrice repay their loss—
No transient Voyage, with toys their Vessel stor'd,
But all Earth's bane, or bliss, for Life, aboard—
And may in Heav'n's decrees include the sum
Of bliss, or bane, for endless Time to come!
A conscious Creature's most momentous Lot,
For grief or gladness Life may bless or blot.
A feeling Mortals most eventful throw,
With constant curse, or blessing, while below!
A Dye, which, cast, all comfort mars, or makes—
A Game, where weal, or woe, for Time, are stakes—
A Bargain, bound, in justice, or in joke,
Which ne'er, while breath continues, can be broke!
Stocks where poor Traders perilously, buy,
A fatal term of trouble, or of joy!
A lengthen'd Lottery, where both Man and Wife,
Are blanks, or prizes thro' the length of Life!
An unprov'd Sea, where Passengers embark,
Like blinded horses, blundering in the dark;
With mortal Mate, and frail provisions, fraught,
By neither chart, or compass, truly taught—
In leaky Skiff each Party perils braves,
Of pirates, rocks, and shallows; winds, and waves—

Full oft without a Friend, or Pilot, near,
To shape their course, or teach them how to steer;
Haply, with many wretched messmates, round,
To claim their food, and all their cares confound!
Without the Captain, whose protecting Pow'r,
Would watch, and ward, in still, or stormy, hour!
Important Epoch! on whose desperate date,
Hang destinies of Time, and future Fate—
And none o'er Life's great Sea can safely guide,
But He who limits Time, and governs Wind and Tide!

Some venture forth to purchase Ease, and Health—
Some barter both for Beauty—Wit—or Wealth—
Hopes—Honours—Titles—but we seldom find
One Chief who markets wise for charms of Mind.
Few to escape temptation, duteous, trade,
Of deviation, more than Death, afraid;
Or make some lovely Maid a lasting choice,
From virtuous views, for conquering carnal Vice—
Still few'r for christian offsprings' pure increase,
With kind Companions, Comfort, Hope, and Peace—
Scarce one binds compacts with the Pow'rs above,
For moral Manners, and religious Love!
The first are oft by Vice, or Cunning, caught—
For trifles traffick'd, or with bribery bought.
The last are least esteem'd by Earthlings, here;
Tho' Wisdom deems they're never bought too dear;
Prizes, which, once procur'd, ne'er can be lost,
Pride, and false Pleasure, all the Coin they cost!

With such celestial, gracious, guests to live,
Crispinus little grudg'd what He must give;
And, that he might such bosom blessings share,
He pour'd his heart to Heav'n in frequent pray'r!
He ask'd no tempting stores of graceless Gold,
Large Lands, in proud cylindric parchments roll'd;
Nor prompt and prosperous trade, or full-stockt farm,
To keep out care and toil, and doubts disarm—
He only sought a Maid, with charms possest,
To bless his bed, and soothe his cares to rest—
Charms that might daily kindle new desires,
And fan Fruition's dull, declining, fires;
With Virtues join'd, which deck the deathless part,
That, while those charm the eye, might chear the heart;
Endu'd with Graces which thro' Life endure,
And keep connubial Faith, and Love, secure!

