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

High, on those Hills, whose scarce-recorded Name,
Has weakly whisper'd from the trump of Fame;
Just to announce, distinct, the simple sound,
O'er other swarming heights, and hamlets, round—
Unless like Name of Bristol's ancient Bard,
Among the tuneful tribes may meet regard,
Which hapless Chatterton's prolific lays
Wreath'd round his brows with never-fading bays;
Or poor Crispinus', oaten pipe, alone,
Might serve to raise the sound one semitone.

There 'mid the Cots that look o'er southern lands,
Near the blest spot where Heav'n's fair temple stands,
Once dwelt an humble, but an honest, Pair,
Of manners, rustic, but of morals rare!
The Husband handsome—active—tall and strong—
Face, form, and mien above the boorish throng!
The Wife, erect and tall; a comely Dame!
No scoff for scorners, nor fond village flame.
Not shap'd, or featur'd, to repress desire,
Or set a maddening modern Troy on fire.
His Mind magnanimous—Her's meek and mild—
No pride misled; no affectation spoil'd—
No hogs, or apes, in diet, or in dress—
Their learning little—their possessions less.
Knowledge enough the rules, and rights, to scan,
Respecting Father God, and fellow Man;
While, subjugating Pride, and Lust, and Sloth,
Their Piety, and Love, still practis'd both:
Freehold enough to bear above the crowd;
Yet not enough to make their Spirits proud,
But, Virtue to support, and Vice oppose,
When in their native County contests rose,
He gave to Merit, still, his ready voice,
Each patriot Candidate his constant choice—
He bawl'd no Party; pledg'd no Statesman's toast;
But steer'd his conduct clear of blame, or boast;
Nor penalty, nor promise, could controul
The steady purpose of his upright Soul.
Ambition had, in neither, higher aim
Than honest Yeoman, and plain, simple, Dame—
Content and toil, economy and care;
And probity, and truth; and speeches fair;
With what their Conscience, and the Scriptures, taught,
Was all the influence—all the Fame, they sought.
No Ancestry conferr'd or shame, or shine,
Tho' several Centuries mark'd their lowly Line—
No pomp, no title, stirr'd up empty pride—
To neither Potentate, or Lord allied—
In Herald's office no vain search was made;
With Competence content, thro' toil and trade—
The fertile field, for them, had brighter charms,
Than blazon'd shields replete with quarter'd Arms;
With velvet mantlings round, or laurel wreath,
And flattering motto, telling lies, beneath;
Yet could they claim descent from noblest blood,
Of Peer!—Prince!—Potentate!—before the Flood!

Such were the Parents whence our Bardling sprung,
Their Names unnotic'd, and their Site unsung;
Yet, Gallic Agincourt, thy well-fought-field,
To kindred Name will deathless honours yield;

Proclaim'd by 'scutcheon'd Arms, whose motto stands
Emblazon'd, bold, the pride of Albion's lands—
Which Name, and warlike Worth, must, still, appear,
To France offensive, but to Britain dear,
Till blank Oblivion her dark mantle flings
O'er hostile acts of Heroes, and of Kings—
Till Time destroys the rolls, or blots the page,
Recording deeds of dauntless Henry's Age—
Till Heav'n's fresh fiat calls—Earth's travel stops—
Till fated fire drinks up the bloody drops,
And Heav'n's just Judge War's furious woes returns,
Its graceless glories blasts, its blighted laurels burns!
Time was that antient, that distinguish'd Name,
Untouch'd by Ostentation sounds the same;
Why to new form, and tone, so alter'd now,
Let Candour, stripp'd of titled pride, avow.
Was it lest Lords should meaner Men confound
By vulgar likenesses of sight and sound?
Lest low plebeian, or some spurious breeds,
Should tarnish honours, and heroic deeds?
True honours rest not on exterior things,
Titles, or shining shields, decreed by Kings!
Not by mere courage, or brute strength acquir'd,
By Fiends applauded; Fops, and Fools, admir'd—
Not by the blind necessity of Birth—
But mental Wisdom, and true moral Worth,
That genuine Worth, which, center'd in itself,
Draws no addition from frail Pow'r, or Pelf,
But feels a consciousness of nobler claims
Than legal courtesies, and lineal Names—
That heavenly Wisdom which ne'er strives to gain,
What Conscience would esteem a crimson stain;
But would with heart-felt vigilance, avoid
Each murderous proof of military Pride!
Would, with a careful, tender, caution, shun
Each pointed weapon, and exploding gun!
Sooner sustain reproach, or fiery flood,
Than blot the Christian character with blood!
Would promptly strive to strengthen social peace,
That hellish feuds from Earth's fair Scenes might cease.
Would only strive to baffle base attack,
And force lewd Lust, and false Ambition, back—
Learn only secret arts of self-defence
To counteract crude subtleties of Sense,
Which, at each inlet, might admit a Foe,
Inflicting present pain, and future woe.
In wary watch, and conflicts, firm, engag'd,
Against fierce Passions, and foul Fiends enraged;
Still urging Heav'n, with supplicating cry,
To stop their influence, or their strength destroy,
While fencing head, and heart, with Faith's firm Arms,
Against the World's false charges, and frail charms;
Whose pure, sky-temper'd, panoply, would quell
Attacks, unseen, from all the Hosts of Hell!

This is the warfare mortal Man should wage,
With Faith, and Patience; not intemperate Rage—
Not fighting foremost in embattled host,
To cause waste, wounds, and butchery; Demon's boast!
Inflicting on his Kind each plague and pain,
Dethroning Deity that Fiends might reign!
But keep from spots, impure, celestial stole,
While fighting Foes that scare, or kill, the Soul!
A constant conflict! fierce, and hardier, far,
Than pangs, and panics, of wild, sanguine, War!
To vanquish those without, and those within;
Inbred Corruption, and habitual Sin!
Foes, oft by Christian's quell'd, ne'er fully slain,
But, vanquish'd, still revive, and fight again!
(Like that fell Foe which antient Hero knew,
Who, when he touch'd the Earth, still stronger grew)
A wicked World that tempts at every turn;
Desires that batter, and lov'd Lusts that burn!
Insinuating Pride, and Passions warm,
That sap the Soul and take the Heart by storm!
And He's far greater, in his God's esteem,
Who duly estimates Life's transient dream,
With all the visions Earth's proud views produce,
Turning each object to its noblest use;
Makes Appetites and Pride and Passions bend;
Applies Ambition to its proper end;
Crushing each base Desire, and beastly Lust,
Than He who makes fall'n millions lick the dust;
Who conquers Kingdoms, and dethrones their Kings,
And sits, supreme, o'er Earth and earthly Things!
He who regards his Lord's redeeming Love,
And purchas'd prospects of true bliss above,
More than all Mirth's vain bubblings here, below;
All Earth can boast, all Sense, thro' Time, bestow!

These Truths might prove what Crispin's Parents taught,
Whose kindling sparks the simple Pupil caught,
Which their examples, pure, still strengthen'd, more
Than purest precepts, couch'd in classic lore—

While Heav'n's blest influence fed, and fann'd, the fire,
Which, daily, purg'd from dross each mixt desire,
Till his rapt Spirit, soaring in the blaze,
Strove more for endless bliss than temp'ral Praise;
And while Affection felt the rapturing view,
It help'd endeavour all Life's dangers through.

Why then should this devoted Son of Song
Obscurely perish with the abject Throng,
Who ne'er, by mental labours, nobly, aim
To found a Family, or build a Name;
Nor, with such constant, strenuous, effort, strive
To keep that Name, and Family, alive—
Ne'er practise Piety—in Duty plod—
To fix fair Characters, and cleave to God!
His private Virtues, train'd in sheltering shade,
May profit more than popular parade—
And tho' to College—Court—and Camp, unknown,
Might shame mere Foplings fluttering round a Throne—
Prevailing Vice by clear Example crush—
Make Hypocrites, and brazen Panders, blush—
And hold up every scoffing Fool to scorn,
Who ne'er fulfil one end for which they're born,
But waste their talents, and consume their time,
In drivelling indolence, or constant crime,
Debasing every gift their God bestow'd—
Base tools of Sin, in Satan's turnpike road!

No longer, now, by Perfidy oppress'd,
Such suffering Virtue shall, forgotten, rest!
Nor, aw'd by Pomp, or Pow'r, or Wit, or Wealth,
Slink, like a Thief, thro' Time's remains, by stealth,
While Fraud, and Falsehood, with audacious mien,
In polish'd Circles, every hour, are seen;
Yea, ev'n in Courts, Hypocrisy, profound,
And bands of perjur'd Profligates abound!
Where Ignorance, rude, and bold, unblushing, Pride,
Shove humble Sense, and Modesty, aside—
Where impious Lust, with fashionable airs,
Low Peer espouses, and lewd Patron spares;
While each base Vanity, and bolder Vice,
In Church, or State, by silence, or by choice,
With arbitrary acts, or brazen brows,
Proud Statesmen practise, or vile Prince avows.

Let then this lowly, unambitious, Bard,
Await the Critic's and the Crowd's, award;
Nor heed what Friends may feel, or Foes may find,
Thro' Hatred, cruel; or, thro' Love, too kind.
Why should His honest efforts be witheld,
While presses teem with trifles, falsely spell'd?
That sink so far below the true sublime,
They reach no rhythm, nay, scarce one tuneful rhyme;
Much less attain the high poetic part;
To teach the head, or touch the feeling heart.
Fools, thro' Vain-glory, Egotists commend,
To shine the Patron, or to show the Friend—
Make scribbling Poetaster proudly vain,
In hopes to catch some foolish flattering strain.
While ignorant Impudence, and selfish Fraud,
For weak, or wicked, purpose, Fops applaud:
Thus, while immoral tracts, and impious strains,
Contaminate the Towns, and spoil the Plains,
Shall not the humble Bardling's tale be told?
Whose Mind was valued, erst, for moral mould—
His virtuous plans, and pious views, be shown?
Tho' lines be scrannel; language like his own—
Tho' neither classic lore, nor lofty lays,
Nor genuine genius plead just claims for praise;
Some simple hint may, haply, have its use,
In strengthening Truth, or baffling foul abuse,—
Expose base Villainy to public view—
Distinguish spurious Patronage from true—
Prove happiness, on Earth, may Penury wed,
When Piety prepares the board and bed;
Or urge more generous, energetic, Mind,
To sketch some nobler scheme to bless Mankind!

Come, then, my Muse! pourtray, with strictest truth,
The sentiments that swayed his early Youth;
While full experience fills the ample page
With pious practices which crown'd his Age:
Nor longer let his natal Knowle remain
The slighted landmark of each neighbouring plain.
Not aiming to usurp superior place,
O'er Men, or Mountains, of sublimer Race,
Nor vainly strive to match his rustic rhymes
With Muses of antique or modern Times.
The wonderous Andes, Alps, or Pyrenees,
Whose bases burn while their proud summits freeze:
But o'er mere Apes, or Anthills, boldly claim
To raise his Dwelling, and to rank his Name,
Thus, warbled, freely, from my rustic Lyre,
Till both the Singer, and the Song, expire!

Why may not poor Crispinus' native Hill,
The page, poetic, dignifiedly fill;
Where happiest beauty-shape sublimest, shine,
From culturing skill, and modellings divine!
Ev'n pow'rs, poetic, ne'er can, full, unfold
The strong contours, and majesty of mould;
Nor lining Art, with pencil'd hues, express
The traits of drapery, or the tints of dress!
May not the Muse, with pure design, essay
To chaunt their charms in honest, artless, lay?
Why not? while Scenes of far inferior stamp,
Where awkward aims the schemes of Nature cramp;
Each flatten'd lawn, and artificial shade,
In swelling strains are pompously pourtray'd;
While she sits pining o'er each passive child,
By Custom tortur'd, or pert Fashion spoil'd.
Her ductile offspring suffering in each limb;
Fetter'd or forc'd, by Ignorance, or weak Whim—
No form, nor feature, shines without disguise,
By dress distorted, or deform'd by toys—
Yet such strange Monsters most attract the throng,
And win proud plaudits from some venal song—
Some Flatterer puffs the metamorphos'd plan,
A new-made Eden, form'd from schemes of Man!
Yet, while some Sycophant, with fawning Lyre,
Applauds vain ornaments, and vile attire,
'Tis plain to Truth, and unperverted Taste,
Proud wealth lies wasted, and God's work disgrac'd!

My unaspiring Muse's humble view,
Is, just to range them, both, in order due;
Just to record them in their proper place,
Below ambition, but above disgrace.
Not to exalt their fame, or merit, high'r
Than fair integrity and truth require—
Not hope to read this modern Mount enroll'd
Above Parnassus' honour'd heights, of old—
Not aim the puny Poet's worth to raise
Beyond its value, or Superior's praise—
Nor to preclude contentions thro' the Earth
To fix the sight of second Homer's birth,
But barely execute my simple plan;
To prove the humble Bard an honest Man—
To prove him, tho' so long a Tyrant's Tool,
No sordid Pimp—false Hypocrite—or Fool—
Statue, or Bust, of either stone, or brass—
Ungrateful Monster, or submissive Ass—
But judge of right and wrong—of woe and weal—
Awake, to reason; and alive, to feel!
To prove, where'er his Life; whate'er his Lot;
He dropp'd no Duty—ne'er his God forgot—
Nor, 'mid the scenes of Misery, Pride, or Lust
E'er barter'd blest Belief, or truck'd his Trust.

'Tis meritorious to attempt a Plea
When Tyrants trample on the low Degree—
To urge with warmth, a Sufferer's full defence,
When Falshood, Wealth, and Wit, flout Innocence—
Where Candour dares not in Pomp's Court appear,
To start, in Virtue's cause, a Volunteer;
And stand, with Truth and Justice on her side,
Against base mobs of Prejudice and Pride,
Tho' Blockheads banter, and dull Fops deride.

O mystic Memory! in whose wonderous round
All plastic Nature's treasured forms are found;
While, in thy boundless, motley magazine,
Prolific Fancy's shadowy shapes are seen—
Who brings bold sketches to thy mingled mass,
And makes those pictures thro' thy mansions pass;
Presenting, each, in high, or low, reliefs,
Before her nobler intellectual Chiefs.
Extensive Storehouse! where all models lie,
Each Sense imports, from Nature's full supply;
With all ideas Spirit has explor'd,
And safely lodg'd within thy secret hoard,
Till call'd, as Witness, in every Cause,
In Courts of God's, or Man's, or Nature's, Laws.
Volume, immense! where Understanding reads;
Judgment's decisions, prov'd, as Reason pleads;
While all the compound pow'rs of Mind behold
Black-letter'd Lies, or Truths in types of gold.
Thou figure-fixing, clear-recording, Maid!
Retouch the pictures in thy stores pourtray'd—
Assist the Muse, while striving to retrace
Clear acts of Intellect, or Nature's face—
Bring all the facts, and bold reflections forth
Which brand what's base, or stamp intrinsic Worth;
But, in thy darkest cells conceal, unseen,
All sordid sentiments of Spite, or Spleen;
And close, with them, all fell effusions hide,
That spring from Passion—Prejudice—or Pride;
That none may fairly spurn the faithful page,
Should these true strains outlive this trifling Age.

Thy choicest influence, Nature, now diffuse,
To aid the efforts of my labouring Muse.
Warm and irradiate, well, with sunny smiles,
The simple products of her strenuous toils;
With dews, nectareous, and ambrosial show'rs,
Imparting strength to all her puny pow'rs;
And, shedding odours from thy fragrant wings,
Pour plenteous inspiration while she sings.
Attend her o'er the steeps, and fruitful farms,
And, from thy pallet, sketch their matchless charms—
Not farms immense, where Wealth, and Sloth, recline,
While hords of hinds, in scatter'd corners, pine;
Nor sterile tracts, presenting barren blanks,
Whence Man receives no meat, kind Heav'n no thanks;
But moderate lots, where constant care and toil
Draw bare subsistence from well-cultur'd soil;
With narrower plats, which Penury circumscribes,
Whence endless labour scarce feeds countless tribes.
But chief, pure Spirit! thy bless'd help impart,
To purge my head, and purify my heart;
While stimulating Age, and warning Youth,
To read, and register, each useful truth;
That all may still to God's true glory tend,
And make Mankind Mankind's efficient Friend—
Whether mere Nature forms the Muse's scheme,
Or Morals and Religion raise the theme:
For Thou, alone, can'st make all Nature's face
Show proofs of Wisdom, Goodness, Pow'r, and Grace;
Or, breathe forth holy influence, from above,
To form, in Man, firm Faith, and Hope, and Love!

First, plastic Fancy, with thy pencil, paint
The Air, transparent, free from stain, or taint;
Whose whisperings, pure, those beauteous Heights embrace,
Where Crispin first commenc'd his mortal race.
Purer than breezey winds which myriads breathe,
Who throng surrounding dales, wide-spread beneath—
Purer than that foul atmosphere that frowns,
O'er neighbouring hamlets, villages, and towns;
And still more pure, from those vast vapours free,
That, great Augusta! ever hang o'er Thee;
Still o'er thy crowding domes, and turrets, low'r;
Oppress each fleshly frame, and mental pow'r.
Tell, sweetest Nymph! how that soft Air, serene,
Enwraps, and soothes, each fair, each favourite, Scene!
How bright Hygeia, thro' that breezey sphere,
So fresh—so fragrant—colourless, and clear,
Imbues the vital stream, in blandest course,
Swelling the Soul with full elastic force;
Surrounded by her blue-robed sylphic bands,
Her charms displays—her pinions wide expands;
While with extatic breast, and brightening eyes,
She, midst her train, exploring Earth and Skies,
Sports round the proud Ascent, in spiral rings,
Bathes her light limbs, or quaffs the limpid springs!

Come, Botany; belov'd Acquaintance! come;
And o'er the rich, productive, precincts roam.
Thy prying, rosey, pupils, hither ask,
To ply their pleasant, but laborious, task.
Tell them each pace with transport shall be paid,
Which traces panting steep, or tangled glade.
Declare true wonders to each raptur'd Soul,
While ranging swampy copse, or burning knowle—
Of teeming stones, and pregnant hedgerows tell,
In field adust, moist mead, or oozey dell—
What novel births, hills, lawns, and thickets, throng,
Too much for Memory—Names unfit for Song!

With these, let Art's depicturing Son, attend;
Nature's Amanuensis! Fortune's Friend!
Let the clear colours on his easel shine
With which their Parent proves His Art divine!
Mix'd with that ever-varying light and shade,
In which His manufactures all are made!
The countless works His skilful fingers weave,
At dapple dawn, midday, or chequer'd eve,
In Heav'n's bright robes, which so sublimely sweep
Rich folds of drapery round the azure deep—
The mournful shades when show'rs profusely flow,
On which He paints His seven-striped bow;
Or pours, with lustre pure, o'er glittering streams,
In gold's broad blaze, or silver's twinkling gleams,
As winds repose, or whispering zephyrs wake
The wavey waters, o'er each rill and lake—
All hues His shuttle throws, thro' Earth's large loom,
O'er every verdant leaf, and varied bloom,
Which clothe each plain, and crown each painted wood,
Proving Heav'n's Artist pow'rful—wise—and good!
Let Genius join, to trace creative skill,
By semblance clear, sketch'd round the beauteous Hill;
Each graceful attribute, of objects grand,
That there discriminate, or deck, the Land.

Swell the domestic Steep's extended Mound,
With all its groups of convex hillocks crown'd.
Reveal each vision, fair, in prospect spread,
O'er ample plain, and azure mountain's head.
The bordering objects bold, distinct, and bright,
With all expressive pow'rs of shade and light;
Of shape, size, tints, and attitudes, and dress,
That round the raptur'd eye, profusely, press!
Those more remote, whose hues, and figures, fade,
With weaker colours on the canvas laid;
Faint, and more faint, till character decay,
Clad, all alike, in knapless garments, gray.
Remoter, still, let hazey hills appear,
Like misty meteors, rising in the rear;
While endless dales dissolve before the view,
With Heav'n's arch bent, in soft celestial blue.

Rear high the towering Hailstone's rocky crest—
Stretch fair festoons across its kerchief'd breast—
Let its white shoulders o'er the woodland shine—
Show vassal rocks low shrinking, near its shrine—
Group on its polish'd crown gay Nymphs and Swains,
Who scale its lofty top to scan the plains;
Climb humbler craggs which rudely rise beneath,
Or, on their dizzy summits, labouring breathe—
To naked roots, that cross their bosoms, cling—
Or, on each low-bent bough, suspended, swing—
Couch on the silky sod, or, sportive, play,
Or trace, thro' devious tracks, their winding way.
Depict each neighbouring hill's transcendent height,
With all the beauties of their coiffure, bright,
Where Taste, delighted, eyes all Heav'n bestows,
To deck their broider'd sides, and turban'd brows—
All its best wardrobe yields, rich veils and vests,
To crown their brows, and clothe their rock-ribb'd breasts—
The graceful slopes, and furbelows of grove,
By pucker'd copses form'd, and flow'rs inwove—
Their plaited skirts full folds, and wavey falls,
With fringey hedge-rows flounc'd, or hemm'd with walls—
While each eye roams, each heart with rapture thrills,
Round this unrivall'd Sisterhood of Hills!