He knew that Love's a nice, fastidious, Boy,
Whom vulgar viands, or course cookery, cloy—
Indelicate in texture, dull in taste,
The squeamish Urchin makes a slight repast—
Will soon grow churlish—querulously chide—
Sigh—sulk—and thwart—then throw such Orts aside—
Neglects his needful meals—keeps quite aloof—
His lodgings leaves—once dear, domestic, roof—
To other haunts, with weak affection, flies,
Till, with desponding pangs, he pines, and dies!
No reasoning can persuade, no pow'r controul,
His independent, sentimental, soul!
No promise moves him—no harsh threatenings awe—
Averse to logic, and disclaiming law—
He scorns compulsion—spurns base binding pacts—
Inspir'd, by Heav'n, he thinks; and speaks; and acts—
Ne'er won by gold, or warm'd by grave advice—
No fading charms, alone, can fix his choice—
O'er Beauty, void of Virtue, looks askance;
Nor gives known Frail, tho' fair, one longing glance—
Still, 'midst mere Wantons, most shame-fac'd, and shy;
Oh! he's a squeamish—nice—fastidious Boy!
To please his taste his table must be cloth'd,
As Christians like—not as Apostles loath'd.
In all things simply plain, yet nicely neat—
What Sovereigns must admire—where Saints might eat.
His dish, for constant diet, must be sought
To charm keen looks—and scrutinizing thought—
Sharp scent—nice touch—fine taste—yea, Fancy's whim—
No sordid regimen suffices Him!
He seeks no feast for pride—or pomp—or pow'r—
Honours—estates—reversions—ready dow'r—
No princely dome, with stately splendour stor'd—
No polish'd plate to bend his dazzling board—
No clustering crowds to throng his thund'ring door,
Nor liveried fops, rang'd full on every floor—
No brilliant equipage—no broider'd dress—
High-flavour'd wines, or multifarious mess—
But, form'd with such pure mind as must despise
All proud expence, all fashionable noise!
Hs spends his happiest hours in simple sports,
Least like the cunning, treacherous tricks of Courts!
Delights in chearful Age, and chasten'd Youth;
Terse laugh of Candour, and soft smile of Truth.
Loaths Affectation's flirt—gross Flattery's grin,
Whose lying, laughing, Wit, his heart would win—
Falshood's rash spurious race, begot, or born—
Hatred's keen eye, and curling lip of Scorn—

Art's eye-brows curv'd, and Craft's false twinkling lid,
Which Modesty abash, and Faith forbid—
Dissimulation's look, so smooth and sleek—
Churl Envy's meagre, pale, and pucker'd, cheek—
Much more disgusted with the poisonous gale
Which whispers Calumny's, and Scandal's, tale;
But, most of all the gross, and filthy, gust,
That belches out the lore of beastly Lust.
Himself the Offspring of celestial Sire,
Feels no dark passion—no impure desire—
Yet, while his Will feels Conscience's controul,
All natural Beauty fascinates his Soul;
Why should it not? it's giv'n by Pow'rs above,
The magnet of Man's Mind, the food for Love!
A treat for Man, alone, no Bird or Beast,
Fish, Insect, Reptile, tastes the garnish'd Feast—
Pure, simple Innocence, alone, excites
His heart to wish, and relish, high'r delights;
Of every criminal indulgence shy—
Oh! He's a beauteous—blest—and heavenly Boy!

His younger brother, Lust's a different Child—
In action, eager—gross—all wishes, wild—
Midst full indulgence ever discontent,
From Satan claiming his accurs'd descent!
Begot the moment Eve began to sin—
Just like Rebecca's hairy, hunting, Twin—
His fair, smooth, gentle Colleague's full reverse—
A Father's mis'ry, and a Mother's curse!
Frail Dam's full copy and fall'n subtle Sire's
Base dupe of inborn Pride, and dark Desires!
Not seeking merely animal delights,
Like Brutes, indulging rampant appetites;
But dreaming, musing, prowling, Night and Day,
To gratify still grosser gusts than They!
The passive shuttlecock of Passions keen!
Prompt tool of wretched Envy, Spite, and Spleen!
Feels Instinct's pow'rful spur, and Sloth's slow call—
A Driveller—Dotard—Miser—Spendthrift—all!
Grasps most at Game which instant Pleasures yields,
In tavern—brothel—cottage—floods, or fields—
A Tyrant—Traytor—Coward—cruel—base—
Subtle to peep, or pounce, in time, and place—
By Falshood led, close-mask'd with specious wiles,
While Cunning skulks behind with traitorous toils!
Tries bland Hypocrisy's deluding speech
To trap all prey which tempts his reckless reach;
Not apprehending Heav'n's consummate plan,
Includes all compound Destinies of Man!
Devoid of sentiment, and mutual tie,
Ne'er seeks for more than sordid, selfish, joy!
Aims at all acts whose dire endeavours tend
To frustrate every fair, and useful end,
Till Reason, rouz'd, makes anger'd Conscience rise,
To mark those deeds that murder in disguise!