Spread thence unfolded canvas far, and wide,
To stretch the pictur'd space, on every side—
Westward begin, where Phebus' rising ray,
First stamps, distinct, fair signatures of day;
As from his arched fount, profuse, he pours
Full floods of liquid gold, o'er trees and tow'rs—
Whilst orient hills, which front his flowing urn,
And glowing with his new-born glories, burn;
Before the eye, their shadowy shoulders rear,
Tlll western skies receive his flaming sphere.

The Amphitheatre's wide terrace range,
Unfolding every view some rapturous change—
Trace fertile farms, that crown its cultur'd tops,
With brightest herbage, and with crowded crops.
Disperse, o'er spangled meads, fair milky kine,
Whose mottled coats, show many-colour'd shine;
Whose turgid udders swell, with strutting teats,
To feast their Owners with nectareous treats;
Which with profuse repletion overflow,
Spouting a portion every step they go.

Sketch brick-built mansions, with vermilion crown'd,
With gardens, rich, and glowing orchards, round—
Gregarious hamlets, and sequester'd cots,
That liven, and adorn, respective spots;
Where Industry and Art employ their pow'rs,
In raising esculents, and fostering flow'rs.
Where no indulg'd Deformity appears,
But love of Beauty each bright Offspring rears
Whilst labouring bands enlarge their heightening hopes,
As Culture tills, and trims, their native Slopes.
While thus the prospect spreads fair, calm, and clear,
To exercise Imagination's ear,
Let throngs of humble Artists ply, with zeal,
The clanking hammer, and the humming wheel,
Chaunting, on every side, some rustic song,
To lull their cares, and course their hours along;
While Toil surveys her stores, with calm content,
Irriguous rising o'er each bold Ascent!

DUDLEY.

Close on the skirts of neighbouring northern height,
Let Dudley's crowded domes arrest the sight;
Where, o'er each sacred fane, and social roof,
Rude feudal reliques lift their heads aloof;
To hint how despot Pow'r, and hostile Strife,
Rear high their foreheads o'er domestic Life:
Swell o'er the supple throngs of humbler Birth,
And stalk, with slavish Terror, o'er the Earth;
All civil rights, and liberties, to chain,
And subjugate Religion's blissful reign!

Now nods each Edifice in tottering state,
To warn all Tyrants of their woeful Fate;
And tell, by batter'd tow'rs, and wasted walls,
How each dier Despot, in confusion, falls!
Behind, extensive Romish Ruins hide,
Once haunts of Idols, base, and bigot Pride!
Where papal Antichrist the sceptre sway'd,
And Superstition plied her pagan trade;
But now, pure Piety, with righteous joy,
Beholds those Domes in desolation lie.
Nor longer ignorant zeal's false ardour, now,
Repeats vain pray'rs, or vents the idle vow;
No more inflam'd with Demon's fell desires,
Again to kindle Smithfield's cruel fires;
But that blest Profidence, which orders all,
Has forc'd each Fiend to fly, each tow'r to fall!

HIMLEY.

Near, on the left, let Himley's woods appear;
To Health, propitious, and to Friendship, dear!
Sweet, hospitable Seat of Dudley Ward;
Who deign'd to countenance our humble Bard!
His feudal Baron, but his friendly Lord!
Not shunn'd for Tyranny, or Pride abhorr'd—
With whom Crispinus, erst, those woods explor'd,
And shared the honours of His noble board.
But, ah! with Him, he'll share the feast no more!
Nor labyrinthine shades, with pride, explore!
His kindnesses are clos'd! His Sun long set!
Still grateful Crispin recognis'd the debt;
Not grasping, and forgetting, like a Clown,
But prais'd that Patron while his own went down—
Meantime to merit, and His memory, just,
This motto penn'd when He was laid in dust.

“His views were virtuous, and his failings, few—
“He gave to Justice all to Justice due.
“His reasoning was too high, too large His Soul,
“To measure merit by a parchment roll.
“His elevated Mind could condescend
“To mark low Worth—but more, become its Friend.
“He pledg'd no promise, but, with bosom warm,
“Remember'd still, still faithful to perform.
“No fame sollicited—no flattery sought—
“Begg'd no applause—no panegyric bought—
“Spent no false praise on idolizing lay,
“Nor hung out baits, to tempt, and then betray.
“Suborn'd no babbler—no defamer fear'd—
“But, promptly, Reason, Truth, and Conscience, heard—
“Felt what all feel, who act upright part,
“The pure approval of an honest heart!”

DISTANT PROSPECT.

Now spread the vast Champaigne's expansive sweep,
Where swims the eye, and lands on many a steep.
Views peopled spots—wild wastes—or sylvan scenes,
In varied vests; dull drabs; or gladdening greens—
Where clustering Cottages, encircled, stand,
Whose Tenants' toils enrich thier roods of land;
With grey plains girt, neglected, and forlorn!
That ne'er knew music but the Huntsman's horn;
And bellowing bipeds, of the cruel kind,
With noisome sounds of clamorous kennels join'd.
Where pygmey flocks on purpled herbage feed,
And burrowing rabbits rear their furry breed.
Where starveling shrubs on separate acres pine,
And murkey mounds announce exhausted mine.
The ample space no flow'rs, no fountains, chear,
Nor Spring spreads out her verdant vestments there,
Save where twin Yew trees, like leagued brothers, bold,
Out-brav'd the tempest, and defied the cold;
And thro' unnumbered centuries kept their place
While millions fell of Man's ill-fated Race!
Or close-cut furze-bush, scatter'd, far and wide,
With yellow blooms bespots the savage void;
While stern Sterility, with mantle brown,
With thistly sceptre, and rough ferny crown,
Extends his dreary reign, with sullen sway,
Since whelming water swept Mankind away—
Nor hath bright share, or coulter, e'er been known
To tear his raiment, or o'erturn his throne;
But 'mid well-cultured tracks, and crowded towns,
From Age to Age, dark lowr'd with famine's frowns.

'Mid the rude forehead of the rugged Wild,
Where Pleasure never laugh'd, nor Comfort smil'd!
With sedges fring'd, and birches border'd round,
A liquid mirror lights the vale profound,
And, like a Cyclops' eye, thro' thick-shagg'd brows,
And bristly lids, with glaring lustre glows;
Diffusing silvery gleams, with softening grace,
O'er the grim features of his grisley face!

Such was the Scene, thro' postdeluvian dates,
Till Dudley Ward ordain'd far different fates—

Call'd out the mattock, axe, and probing spade,
To bound and drain the thriftless knowle, and glade—
Grubb'd the stunt holly, and rude hawthorn bush,—
Banish'd rough swampy reed, and marshy rush—
Launch'd, boldly, thro' the propagating plough,
To try for harvests on each barren brow;
Severing dry hillock from gross oozey glen,
For tableing beasts, and fencing food for Men.
Soon o'er the smiling wilderness were seen
Rich clover grass, and turnips' vivid green;
While bordering Peasantry, with hopes, behold,
Fields gladly float in waves of wheaten gold!

But, ah! how seldom Scenes, like these, supply
One gleam of hope to Penury's eager eye!
How rare one real privilege impart,
To meagre Misery's hapless, pining, heart!
Furnish no useful helps to starving stores,
While Want petitions, and deep Woe deplores;
But more embitter hungry Labour's lot,
By scraps and morsels claim'd from murm'ring Cot!
Of all these benefits, that bliss, bereft,
That Heav'n had lent, but Pow'r no longer left!
Spontaneous products of the Sun and Soil,
Not given Intreaty, nor, now gain'd by Toil!

Their little Cow, which, wont to prowl at large,
Pick'd its chief provender, exempt from charge;
Might, o'er unmeasur'd acres, freely roam,
And, half the year, bring burden'd udders home;
Returning, faithful, morning, noon, and night,
The Parent's dow'r, and Progeny's delight!
Still yielding each a charitable treat
Of palatable—pure—unpurchas'd—meat!

Their puny Pig, there, travell'd to and fro,
Which scarce to common glance appear'd to grow;
Yet would the Owner's interested eyes
Behold him, hourly, greatly grown in size;
While, near the narrow threshold, day by day,
He join'd the barefoot brood, in sportive play—
The pleas'd companion of their board and bed,
With care, with tenderness, well-hous'd and fed,
Till, fat with fondness, and full bulk, increas'd,
His flesh afforded Winter's weekly feast;
Supplying savoury food for Sunday's dish,
The fond fulfilment of their weekly wish—
Then some descendant, of the bristly race,
At Spring's return supplied his happy place.

Their aged Gander, and their matron Goose,
Each Summer's morn, with clamorous cries, let loose,
To traverse, freely, all that ample round,
Where neither fastness stood, or tyrant frown'd;
Free from restraint led on their downy brood,
O'er lawns, and lakes, to find their constant food;
And every eve, with grateful fondness, chear'd,
Till, free from cost and toil, each offspring rear'd,
They proudly purchas'd, with the feathery flock,
Warm cloaths, and bread-corn, for their wintry stock.

When stern manorial Lords' unpitying pow'rs
Monopolize like providential dow'rs;
No little Cow transports the Peasant's soul,
Or fills, with strengthening treat his beechen bowl;
But callous hearts inclose the parcell'd plain,
While with his Cow, his Comfort's sold and slain!

The puny Pig greets eyes, and ears, no more,
With grunts, and gambols, round his cottage door!
No more in collops cut from season'd hoard,
To smoke, each Sabbath, on his battening board!

No snowy Gander and grey Goose are seen,
Strutting before their troop about the green;
At Summer's close for wheat, and woollens, sold
To feed their frames and skreen them from the cold.
In tatters, now, expos'd to biting blasts,
And pinch'd with want while temporal being lasts—
No hope to stimulate, or toil, or care,
To chear their prospects, or to chace despair!

Think not that Crispin's meditating mind,
Was e're so silly, bigotted, and blind,
As wish to see such tracts of turf produce
So little fruits for beauty, or for use—
No reasoning Soul could murmur, so misled,
Who wishes all Mankind well-cloth'd and fed;
Nor longs that Man alone, but labouring beasts,
Might find their comforts, and enjoy their feasts.
None touch'd with sympathy, or blest with taste,
Loves barren wild, or drear deformed waste—
Nor longs mere wildernesses still might lie
The scourge of conscious heart, and tutor'd eye.
Earth, in such sterile state, can ne'er afford
Full food for beasts, or bless Man's festal board—
But when Wealth's greedy pow'r, and grasping paw,
Urg'd on by selfishness, and back'd by law—
When lordly Chiefs extend the fatal chain,

To mark exclusive claims o'er all the plain—
When, o'er each heathy height and grassy glade,
Large lots to Competence, and Wealth, are laid,
Should not Compassion point out some restraint,
To lighten labour, and preclude complaint?
Should not some plots for Poverty be found?
Some petty portions of contiguous ground?
Some spots to nurse the progeny of Need?
Where Pigs and Cows, with Families, might feed?
While Goose and Gander stepp'd their small extent,
From pinfolds free, and clear of lease and rent?

OBSERVATIVE REFLECTIONS.

Were Conscience well awake, she'd loudly call
To the proud Pelegs of this temporal Ball,
And tell them, what their Priests forbear to tell;
Who promise Heav'n, but rarely speak of Hell!
Would tell them, all the crowds of Toil and Care,
From their first Father claim a common share.
That, when their high Creator first assign'd
The Earth to Man, 'twas meant for all Mankind;
And His pure Justice still maintains this plea,
“Rights never forfeited must still be free.”
'Tis true, a cruel, crafty, pow'rful, Prince,
By impious usurpation, seiz'd it since;
And, from his airy, arbitrary, throne,
Once offer'd all of what was ne'er his own,
To One whose Will and Wisdom, form'd it first,
And, tho', thro' Man's foul crime, the whole's accurs'd,
Still by His Mercy, Providence, and Might;
Supplies His Creatures, and supports His Right;
While still, that Tyrant, offers pow'r, and pelf,
To Mortals that resemble most himself—
Still stimulates those Tools of Pride and Pow'r,
To spoil the Poor of all Heav'n's bounteous dow'r.

MORE REMARKS.

Whence grew the titles of the Rich, and Great,
To their vain treasures, and their vast Estate?
Were loads of gold, and leagues of grassy sod,
Mines, Woods, and Wilds—exclusive gifts of God?
And have not brother Men, of meaner Birth,
Some right and title to small specks of Earth?
Some rights to clothing, and some claims for food,
As much as Brethren of like mortal brood?
And are not cottages, and comforts due,
Gardens and glebes, to them, as well as You?
Yes, petty Despots! Ye who thus refuse
To hear their groans, and grant their destin'd dues,
Shall, at Heav'n's Bar, attend their last appeal,
And share the fate, all Tyrants, then, shall feel!

SHROPSHIRE.

Still stretching farther, West, let raptur'd sight,
Behold, 'mid objects of supreme delight,
On the broad bosom of surrounding dells,
With sov'reign pride, the conic Wrekin swells;
And, o'er the prostrate plains, with crest elate,
Lifts its huge throne in solitary state—
Of arbitrary pow'r, proud emblem, clear,
Which suffers no aspiring rival near.
Remoter still, Cambria's high craggs emerge,
Frowning defiance o'er the swelling surge;
While, like Titanian twins, the Clees aspire,
'Mid Juno's tempests and Jove's forky fire!
Here Alverley its brawney shoulders rears,
To pillar, with its pile, the bending spheres!
There spouting pure its Esculapian rills,
Malvern erects its many-headed hills;—
Pleas'd, to its breasts, bids pale Disease repair,
To taste their streams, and breathe their balmy air;
And, while they purge off sicknesses, and pains,
Send patients bounding back o'er smiling plains!
Scoop'd concaves vast connect their sloping sides,
Stretch out their borders to the billowy tides,
While sight, unintercepted, pushing through,
Labours to realize the distant view;
And bears Imagination's flights between,
To sketch out elfin Lands, and Seas unseen!

ENVILLE.

Proud, in the hollow of a dreary space
Fair Enville rises, with peculiar grace,
Contrasted with the barren blanks around,
With green lawns apron'd, and gay garlands crown'd!
Whose woods, and distance, with a twofold veil,
Unnumber'd beauties from the sight conceal;
While obvious charms the shades, and openings, show,
To draw admiring bands from plains below.

With strong antithesis ascending, by,
Kinver's long steril ridge benumbs the eye—
Lifts its bleak, steril back, for ever bare;

Embrown'd with burning heat, or freezing air—
Without a tree, or shrub, to ease the sight,
Whose sheltering shades would vernal choirs invite;
With winnowing wings might damp the dog-star's rage,
Or wintery storms impetuous pow'rs asswage.

STOURBRIDGE AND OLD SWINFORD.

Deep in the dale industrious Stourbridge stands
Alert with shuttles, looms, and labouring hands—
Old Swinford near erects its pointed spire,
From feverish skies to drain the fluid fire;
When thro' dark ether dread deliriums rave,
Each neighb'ring dome's endanger'd roof to save;
To draw each charge from heav'n-built batteries, loud,
And spike the ordnance of each hostile cloud.

HAGLEY.

Hence glides the sight o'er Scenes of fairer fame,
Once grac'd by Lyttleton's ennobled Name;
That Name which first baronial honours bore;
A Lord, belov'd! who, now, glads Earth no more!
A mirror, bright! where Peers might plainly see,
If not what others are, what all should be.
Much more adorn'd by learning, Wit, and Worth,
Than lordly Title, Wealth, or noblest Birth!
Sincere, tho' courteous—resolute, tho' mild—
No trust betray'd—no confidence beguil'd—
His promise, sacred—his assertions, true—
He scorn'd to tempt—cajole—and then, undo.
Scorn'd to pursue the subtle Miner's part,
To work deep windings in the heedless heart;
An then, with more than Machiavelian guilt,
Blow up the fabrics Faith and Hope had built!
His Honour, spotless! Independence, dear!
Immers'd in Courts he kept his Conscience clear!
Tho' breathing air where poisonous vapours float,
His Faith supplied perpetual antidote!
Each pious grace with purest morals, mix'd,
His converse fashion'd, and his conduct fix'd!
Tho' with abundant feasts by Flattery fed,
Sincerity supplied his daintiest bread;
While, tho' she practis'd well the Syren's part,
Chaunting her strains by courtly rules of Art,
He never knew their fascinating force;
For Virtue, flowing on, in heavenly course,
Ne'er felt foul shame, nor suffer'd fatal shocks,
Of Conscience, wreckt on Vice's horrid rocks.
Court-favour could no Vanity infuse,
Nor Pride, nor Ostentation, turn his views—
Philosophy and Sense his Soul refin'd;
And, fenc'd from vicious taint his moral Mind!
Corruption's aspic tooth could, still, withstand,
And shake the viper from unvenom'd hand!
Press itchy palms from all infection free!
Colleague with Lepers, yet no Leper he!
In regal Courts all proper homage paid,
To Magistrate supreme, the People made;
Yet look'd on Kings, like that keen-thinking few,
Who yield to Cesar only Cesar's due;
Not giving glory to a crumbling Clod,
Prince—King—or Emperor call'd, by robbing God!
He view'd, with calm respect, not impious awe,
On Mortals, like himself, restrain'd by Law—
Not with unalienable pow'r possest,
But bound by right restrictions, like the Rest.
Saw pimping Parasites, mere tools of State,
Like dazzling Meteors, of a moment's date!
Saw transient Minister's deputed pow'rs,
The vivid Vapours of Eve's passing hours;
With gildings grac'd, which maudlin Souls admire,
But put on sables when their Suns retire;
Or feeble radiance, drawn from borrow'd beams,
Like reflex Moonlight from lakes twinkling streams!
All strength, deriv'd from temporal Prince's ray,
Like frail ephemerons of a vernal day,
All pomp possess'd from such elating lot,
Envied, while worn; when stript, all straight forgot!
Mark'd, when Caprice first push'd them from their place,
Skulking with sharp chagrin, and dumb disgrace;
For seldom Kings, or Courtiers, seek, or claim
True Friends in Time—or find posthumous Fame!
When his fond feet approach'd Heav'n's holy Shrine,
Where wise Men worship Majesty divine,
His Soul, concenter'd, in that awful Fane,
Allow'd no vagrant look, no action vain;
For conscious crime each careless hour occurr'd,
How boldly he'd rebell'd! how oft he err'd;
And feeling gifts, and graces, flow'd from God,
His Temple, still, with deep devotion trod;
His pious Heart, impress'd with Love and Fear,
Presented full, and freewill, offerings, there!
From his example gracious practice grew—

Religion's Champion, and her Patron, too!
And, while Heav'n's maxims stor'd his tender Mind,
Felt pure philanthropy for all Mankind!
Ne'er look'd with keen contempt, but pity, down
On mean Mechanic, or uncourtly Clown;
Nor hop'd to find perfection's ampler springs
In courtly Ministers, or mortal Kings;
But found base faults, or follies, tinge the fate
Of all that wrought with tools, or rul'd the State!
Knew Heav'n intended in Earth's temporal plan,
Innumerous ranks, and offices, of Man;
Yet, while dictating Laws, at Duty's call,
He warmly wish'd the happiness of all!

With Him Crispinus cares and and toils forgot;
Bask'd in his smiles, and hop'd a better lot!
With him bright Hagley's bless'd Elysium trac'd,
By beauty garnish'd, more by merit grac'd!
With him partook the hospitable treat,
Charm'd with his Manners more than choicest meat!
The Guests, the Honours, gratified a wish,
But his true kind Friendship far the daintiest dish!
While Grandeur, Grace, and Learning most profound,
With Wit, and Wisdom, fill'd the friendly round—
And while rich Viands pleas'd the sensual part
Pure Loving-kindness amplified the heart!
Those warm endearments, once so much admir'd,
Soon, with the life of Lyttleton, expir'd!
And left, in Crispin's breast, so vast a void
No future Friend, or Patron, e'er supplied!
To count the loss no language can declare!
Friendship must fail—ev'n Poesy despair!
What gratitude regrets, what's lov'd so well,
Sighs best can signify—tears best can tell!

LESSOWES.

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!