A half Grand-daughter, of a Race accurs'd!
By Prejudice, and dark Suspicion, nurs'd;
Begot, on Envy, by her father Cain,
Before he fix'd his Brother should be slain!
A bastard Birth that neither Parent own'd;
Close huddled up, when Dam, disgustful, groan'd,
No Relative, or Friend, connection claim'd,
But Jealousy, by Jilts, and Sponsors, nam'd.
By Ignorance tutor'd—foster'd still by Fear,
Watching with anxious eye, and itching ear;
While pestering doubts, and dreams, disturb her pate.
Which Terror turns to Cruelty and Hate,
Till the rank venom reach the vital part,
And spreads corroding cankers o'er her heart.

This base ambiguous Monster ne'er possest
The peaceful mansion of Crispinus' breast—
Ne'er with malignant mischief subtly strove
To banish from his heart blest broods of Love—
But, in a future time, from different Source,
He saw its tyrant sway, and felt its force—
Where the black Miscreant, when grown most mature,
In female Mind o'erlaid Love's offspring, pure!
While, as in bloody Saul's abandon'd Soul,
Fell fierceness reign'd beyond Truth's blest controul;
And harrass'd daily his declining Age,
Its Victim, with revenge, and torturing rage!
With captious cruelty, caprice, and scorn,
In cruel measure by poor Crispin borne
Thro' that false Friend whose Faith ne'er look'd above.
To ask for Hope, or seek for heavenly Love;
Content, or Peace, or Piety, to bless,
But, midst proud Wealth, mad prey of Wretchedness!

LOVE'S RESOLVE.

Love, like a Friend, soon found a Sister Grace;
Like Him in temper—manner—form, and face—
Like Him soft—simple—innocent—and young—
From heav'n-born Venus, and Apollo, sprung—

Their image fresh—their superscription fair—
The choice was Heav'n's—the lot, below, most rare!
Affection fix'd her heart, in earliest Years,
To love Crispinus while she loath'd his Peers.
Her Beauty soon his fix'd attention drew—
Her features rich with rose and lily's hue—
Her magic looks, and smiles; mild air, and mien;
She seem'd no country Nymph, but Nature's Queen!
And while such charms his partial will pursued,
Her partial choice engaged his gratitude!

Soon mutual wills, in mutual wishes join'd—
The Bard was courteous, and the Beauty kind;
And when such Souls with pure impressions glow,
Love's labour's alway sweet, and seldom slow.
No flattering falshoods, no deceptive Arts,
Disguis'd, like Truth, perform'd their guileful parts,
Nor led frail fancies thro' bewildering ways,
To cloke delusions, or to cause delays.

No cunning was requir'd, nor arch intrigue,
To further, or confirm, their harmless league.
No vicious view extorted vicious vow,
Or urg'd his breast to make her honour bow;
But his heart honest, and her spirit pure,
The treaty was unclogg'd, Faith still secure.

No tedious time was lost in quibbling quirks,
Whilst Lawyers labour'd thro' their wary works.
They needed no preliminary pacts
To guard their interests, or to guide their acts;
For they, unacred, ev'n unmoney'd, Elves,
Had nothing, now, to barter—but themselves—
And, while they made the chains of Heav'n their choice,
They laugh'd at Law, and Advocate's advice.

Full frequent as their footsteps prowl'd along,
Far from the noise and nonsense of the Throng;
Instead of Lovers' lies, and treacherous tale,
Which truth o'erturn, and innocence assail—
Instead of blandish'd vows, and oaths abrupt,
Which mock each head, and make each heart corrupt,
True, wholesome stories entertain'd her ears,
Which rais'd no fervours, and arouz'd no fears,
But fears, and fervours, which, in aftertimes,
Might favour Virtue, while encount'ring crimes.
He entertain'd her, oft, with faithful facts,
Recorded, clear, in Heav'n's historic tracts;
So richly scatter'd thro' the sacred Code,
As rules, and cautious, thro' Life's crooked road!
Well intermix'd with truths, and meet remarks,
To keep alive all spirit-kindled sparks—
To furnish memory, as Life pass'd along,
With proofs of what was right, and what was wrong—
Or, while enraptur'd vision wander'd round,
O'er objects, near, or spread thro' space profound,
Strove to instruct her mind, her soul to melt,
With what his Eyes had found, his heart had felt!
Full proofs of Wisdom, Goodness, Pow'r, and Love,
Display'd on Earth below—in Heav'n above—
And how those Attributes are all employ'd,
Still to support—to govern—and to guide!

Amid the fond emotions Lovers feel,
Amid increasing zest, and kindling zeal,
He never play'd with strong poetic tropes,
To swell her Soul with visionary hopes—
Ne'er drew designs of bright connubial bliss,
Unmix'd with misery, in a Life like this!
He strove to teach her how to count the cost;
What might be won, and what must needs be lost—
That wedded compacts, tho' by Heav'n decreed,
As mortal Man's, and Woman's, happiest meed—
A State, far most felicitous in Life,
While pains, and prudence, vanquish want, and strife;
And the true Gospel, with triumphant Grace,
Points out the path, and strengthens thro' the Race!
That Life's best lot's a chequer'd, changeful, Scene,
Where weal, and woe, alternate, intervene;
And Love's best blessings, peace, and temperate joy,
Which folly stifle—Fancy's freaks destroy.

He fear'd to form, and propagate, a plan
Which ne'er, while mortal's, realiz'd by Man!
He scorn'd to sketch out frail, fantastic schemes;
Poetic pictures; wild Arcadian dreams—
Vain visions, that, through shades oft sport and play,
But vanish, view'd by bright Aurora's ray!
That Life would all be sunshine, free from show'r,
And transport still return each happy hour!
That darkness never could exclude the light,
But rapturous day succeed extatic night!
Some novel bliss each hour would still be born,
And all Love's rosebuds blow without a thorn!
New-kindled warmth drive Winter, cold, and drear,
And stablish Summer thro' the thrilling Year!
Unfading beauty furnish bliss, sublime,
And Joy still triumph to the end of Time!

Full oft, such sentiments bewilder Youth,
And lead fond Lovers far from tracks of Truth;
Who hope for happiness, ne'er found below,
While Disappointment deepens every woe;
Ne'er hop'd by Wisdom, nor e'er ask'd by Worth,
Content with all kind Heav'n assigns on Earth!
Those are the whirlpools, those the secret rocks,
Where Passion sinks, and Pleasures feel such shocks!
Circean songs, and philtred fabled bowl,
Which soothe to sadness, and which drowns the Soul!
Poor Crispin's calm research, by Reason sway'd,
Nor Daphne's heart, nor Duty's hopes, betray'd;
But making Heav'n his object, God his guide,
He knew that Want's due wish was ne'er denied:
Well-taught if Heav'n e'er frustrates duteous trust,
'Tis to repress vain pride, or fleshly lust—
Faith still believing every truth reveal'd—
To every precious promise Hope appeal'd—
And while on facts true Faith and Hope relied,
Love burn'd to quell base Lust, and conquer Pride;
While Gratitude resolv'd, thro' Grace, to strive,
By praise, and pray'r, to keep that Love alive—
With Christ's assistance labouring to fulfil
Each perfect precept of His holy Will!