Hence, busy observation, wandering wide,
Where fences, fring'd, in chequer'd squares, divide
The garnish'd Landscape, in luxuriance gay,
Unfolded bright, beneath Sol's southern ray;
Beholds the Earth's best riches, spread, profuse,
For Man's enjoyment, and for Cattles' use—
The noblest births that procreant Nature breeds,
Which, while Man fosters, Heaven clothes and feeds!
Sheep—horses—oxen, animate the fields—
Fair flow'rs and fruits each home-inclosure yields—
On hills the embryo bread abundant grows,
While every vale with milk and honey flows—
One spot exempt, which heightens every grace,
Like auburn eyebrows on fair Beauty's face.
No cropless Park, or Down, or Forest, drear,
Encourage pomp, or Melancholy, here!
No Dome dismantled; field, or fence, destroy'd,
To stimulate a Lord's, or Prince's, pride!
No flocks, or herds, exchang'd for beasts of chace;
A Monarch's stigma, and a Realm's disgrace!
No wilderness where horse and hound may fly,
The Puppy's pastime, and the Madman's joy!
No tangled brakes supplant pure wheaten store—
Nor, stead of milk and honey, human gore—
Instead of cots, inclos'd, abandon'd dells—
Instead of rustic sonnets, raving yells—
Nature reduc'd to savage state agen,
Excluding culture, and expunging Men!

Will Reason sanction such a base abuse;
Which tends to mischief more than social use?
Will Wisdom warrant such preposterous plan,
Thus murd'ring Arts—uncivilizing Man?
Can mild Humanity such scheme caress,
That banishes ev'n Brutes' poor happiness?
Waste skill, and strength, with blameless blood to stain
The harmless regions of the peaceful plain?
Can generous Clemency, unyearning, hear
The cries of torment, or strong tones of fear?
Can tender Sympathy, complacent, see,
With wild convulsive motions, Meekness flee;
Or waken'd Conscience, with indifference, wink,
While dying tortures make deep Misery sink?
Can mild Morality, with ardour, glow,
While driving Innocence to depths of woe;
Or pure Religion long to persecute
The bluntest feelings of a faultless Brute,
While cruel clamour, mix'd with hostile strife,
Adds deepening horrors to departing life!

Sure sober, sensible, and manly, Mind,
By true Philosophy, and Taste, refin'd,
Devoid of moral, and religious, views,
Might more enchanting exercises chuse,
Than thus the sentimental Soul to wound,
By spreading Pain, and rude Confusion, round!
Sure Man might glean from gardens, cotts, and farms,
More chaste allurements, and more lasting charms,
Than barren blanks of undivided waste,
And roaring raptures, none but Frantics taste!
Sure mental pow'rs might find more pure employ;
More intellectual—kind—congenial—joy,
From Wisdom's virtuous volumes Truth to trace,
Than childish paroxysms that prompt the Chase—
Or in celestial tomes, of Heav'n to find
Mercy for Brutes, and blessings for Mankind!
The feeling Heart with finer transport thrills,
From scudding lambkins bleating round the hills;
From lowing kine that thro' rich valleys rove;
Or warbling love-notes fill each leafy grove—
The rustic troops engaged in gambols gay,
The ploughman's whistle, and the milkmaid's lay;
Than maddening fugitives that fright the morn,
With howling kennel, and with clamorous horn,
Proud, prancing Centaurs' two-ton'd neigh and shout,
And all the brutal Bipeds' rabble-rout!
Sure calm retirement from the thoughtless throng,
Consulting Sages, or instructive Song,
Might more sublime felicity afford,
Than noise, and nonsense, round inebriate board!

No reasoning Creature comfort feels, or sees,
In such tumultuous mobs, and tracts as these,
In folly, and fatigue to drudge all Day,
Frighting poor hind, or hare, or beast of prey!
No pensive heads, or pious hearts, delight,

In maniac din thro' Morn—or noise thro' Night—
In scrannel chorus, bawling beastly strain—
In filthy jest, or anecdote, profane—
In operose bustle, and expensive mess,
With hogs gross just indulg'd, or dogs excess—
The feverish bottle, and the frantic bowl,
That saps the Body, and that sinks the Soul—
Foul feasts to gorge the Glutton, and the Sot,
And while the Gift's ador'd, the Debt's forgot!

How different, far, delights calm Conscience guides;
Religion rules; and Deity decides—
Where Nature spreads her most propitious smiles,
And Usefulness rewards fond cares and toils—
Where Heav'n and Reason Duty's acts direct,
Nor Lust, nor Indolence, their laws neglect—
Where Intellect's refresh'd, tired Limbs are fed,
With simple beverage, and with savoury bread;
And garments grave all nervous Frames infold,
To cover nakedness, and skreen from cold;
While oil, and balm, bless'd Providence distils,
To smoothe Life's surges, and heal all its ills!
Where labouring Rustics thro' the live-long Day,
With friendly converse, gay, blest hours beguile;
Or, at more leisure moments, meekly look
To trace out truths in Heav'n's exhaustless Book—
Still, on the long'd-for sacred Sabbath-day,
God's welcome call, both morn and eve, obey—
While warm devotions, every day, begin
The condescending ear of Heav'n to win—
With joyful thanks—ejaculation calm—
Still meditation—sounding hymn, or psalm,
And solemn pray'r, the sacred evening close;
To lull the Lusts, and Passions, to repose!
Love's pious hands by Faith and Hope held up,
Bring daily Peace, to breakfast, dine, and sup!
No ghosts of murder'd mercies haunt their bed,
But Grace and Goodness fill each heart and head!
No nightly vision, with foul views, infests
The peaceful breathings of their pious breasts!
Their thoughts ne'er grope midst melancholic gloom,
Nor feel dread horrors for their future doom;
But, in each bosom, dear assurance dwells,
And sheds clear sunshine round those rustic cells;
While Conscience looking back, on hours past by,
Beholds them gilt with gleams of heavenly joy!

MORE GENERAL OBSERVATIONS.

No wealthy Wizard, here, with haughty pales,
Impounds large portions of those Hills and Dales,
Reversing fairy ring, and circling spell,
Where greener grass, or purer Spirits, dwell—
Where Worth can sleep secure, in magic fence,
With Thieves and evil Demons driven thence.
Such proud impalements scarcely e'er inclose
True hosts of Friends, or fence off treacherous Foes;
Nor Health, Peace, Happiness, nor Hope, retain,
Excluding Sorrow, Sickness, Care, or Pain—
Nor can their pow'r, or churlish looks, repel
The frowns of Conscience, or the fears of Hell!
They simply serve to fix forbidding bound,
To fruitful fields, and manag'd meadows, round;
To keep out Cattle, and the woolly Race,
Whose rustic troops would spoil so pure a place.
No fence can answer Life's important end,
Their hopes to foster, or their health defend,—
Tho' fortified so strong their useless lawns,
For fleeceless unpenn'd hinds, and does, and fawns.
High, ostentatious Domes, and proud Parades—
Unhallow'd Temples—unproductive Shades—
Shrubberies, all barren—Streams, that useless glide,
Merely to heighten Lust, and pamper Pride!

Scarce, in such Scenes, Lake—Lawn—or Dome, supply
One moral rapture, or one genuine joy!
Nor whispering woodland, nor green shady grove;
Nor shelter'd skreen, smooth walk, or cool alcove;
On Luxury, Pride, or Lust, or Sloth, bestows,
More bliss than restless lounge or dreaming doze.
No sacrilegious plough the turf must tear—
No labouring Lout must print base footsteps there—
No notched sickle, gathering golden sheaves,
Unseemly sight! long, tawney, stubble, leaves;
Nor, o'er the shaven sod, the shining scythe,
For vulgar cattle, cuts the herbage blythe,
But the fair produce of its frequent crops,
As filthy refuse, on the dunghill drops!

Thus countless acres lie, in worthless waste,
To banish all that frets fastidious Taste—
All squeamish Pomp, or Arrogance, disgusts,
That low'rs Life's pride, or Eyes' deluding lusts—
Ev'n Population's springs, and Culture's course,
Must stop their currents, and dry up their source,

The Country's riches, and the Kingdom's dow'r,
To Ostentation, sacrificed by Pow'r!

Wisdom's clear ken beholds, with greater glee,
Fair Agriculture's rich Economy.
Still, while the active Scene attracts her sight,
Utility contributes pure delight;
For, when with Beauty Benefit's combin'd,
The joint reflection fills the generous Mind.
Her Pow'r, prophetic, sees the fallow field,
Its wintry stores of nurturing Turnips yield.
Foresees the silvery floods of Barley, borne—
Next, twice, in Summer, shining Clover shorn;
Then scatter'd compost, and the fatt'ning fold—
Give their full tides of Wheat in waving gold!
Eyes hills with fleecy flocks well whiten'd o'er,
Not unclipp'd Deers' aristocratic store,
The meads' green table spread with plenteous meat,
Milch Kines', and culturing Teams, perpetual treat;
Or sundried heaps producing annual towns,
For food and shelter when bleak Winter frowns;
Hassocks, and woods, to frequent falls assign'd,
With countless blessings comforting Mankind!
Not puzzling labyrinths, groves, and vistas, grand,
To stablish Pride, and perish where they stand!
Views labouring lakes their foamy floods disgorge,
To blow the furnace, and to work the forge—
To grind the grain, or bolt the branny flour,
With strength untir'd, surpassing human pow'r—
While sparkling stones, and whirling spindles, run,
To burnish tools, or bore the guarding gun:
Not growing stagnant, in unwholesome glades,
Or scatt'ring pow'r in puerile cascades!
Scans comely fabrics, for convenience built,
With garniture, and table, free from guilt—
The swarming hamlets' procreative hive,
Where useful Arts, and Manufactures, thrive;
And each inhabitant fulfils its trust,
Alert, with temperance, and with toil, robust.
Their cells replete with tireless working troops,
Or, round their thresholds throng'd, in gladsome groups—
While some, dispatch'd, 'mid fields and woodlands toil,
To win just wage, or porter lawful spoil—
Each cottage teeming with a rising race;
Life in each limb, and health in frame, and face;
Like sapling oaks, enlarging year by year,
The perfect male and female forms appear;
By gradual steps ascending, strong, and hale,
From puling babe to manhood's noblest scale!
Where unsophisticated Man, or Beast,
On every acre find an ample feast;
Whilst labour—health—innocence, combine
To make the prospect, and the people, shine!
Not formal Frames, unmeet for motion, set,
Like waxen figures, in gilt cabinet—
Muscles relax'd, and tendons loosely knit,
Unapt for labour, and for love unfit—
From languid faces rose and lily flown!
The softening smile, and kindling laugh, unknown!
No rayless orbs, and cheeks' cold, lifeless, look,
Which, like wan lips, all freshness has forsook;
But eyes' electric sparks, with spirit warm,
Which melt the soul, and take the heart by storm!
While pure complexions clear vermilion glow,
Lies, brightly bedded round, with sheets of snow;
With all those matchless charms, truth need not tell,
Where Love, without alloy might alway dwell!
No freezing coldness—no affected ease—
Too dead for passion, and too dull to please—
Weak, with indulgence—low, with lassitude—
Each sun too sultry! blandest breeze too rude!
No lusts indulg'd—no useful arts unlearn'd—
Nature, nor Nature's Author, proudly spurn'd—
But all, directed by their twofold light,
Read Providence's deeds, and dictates, right!
No falsehood films—no bigot weakness blinds—
Conceit inflates, nor Fashion cramps their Minds—
Nor Custom twists, nor Prejudice controuls
The inborn bias of their simple Souls.
No superstitious meteors, dark, and dense,
Obscure conceptions, or bewilder sense—
No lens by Skill, or Fiction scoop'd, or swell'd,
Before the eyes of Understanding held,
In specious shape, or size, false facts impress,
To swell each Virtue, or make Vice look less—
No moral mediums, bended, thick, or thin,
Make right-lin'd Merit seem like crooked Sin;
Or, fixed in Passion's, Pride's, or Falsehood's, pate,
Make Cunning's curves, or Flattery's turns, look straight.
No hypocritic Art frames form, or hue,
To make false Piety appear like true.
No curious questions puzzle, or perplex;
Disputes enrage, or controversies vex;