Encourag'd, thus, to join their joyful hands,
Their hearts fix'd long before in firmest bands,
Soon to the sacred fane Affection led,
And Providence's plenty bless'd their bed—
Love gave the banquet—Beauty grac'd the treat—
What God forbids not Man may freely eat!
When His clear warrant cries, “The boon's bestow'd,”
Seek, and secure it, in Heav'n's righteous road—
Embrace the offer'd bliss, nor fear offence,
But hope the fairest issues flowing thence!

Should churlish brutes Heav'n's choicest bounty spurn
Which soon must fly, and never may return;
Or cautious cowards think, thro' faithless fear,
Such Duty's dubious, or its task's austere—
And, when some Fair one's willing, still abstain
From proffer'd bliss thro' fear of future pain;
Thus fair occasion lost, Reflection stings,
With weapons hid behind Times wavering wings!

What! hath not God the Goodness, Pow'r, or Will,
His Grace to give, His promises fulfil?
Keep oaths, of council, which confirm His Word?
The thought's most blasphemous! doubt's most absurd!
Heav'n's gracious gifts, by Unbelief refus'd—
With pride abandon'd, or by Lust abus'd,
Or thrown, by barren Wantonness, away,
Remorse's darts pierce deeper every day;
Till all indulgence, Age, or Death, destroy,
With every genuine hope for future Joy—
Except Repentance come, redeeming time,
And Faith find Christ to cancel former crime,
While promis'd Mercy draws each poison'd dart,
And Grace bestows its balms to heal the heart!

Thus Crispin argued, thus he acted, right,
And caught his Comforts ere their final flight!
His lovely Consort, ever—ever—dear!
Love's labours brought forth armfuls every Year.
Not crops that cramm'd large barns, demanding more,
But crops of wants, and Care's increasing store!
Unacred Clown! he had no field, or mead,
Where corn might flourish, or where kine might feed—
No labouring hinds, or harvest loads, had He,
But sheaves of Children stack'd on either knee!
No herds but Daphne's milky bosom fed!
No flocks but frisk'd, and bleated, round his bed!
Yet Heav'n's most noble bliss his heart enjoy'd,
So rarely known to Riches, Pomp, or Pride!
A Conscience, calm, still tranquilliz'd his breast;
Firm Faith—and Hope—and Love—his Soul possess'd!
His Body Temperance bless'd with strength and health,
Whilst his most valued, most endearing, Wealth,
Was Daphne's fadeless and enchanting charms,
And smiling Infants folded in his arms!

To satisfy more multiplied demands
Of teeming Partner, and their tender bands,
His useful Craft employ'd his manual pow'rs,
While feet rock'd cradled Babe's reposing hours;
And head and heart closed other calls of Time,
Conceiving couplets, and arranging rhyme.
With mental strength, at intervals, to teach
Some puny imps first rudiments of Speech;
Or sketching copies of each written form,
To furnish types for Friends, and Lovers warm!
Or managing each number, and each nought,
With which ten thousand useful truths are taught.
Meanwhile his Fellow-labourer; faithful Bride!
'Mid unabating toil still bless'd his side—
With hard-earn'd mites enlarg'd their little stock—

Ply'd house-wife's work, or nurs'd and fed their flock—
While willing hand—head—heart—perform'd full share
Of each long labour, and increasing care.

Thus, eighteen hours, each Day, dragg'd, hopeless, on;
While no glad gleam from Expectation shone;
No Hope to charm them with one chearing ray,
Or chase the thickening clouds of Care away;
To quicken Time, curtail their constant toil,
Or shine thro' tears to shape one rainbow smile,
Except what beams Faith brought from light above,
To gild the gracious ways of wedded Love!
No dazzling prospect from a Parent's dole—
No glimpse from rich Relation's parting Soul—
Nor could his heart indulge such curs'd desire,
'Gainst living Foe, much less from Friend, or Sire!
Such wish for wealth would stamp immortal stain—
Such hope no pleasure bring, but sting with pain—
Such dark desire had shock'd his shuddering Soul,
More than impending block, or poison'd bowl!
He knew no privilege could spring from Birth—
He saw, in lowly Self, no lustrous Worth—
Nought that could make Mankind his faithful Friends,
To sacrifice for Him their selfish ends—
Their own Importance, Ease, or Gain, forgo,
Or yield one pleasure, to preclude his woe!
His Mind no manageable scheme could frame,
To rise in rank, in fortune, or in fame!
Nothing from Earth to Hope; of Heav'n to ask,
But pow'r to prosecute each duteous task—
Find, here, each labour sped—each loan supplied;
And Christ's redeeming Love whene'er he died!

He never hop'd his ardent love of Verse
Would crown his credit, or expand his purse!
Each restless impulse Modesty restrain'd—
Calm Sense conceiv'd small profit could be gain'd—
For, tho' fond Fancy pictur'd prosperous joys,
Which would thro' rapid Fame, from Friendships rise,
Still genuine Judgment checkt such childish flights,
While Reason show'd more dangers than delights.
Tho' Vanity still prompted, Prudence chid,
And while Hope cherish'd, chilling Fear forbid—
Yet Poverty, and Taste, urg'd on by Pride,
His rustic Muse her meditations tried;
And, push'd by energies of youthful prime,
Essay'd the charming task of tinkling chime.

Like Red-breast, blythe, once, fluttering forth, she stray'd,
To try her twitter in Shenstonian shade—
Implicitly she perch'd, and swell'd her throat,
Courting attention to her scrannel note;
Her bosom beating strong with hope and fear,
Knowing the Nightingale was always there!
There, oft, the Linnet, Lark, and Turtle-dove,
Trill'd solos, airs, and gurgling tones of love;
While dulcet Blackbirds pip'd, with shriller Thrush,
Sublimer songs, on every bough, and bush—
Yet, as this Warbler to the woods was new,
Her strain so simple, and her song so true,
The master Chorister approv'd her pow'rs;
And dubb'd her free of all his glens, and bow'rs.

Oft, thus embolden'd, Crispin touch'd his Lyre,
In concert with the Lessowes loftier choir,
To plaintive elegy, or joyous lay,
As mirth, or sadness, made his pulses play—
And, when, in future time, his weightier fate,
Amidst his Flock, with lov'd, and loving Mate,
His inmost sentiments, undreading, dealt,
Unfolding every hope, and fear, he felt—
The various beatings of his virtuous breast!
His prompt emotions, raptur'd, or depress'd!
Trusting this Patron would with warmth attend
The honest feelings of his humble Friend.

He was a Bard with better prospects born;
Too great to envy, and too good to scorn!
Benevolence unbounded! matchless Taste!
With Wealth to banish Want, but none to waste.
His heart not free from Poet's common curse,
Ambition, boundless! perch'd on feeble purse!
Sublime conceptions, lodg'd in procreant pate,
Which, magic schemes, could, ev'ry hour, create—
Could, with one thought, most beauteous castles build,
With tasteful furniture, all, instant, fill'd,
But could not monies coin, or form firm land
To make fond Fancy's mimic turrets stand!
Penurious Genius should, from Prudence, learn
Fair lessons, Fancy's plans, and hopes, to spurn;
In covert, close, frail Insufficience shroud,
Nor show the World wild fabrics on a cloud.

He, not content in Phœbus' courts to shine,
And share the favours of the faithless Nine;
But, raptur'd by applause, much long'd for more;

All relish lost for Wisdom's wary lore;
And grown far greedier, starving still for fame,
Hop'd garnish'd groves might crown the Ministrel's claim!
His temperate pleasure scorn'd, and tasteful strains,
And lavish'd much to deck his lov'd domains—
Embellish'd woods and waters—hills and lawns—
Invok'd the Dryads, Naiads, Nymphs, and Fauns—
Till riv'lets, lakes, and groves, and shapely ground,
Look'd Eden, new created, ris'n around!