Nor stagnant intellect, continual, teems
With froward fancies, or distorted dreams;
Like swarms of insects in their summer flight,
Or noisome vapours that invest the night.
No learned leaven, bubbling in the brain,
Makes pure spontaneous Reason's morals vain—
Acids, and alkalies, with every gass,
Mingled in hurrying heterogeneous mass,
The Soul's recipient with confusion fill,
Distorting Judgment, and distracting Will;
While Fancy's furnace Egypt's darkness spreads,
Pestering, and plaguing, all proud hearts and heads,
O'er Earth to pour impenetrable glooms,
From Logic's mists, or Metaphysic's fumes.
No sloughs of Luxury, or foul fogs of Sloth,
Stop Virtue's progress, or Religion's growth.
Desarts, nor dunghills, nourish noxious weeds,
Which yield no beauteous blooms, or sanient seeds;
But well-manured, well-cultured, soils, alone;
The free exposure, and the temperate zone—
Clear light—kind heat—soft air—and dew-drops pure
Make flow'rets fair—fruits rich—and corn mature!

RECAPITULATION.

Such are the cultur'd fields, and landscapes fair—
Mankind thus manner'd—soil so rich and rare!
Where Nature, shap'd by Industry's controul,
Still fascinates the sight, and feasts the Soul!
Will Folly, then, prefer the fruitless plain,
Of herbage barren, never grac'd with grain?
Where the low-statur'd steer, and shabby sheep,
In rags, and leanness, constant vigils keep?
Wish Laws, humane, might general good undo,
Thro' false compassion for the needy few?

No! general good, should, paramount, precede
The private interests of penurious Need—
Yet Penury should possess its lowly lot;
The humble blessings of a scanty cot—
A garden, herbs, and esculents, to yield—
A mead for milk—for corn a little field—
Where each might reign upon his petty throne,
And call each puny privilege his own!
So small a boon blank Pen'ry ought expect,
Not doom'd to pine, and perish, with neglect;
Nor, driv'n by Pow'r, from small paternal seat,
Make wretched Workhouse Lifes last, loath'd, retreat!

Oh! I have seen; and seen with poignant grief!
Poor Peasants robb'd of such a sweet relief!
Where stern Prerogative, enforc'd by Pow'r,
With harpy-paw, seiz'd Indigence's dow'r!
With tyrant-talons pinch'd Want's tenderest part,
And squeez'd the final sigh from Sorrow's heart!
Where greedy Wealth, for cruel claims unpaid,
Lov'd Cots, and little gardens, dissarray'd;
With scanty favourite field, by force unkind,
To some contiguous farm, unjustly join'd!
Seen tears of Mothers—Fathers—Children—fall,
O'er murder'd fences—trees—and mould'ring wall!
Heard Widows—Orphans—pour their piteous moans
O'er the torn timbers, and the scatter'd stones!
Mark'd trembling hands hold out the empty purse,
While sobs, and sighs, and suffocating curse
Invok'd Heav'n's vengeance on the brutal breast
That robb'd their hearts of hope, their reins of rest!

GENERAL.

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!

BIRMINGHAM AND WOLVERHAMPTON.

Now, see the Sun, in Day's declining race,
Each object brighten in Earth's eastern space;
And, from his golden treasury, richly gilds
All Nature nourishes, or Labour builds—
His evening legacies, of light imparts
To crowded schools of Industry and Arts—
Exhibits bustling Birmingham to sight,
Its multiplying streets and villas bright—
Delineates, rear'd aloft, in russet hue,
Bar-beacon's barren heights, in obvious view—
Shews Wednesbury's and Walsal's blazing spires,
Like metals, fused, before his melting fires;
And Wolverhampton's turrets, fair, unfold,
Near northern boundaries, tipt with burnish'd gold;
Fields, countless cotts and villages, between,
Give life, and lustre to the social Scene;
While all the variegated Views confin'd
By distant Derby's blue-capp'd peaks behind.

Within this orient Landscape's ample bound
Each matter, and each manufactury's found,
Which, wide, unfolding all their wealth, and worth,
Diffuse unnumber'd blessings o'er the Earth!
Here, just below the broken surface, lies
The indurated Lime-rocks large supplies;
Which, with fix'd firmness, resolutely feel
Strong blasts of powder, and hard strokes of steel;
Then, roast with fire, and drench'd with water, yields
Its mouldering dust to fertilize the fields;
Or blended in a mass, with binding sand,
Thro' wondering Centuries make strong buildings stand.
There clinging Clay, in shallow lodgment, sleeps,
Or feels the riving frosts in crumbling heaps;
Till, temper'd into paste, and shap'd with Art,
In Life's affairs it fills a nobler part,
When, rais'd from earthy couch, and cavern'd home,
And fix'd, by fire, it forms the during dome,
The hollow arch, and unnamed structures more,
Proud shrines for Pomp, or shelters for the Poor—
Or, shaped, and ting'd, in varied moulds, and dyes,
To meet Man's wants, or to amuse his eyes;
To form Utensils, answering Need's intents,
Or shine, on shelves, as Grandeur's ornaments.

Farther, below each landscape's grassy floor,
Earth's teeming womb contains uncounted store.
O'er precincts, large, in stoney strata spread,
Crude Iron rests within its orey bed;
Which, rais'd by curious Arts, and wrought by skill,
Deals countless helps o'er every dale and hill;
And, Proteus-like, with ductile pow'rs endued,
Assuming shape, and tint, and attitude,
Accommodates in figure, size, and face,
The wants, and whims, of Man's fastidious Race.

Coal's black bitumen deeper still retires;
Like sable-clouds concealing latent fires;
Which, when extracted from the hollow'd rocks,
To birth, obstetric, brought, in solid blocks,
It shines, bless'd substitute for solar pow'rs,
To chear the heart, to cheat dull evening hours,
And cherish chilly Man, with gladdening glow,
When Earth lies shrowded in her sheets of snow—
Or, with its kind communicated heat,
To dress each dish of multifarious meat;
And, hardening, softening, fusing, pow'rs impart
To countless substances, in endless Art.

In Parts thro' prospects scattered far, and near,
Pale-glowing gleams, and flickering flames, appear,
Like new volcanoes, 'mid deep darkness nurs'd,
From cooking coals, in ruddy brilliance, burst,
While smokey curls, in thickening columns, rise,
Obscure the landscapes, and involve the skies—
Still, as the sanguine blaze, beneath, ascends,
And deepening blushes with heav'n's vapours blends,
Diffusing, all around, red, lurid, light,
And paint in parts, the negroe-cheeks of Night;
Deep, sullen sounds, thro' all the region roll,
Shocking, with groans, and sighs, each shuddering Soul!

Here clanking engines vomit scalding streams,
And belch vast volumes of attendant steams—
There thundering forges, with pulsations loud,
Alternate striking, pierce the pendant cloud;
While, to these distant hills, respiring slow,
Furnaces' iron lungs loud-breathing, blow;
Breaking, abrupt, on Superstition's ear,
And shrink the shuddering frame with shivering fear;
Obtruding on the heart, each heaving breath,
Some vengeful Fiend, grim delegate of Death!

Tho' such rude Scene no beauteous forms unfolds,
To glad the Heart, no glistening eye beholds,
Yet may the reasoning Mind's reflections trace
Unnumber'd bounties in each barren space:
As oft beneath a face and limbs deform'd,
A Soul may lodge, with Heav'n's pure Spirit warm'd;
Each Grace and Virtue of the human Mind,
That blazons Christ, and benefits Mankind.
Or, like unpleasant Scenes of Providence,
That thwart the Soul thro' avenues of Sense;
Yet may, more happiness, in secret, hide,
Than obvious blessings of more bright outside;
And still contribute more to Mind's delight,
When superficial charms all take their flight!

GENERAL.