Alas! gay lawns no golden harvests yield!
The hollow'd lakes curtail'd each fruitful field!
Woods, grubb'd for walks, or grown to vistas tall,
No purse replenish'd with septennial fall!
While, to enlarge his rills, and shape his shades,
To build his temples, and to smoothe his glades,
His treacherous taste incurr'd continual cost,
Till Peace was banish'd—Independence lost—
Relinquishing, for Fame, Content and Store,
Belov'd, while pitied! while applauded, poor!

Oh! had his valued Life been spar'd, to see
A Prince's patronage—his King's decree,
Then had his forming Genius, less confin'd,
Display'd the ampler plans that mov'd his Mind—
Had mock'd at Poverty, and mental pain,
And taught his murmuring Muse a sprightlier strain—
Had touch'd no more the melancholy Lyre,
To tell how Penury damps Apollo's fire—
To blame true Taste for all the ills it brings,
And show that shillings were such serious things!

REFLECTIONS ON TASTE.

Taste, ever young! a Prodigal, profuse!
On bawbles wastes what Wisdom bags for use,
Not to augment a Miser's useless hoard,
Nor, for mad purposes of mischief, stor'd.
But, to supply poor Nature's various needs,
Or bless a neighbour when his bosom bleeds!
Smit with imagin'd joys from finish'd shapes,
Which Nature's types produce, or Artist apes;
For frail and fruitless toys trucks bullion bright,
To feast wild fancy, or insatiate sight;
Or, wantoning o'er views, and wishes, vain,
Finds hopes, and expectations, turn'd to pain!
For, when Imagination weds with Taste,
Their wanton Progeny makes monstrous waste,
While Ostentation's objects, more immense,
O'erwhelm all reasoning, and absorb all Sense!
Calls Vanity to Taste's and Fancy's aid,
Of neither Wisdom, or of Want, afraid—
Plants—builds—and furnishes—till Wealth's no more—
Till Taste has built its boastings out of door!
Mid schemes, far incomplete, repining, sees
His mortgag'd tenures, and his murder'd trees!
O'er pride-projected buildings sorely sighs,
Which, half-unfinish'd, fall before his eyes!
The friendly visits, now no longer known;
Nor pompous rooms, with shining splendour, shown!
No more the Bacchanalian board's beheld,
Rich cates produc'd, or wanton draughts compell'd!
No more o'er jest, jejune, loud laughter's roar'd,
Vile sonnet sung, or chorus, harsh, encor'd—
The Cook's turn'd loose—the grates and stoves unlit—
The jack stands still, and rusts, with spotted spit—
Cauldrons deep canker'd—saucepans grown deep-green—
Scarce mouldy crust, or burnish'd bone, are seen—
Barrels all empty—bottles broke, or dry—
Distress and desolation shock each eye—
The bedstead's bare—each wardrobe's reft of store—
Grim Duns at windows glare, and watch each door—
Search all the silent premises in vain,
With vengeful curse, while Friends with Foes, complain!

No Wealth will satisfy Taste's pregnant pow'rs,
Still more voracious while he more devours—
A World would ne'er suffice each wish to fill,
Like Macedonian Hero, starving, still!
A mere Promethean Vulture! constant, cries,
To feed his famish'd maw, and hungry eyes!
Obedient to his bold, and constant, calls,
Wealth's glitt'ring guineas fuse in waterfalls—
Masses of silver melt in lucid lakes,
Till, deeply sapp'd, each farm, and fabric, shakes—
Bank-notes, thick-sown, shoot forth in shrubs and flow'rs,
And India-bonds grow up in groves and bow'rs—
Transmuted acres turn to rooms of state,
And youthful woods, ag'd houses renovate—
The grieving elder Dryads, doom'd to groan,
Resuscitate in temples, chang'd to stone—
Earth's womb, incarnate, fate ordains to feel
Hard labour's pangs, with instruments of steel;
While all her births, to Ostentation, rise,
In altars—incense—tools—priests—fires—and sacrifice!