Athwart the North, impenetrable skreens
Exclude from searching eyes the distant scenes;
But, like a friendly fence, still interpose,
When Winter arms its arrowy hosts of foes;
Presenting to the storms their sheltering shields,
While wounding darts o'er-whelm Woods, Hills, and Fields—
Yet Fancy's pinions, and far-piercing sight,

Burst thro' the boundary, or o'ertop the height,
With picturing pow'rs to shape, in obvious view,
Imaginary scenes, for ever new;
In fairer forms, and brighter beauties, dress'd,
Than Nature's hand, and pencil, e'er express'd.
Thus, thick-wove curtains Providence suspends,
O'er future prospects, for important ends,
Lest discontented Man's unhallow'd Race
Should strive a dark futurity to trace;
Or grope, to search out secret views, in vain;
And, while he sought for pleasure seize on pain—
Should hope true bliss by wicked schemes to win;
Rob honey'd hives, yet 'scape the stings of sin;
And, fancying here Heav'n's happiness to find,
Leave real bliss, in Reason's reach, behind!
Oft wayward Minds substantial blessings miss,
In ideal hunt, to catch ideal bliss!
Spurn real raptures Heav'n's blest bounty yields,
To build on fogs, or traverse viewless fields!
Of self-wrought plans, and poor atchievements, proud,
While grasping at a Goddess, clasp a Cloud!
Pursuing, eager, still, tho' still betray'd,
Oft shun the substance to embrace the shade!
How much more wise to stop Fool's frantic strife,
And tread the obvious tracks of solid Life!
The genuine joys improve, and transports, blest,
That boast of Reason, and of Heav'n's behest—
Imploring Christ to cast each earthly lot,
In princely palace, or in cribbing cot—
Give Dives' dainty feast, and flaunting dress,
Or Lazarus' rags, and sores, and mammockt mess—
Still, midst all Earth's enjoyments, looking high'r,
With Faith, Hope, Love, enlarg'd, and pure Desire;
Whate'er His boundless Goodness deigns to give,
With humble, heartfelt thankfulness to live;
And when His Wisdom, Goodness, Love—denies,
Weigh Man's demerits, and acquit the Skies!
Repose full trust in His last, best, decree;
Thence feel Affection, Will, and Conscience, free!
View Christ, reveal'd—unravel Heav'n's pure plan—
His promises the safe support of Man!
Like anchors cast within the holy vail,
Firm flukes of Hope ne'er suffering Faith to fail—
Confiding, still, His Wisdom, Love, and Pow'r,
Will shape Life's course, and fix its final hour!
See Goodness give, or heavenly Love withold,
Earth's vaunted lands, or loans of envied gold—
Fame—Influence—Honour—Life's continued length—
Proud attributes of Beauty—Health—and Strength—
Discriminating head, and heart, to feel
A Fellow-sinner's interest, want, or weal—
The Soul of Genius, Judgment, Wit, or Taste—
Which, all who hold must answer, wear, or waste!
All stewards, to account for temporal trust,
By Prudence parcell'd, or abus'd by Lust:
And, tho' poor Poet's bear small boast, or blame,
For spoil, or spending, Influence, Wealth, or Fame;
Yet, to their lot, while health-strength life, belong,
Pathetic pow'rs of Prose, or suasive Song;
That health-strength, Life's probationary hours,
Those privileges, high!—acquireless pow'rs!
Awak'd by Gratitude, inspir'd by Love,
Should bless the Spring that pour'd them from above.
And, next to Heav'n, all thanks and praise beyond!
The bosom Partner, faithful, fair, and fond!
Their duteous Offspring—Parents—filial Race,
Should Sympathy's pure sentiments embrace—
To these Friends—Neighbours—King, and Country join,
Tho' unpossess'd of Acre—Cott—or Coin!

Hail! ye lov'd Landscapes! hail, each Height, so fair!
Where, first, my Friend inhaled the vital Air!
Proclaim'd Life's woes, with agonizing cry,
And view'd the light with weak, and wavering, eye.
From dear maternal fountains drank his fill;
Tho' now not flowing, fondly loves them, still!
Whose honest Heart, beneath, beat high, or low,
As his was swell'd with joy, or shrunk with woe!
Maintain'd in motion, long, by God's regard,
To prove Man's Duty, kept, meets kind reward!
Not left by Providence, and Friends, forlorn,
The prey of pain, want, sickness, grief, or scorn!
Not weakly loathing Life, or fearing Fate,
But, trusting, still, to find triumphant State!

CRISPINUS' BIRTH, EDUCATION, &c.

Here Crispin's infant face first learnt to smile,
Without base views to flatter, or beguile!
Nor e'er in after-time, when grave, or gay,
His Friend, or Fellow, studied to betray.
Then strove no smiling feature to restrain,
Unwitting of that Parent's toil and pain;

But, after, felt pure pleasure, or sad pang,
As pristine proofs of Vice, or Virtue, sprang.
There, first, his aided footsteps feebly trod,
And tript light gambols o'er the grassy sod—
Lisp'd broken syllables with stammering tongue,
Unconscious of the skill, or sweets, of Song!
Tried all the little tricks of human Elf,
To draw attention to sweet idol, Self—
An impious passion! which, still, actuates all
The human Race, around this earthly Ball;
Endeavouring worship, still, as Gods, to win,
Since Nature felt Man's fatal lapse to Sin;
Nor operates only on the infant Mind,
But o'er each Age, Sex, Class, amongst Mankind!
Here stored low Learnings rudimental types,
Without expence of pains, or tears, or stripes;
And soon to notable attainments grew,
In that sole tongue his intellect e'er knew.
Here first the Pen's important labours plied,
And powr's of Integers, with Cyphers, tried,
But little progress, or proficience, found
Ere call'd to grasp the tool, or till the ground—
Here catechistic answers aptly learn'd,
Remember'd full, by him, by Folly, spurn'd—
Read Heav'n's blest Book! which Memory kept, in part,
Religion's compass! each true Christian's chart!
Oft, in Life's voyage, laid aside, or lost—
Oft overboard, by Pride and Passion tost;
Or if bold Conscience recognize the Book,
Avarice and Lust, each holy rule o'erlook,
While Sloth and Indolence its laws neglect,
Till Mariner and Vessel oft are wreckt!
Here, pleas'd, in childhood, with the chime of words,
He learnt like practice with imprisoned Birds;
Or Priests, who read by rote, but never pray,
Repeating pious phrases day by day.
Here, 'mid lov'd exercise of Wisdom's lore,
Caught some plain, simple, truths from letter'd store,
Which, tho' but badly spoke, or badly spell'd,
His faithful heart, still fond, in future, held.
Was taught that all things felt, or seen, or heard,
Were made by One who ne'er to Sense appear'd.
Who gave all Creatures form, and life, at first,
And all, thro' Nature, cloth'd, and fed, and nurst.
How he, and all his Friends, that self-same Pow'r,
First fram'd, and still sustain'd, from hour to hour;
Demanding, and deserving, all the Love,
Of all that reason; round, below, above!
Learnt He must neither cheat—or swear—or lie—
Because that wonderous Being was always by—
Watch'd every word—and saw each silent thought—
And whipt each Child, whose aim, or wish, was naught,
But lov'd and cherish'd all whose hearts would strive
To keep His honour, thro' their love, alive.
His Parents, both, must honour and obey—
Not think himself so good, or wise, as they—
Nor, for the sake of pleasure, ease, or pelf,
Neglect to love his Neighbour as himself.
Must none offend, thro' wickedness, or whim,
Or think one Fellow-mortal made for Him;
And might all others needs, and miseries, know,
By what gave him offence, or pain, or woe.
To know what other's wants, or comforts, were,
Might search his Soul and find their feelings there.
That churlish Children who increase their crimes,
Become base monsters, or mere brutes, betimes.
That He's the vilest Child, the basest Boy,
Who mocks, and mows, while other's weep, or cry—
That He's the happiest, and most honour'd, Youth,
Who loves his Like, and always tells the truth;
And He the wisest, best, and bravest, Man,
Who does least ill, and greatest good, he can.
That honesty's the highest interest, still,
Let Craft and Cunning say whate'er they will;
And they who least deserve their Parent's rod,
Will best obey, and gain the Love, of God!
To read God's word, to reverence His great Name,
And honour all, who honour, justly, claim.
That all must die, and, after death, arise,
To meet their Saviour, Christ, within the Skies;
And when they stand before His presence there,
Must give account of all their conduct here—
That they who best their God, and Fellows, love,
Shall share the highest happiness above;
They who hate Man, and 'gainst their God rebel,
Will feel, with Fiends, the heaviest pains in Hell!

REFLECTIONS ON EDUCATION.

Are not such moral studies more sublime
Than fitting Pupils for mere sports of Time?
Are not such simple Maxims far more wise,
That plainly prove Man's genuine mental joys,

Than wasting wealth, with cares, and pains immense,
To purchase pleasures lost with loss of Sense?
Ought Man, in Scenes of sorrow—toil—and strife,
Consume, on fruitless Love, one fourth of Life?
On carnal Knowledge, and on useless Arts,
Expend another of its precious parts;
Then let the love of Fame, or graceless Gains,
Monopolize the whole of what remains?
Uncertain, every point, that passes o'er,
Whether that Life shall last one moment more—
Whether such Wisdom will procure them Wealth—
That Wealth, if won, ensure them Strength and Health,
Or Fame, acquir'd, by casual, breezey, blasts,
Yield Peace, and Love, and Comfort, while it lasts.
Were it not wiser, far, the risks to rate
With changes, sure, that shock this churlish State;
And, while the precious moments pass away,
Prepare for Death, and God's great Judgment Day!

GENERAL REFLECTIONS.

Thus taught to judge, while Nature forced to feel,
He watch'd each living Creature's woe and weal;
And shunn'd, with shame their suff'ring frames to wound,
Where Wisdom show'd such pow'r, and skill profound;
For what that Wisdom saw it meet to make,
Should have much tendency for Jesu's sake!
He ne'er from Passion—Whim—Caprice—or Pride,
The eyeless Worm, or limbless Snail, destroy'd;
Nor, to indulge a wanton, froward, Will,
Pursued poor Flies to persecute, or kill;
But, that Life's blessings they should longer share,
Oft freed their wings from Spider's tangling snare.
Conscious that feeble Race, by Heav'n decreed,
Was meant a blessing to the human breed.
Pierc'd not the Chafer with impaling pin,
To make his trembling pinions, buzzing, spin;
Or chas'd the charming Moths, in mazey rings,
To pluck their plumes, or crush their crippled wings;
But, sickening, saw them whirl the blaze about,
And gasp'd to blow the cruel candle out.
Ne'er murdered Minnows in the shallow streams,
Nor suffer'd Suns to scorch, with burning beams;
But, oft, the wretched, silly, race to save,
Bore them, with blessings, to some wider wave:
Ne'er bent on treacherous business, trail'd the brook,
Nor lur'd the larger tribes with baited hook,
Lest the barb'd steel the torn line might retain,
Fixt in rent jaws, to kill with lingering pain!
No harmless Birds pursued in brutal quest,
Or pillaged eggs, or young; or spoil'd their nest,
But flew to feed them in the wintry storm,
Or hugg'd them to his heart, to make them warm!
Ne'er sought that savage sport, with fiends delight,
Pitting fierce dauntless Cocks in desperate fight;
Nor saw, without a sigh their pinions quake,
When bound, like Martyrs, to a bloody stake;
Expos'd to pangs, from every Child of Hell,
Who hop'd the prize, whene'er the Victim fell;
While each with torture stands, or terror, starts,
Till clubs have brain'd their heads, or broke their hearts.
At mad Amusement's claim, or Mischief's call,
Ne'er made pinch'd Puppy squeak, or Kitten squall,
Nor felt infernal wish fierce war to wage,
Urging rash canine combatants to rage.
Could ne'er look on with Windhams' devilish joy,
While Bulls and Bull-dogs mutual strength destroy.
Would rather, wandering round, forsake his path,
Than rouze one irritable Wretch to wrath.
Thro' road circuitous, on tiptoe, stray
Than wake a Lamb which slumber'd in his way;
Much less enlarge the Centaur's cruel crowd,
With clamorous horns, and kennels bellowing loud,
Pursuing, eager, with vociferous breath;
To fright a timorous, harmless, hare to death.
He wish'd no conscious Creature e'er might miss
Its amplest portion of embodied bliss;
Well knowing all Things form'd, by Providence,
With power's of motion and with proofs of sense,
Whether they crawl, or creep, run, fly, or swim,
Experienc'd pains and pleasures much like Him—
And He who made them part of His pure plan,
To taste the sweets of Life as well as Man,
Will, with strict justice vindicate their cause,
Against the reasoning brutes that break His Laws.

He urg'd his skill in emulative Arts,
The prime ambition of aspiring parts,
Near some fix'd point the figur'd lead to drop—
Hurl pantile quoits; or whip the whirling top—
Dart the smooth marble at the destin'd mark;
Or find a foe, when blind with bandage dark;
And numerous more, fond gratifying games,
Ne'er honour'd, yet, with apt poetic names.

Pursued athletic sports, at hardier age,
Which all the energies of youth engage;
While each some providential purpose serves,
To brace the muscles, and confirm the nerves.
Contended in the race with riper years,
And leap'd a longer space than all his peers—
Advanc'd the foremost with the bladder'd ball—
With wriggling wrestler tried the temperate fall—
Still amicably calm each contest led,
But ne'er from gross affront, like dastard, fled;
Yet while he fear'd no fall, or wounded face,
He felt both strife, and stigma, deep disgrace—
And, tho' his heart ne'er fail'd, or will gave way,
He quarrels loath'd, and blam'd each bloody fray.

But such pursuits ne'er fill'd his fond desires,
Or gave meet fuel for his mental fires—
Dissatisfied with juvenile and futile joys,
That, from bare bodily perfections, rise;
With all the glory excellence could yield,
In friendly conflict, or contested field.
His Soul's large wishes ne'er could rest supplied,
By false Ambition, or degrading Pride;
Much less from merely animal delights,
The growths of Passions, and gross Appetites.
He aim'd at objects of sublimer kind;
Objects congenial with immortal Mind!
From temporal knowledge never felt content,
Acquir'd so cheaply—oft so basely spent;
But, prompt, on intellectual pinion, soar'd,
To fetch rich food from Heav'n's exhaustless hoard!
In hourly flights his happy Spirit sped
Beyond the reach of Time's erasing tread!
Beyond the childish thoughts, and chaffy things,
His glass degrades, or winnows with his wings!
Past all His proud terrestial stock supplies,
His flight soon overturns, or scythe destroys!
Above base appetites, and pow'rs, of Brutes,
Unpinion'd Pride's, and idol Pomp's, pursuits—
Above cold Custom's troops, frail Fashion's train;
Fop's trifling follies, volatile and vain!
With all fond, cringing, Courtiers' fickle throng,
Who ne'er enjoy lov'd place, or pleasures, long!
He ne'er united with Debauchery's ranks,
Or join'd rude Revelry's preposterous pranks—
Ne'er mix'd with Blasphemy's abandon'd groups,
Or desperate Sabbath-breakers' vent'rous troops;
Nor courted evanescent Fancy's crowd,
Of paltry nothings ever vainly proud!
Who see some dazzling phantasm full in view,
Which, tho' they ne'er o'ertake, still, prompt, pursue!
He soon perceiv'd substantial Happiness
Depended not on Diet—Sport—or Dress—
Was never found within the frantic range
Where Passions cheat, yet choose perpetual change—
Where Pride beholds its futile objects fail—
Nor blind Ambition's projects poise the scale!
Ne'er Calm Contentment's gentler joys are found,
Nor, Peace in Dissipation's rambling round;
But both must be deriv'd from Him, alone,
Who makes the Earth His footstool—Heav'n His Throne—
And still bestows them, as His bounteous dow'r,
On all who prize His Love and fear His Pow'r—
Who freely lends to all both Life and breath;
Whose smile is full delight! whose frown is death!

GENERAL REMARKS.

Crispinus' Parents, true Preceptors! taught,
No flying Happiness could e'er be caught;
Nor by sham precept, or example, show'd
Bliss might be found in Vice's wretched road!
Prov'd Lust, nor Passion, Consolations claim—
Nor impious Pow'r—nor noisey, fleeting, Fame—
Nor transient Riches could command their stay,
Which fit themselves with wings, and flee away!
Bright, as in mirrors, obvious to his view,
What-e'er was simple—pious—just—and true,
His Parents held, by fair Examples, forth,
In tender kindness, and true Wisdom's worth.
His Father's footsteps never turn'd aside,
From Faith, or Truth, to favour Lust, or Pride.
His calm Integrity, and Courage, stood
Like the tall Monarch of his native wood;
Maintaining still its firmness, and its form,
Thro' Spring's fond soothings, and fierce wintry storm!
Not vent'ring Virtue's Dignity to bend,
For silly flattery, or for selfish end;
Nor let fair Character, or Conscience, go,
To gratify a Friend, or grieve a Foe;
But following Faith's and Providence's, plan,
Liv'd the Believer—died the duteous Man!
His Mother, like the smooth reflecting stream,

Show'd every shadowy cloud; or glowing gleam—
With passive swell, by every breeze, impress'd,
But soon sunk, gently, down, to silent rest;
No trace retraining of impressions past,
From Pride's perturbings, or strong Passion's blast—
Reflecting, still, from surface calm, and clear,
The nicest semblance of each object near;
Letting her tranquil bosom humbly lie,
To catch impressions from the purer sky!
His Friends, tho' frail, like all the human Race,
Instill'd no stimulants, by conduct base,
From whence his Mind might fashion weak excuse;
For turning talents to some bold abuse;
Or try those tracks which lead unwary Youth,
From paths of Justice, Probity, and Truth.
He, from their practice, and experience, saw
Where Prudence drew the line of Wisdom's Law,
That right-lin'd road each Christian strives to tread,
Trod full, before, by Christ their Kingly Head!
Which wins their feet from every vicious way,
Where Lust might lure, or Vanity betray;
And guides to that secure, and solid, ground,
Where Consolation can alone be found!
They never drew him to the hateful haunts,
Where Luxury riots, or Seduction chaunts.
Ne'er false distinctions taught him to assume
From fluttering ribband, or proud nodding plume.
Ne'er wrapp'd his frame in rich fantastic stole,
To turn, on trifles, his aspiring Soul;
Prompting to hope respect from vain Attire,
Which only Fops admit, and Fools admire!
Taught Passions rabble-rout, suborn'd by Pride,
Ne'er let Heav'n's blessings in loose hearts abide;
Nor lures produc'd by lustful Appetites,
Could furnish pure, and permanent, delights—
That Faith—Hope—pious Love, alone, could yield
The Christian's buckler—The Believer's shield;
Peace, Consolation, and Content, supply,
All present happiness—all future Joy!

Thus, while his Body bolder vigour gain'd,
His Soul associated truths attain'd—
Learnt that all Duties were compriz'd in Love—
All Blessings, here—all perfect Bliss above!
That Christ, who bought them, could, alone, bestow,
Beatitudes, above—delights, below!
That His pure Spirit, only, could prepare
The Soul, each bounty, and each bliss, to share!
Bestow the treasures of God's gracious Tome—
Prove its just heritage, and point its Home!
Fair Faith and Hope implant; true Doctrines clear,
And give that Grace and Love which Heav'n endear!
Proves nat'ral pow'rs of Mind may, aptly, trace
The great Creator in Creation's face—
Those works of Wisdom, Goodness, Love, and Pow'r,
All giv'n to Man an undeserved Dow'r!
Shows Creatures claiming merit, great, or small,
Offend their gracious God who gives them all!
Still, prying farther, view'd, with ken profound,
While seeing Friends, or Parents, perish, round;
Tho' all their Offspring pray'd, and griev'd, and mourn'd,
No individual from the grave return'd;
But left all Nature's nonpluss'd pow'rs to grope,
Without one certain help, or sanction'd hope!

Reading, and reasoning, on, he saw, beside,
In spite of Prejudice, and maugre Pride;
That human Minds, exerting all their strength,
With countless toil, thro' Life's continu'd length,
Combining all the boasts of Heathen Lore,
By Logic, built on Fables, form'd, before—
All Learning left by every sober Sage,
Who trod the tracks of Earth from Age to Age;
Could e'er from Genius, or false Genii, tell
Ought but a fancied Heav'n, or fabled Hell—
Could from false Oracles, or Nature, know
Whence Truth, and Peace, and Happiness must flow!
Seeing both Sage, and Fool, successive, fall,
Or soon, or late, round this terraqueous Ball;
While those frail, fickle, lights, with feeble beams,
Thro' devious, doubtful, tracks and wildering dreams,
Mid scenes of pain and pleasure, hope and fear,
Just led them to the grave, and left them there!

Not left to wander long thro' dubious ways,
By natural Reason's glimmering rays;
Or, poring round, by philosophic spark,
Whose beams still dropp'd him, blundering in the dark.
He, happy Peasant! soon perceiv'd such light,
As chas'd the chearless gloom of Nature's Night!
A Light that led thro' pages Heav'n inspir'd,
By all Believers lov'd, by Saints admir'd!
Whose Truths his mental strength intensely stirr'd,
And show'd their shallow systems all absurd;
While God's pure Grace thro' his rapt Spirit spread,

Warm'd his dull heart, and wak'd his dreaming head—
Infus'd fresh bliss beyond all pow'rs of Speech,
All rarest Prose, and Poesy, can reach!
Yet, tho' blest Love of God, on wing sublime,
Surpass'd the scanty bounds of Sense and Time—
Reveal'd such rapturous bursts of heavenly bliss,
As forc'd the Soul to loath a Scene like this;
And long, like Peter, on bright Tabor's hill,
Wish'd such clear visions might continue, still!
But Man, incarnate Man! ne'er doom'd to rest,
In such beatitudes, among the Blest,
Till quitting time, and vile corporeal clay,
He finds fix'd residence in endless day!
But this blest Book of Heav'n was ne'er design'd,
To set aside Man's energies of Mind;
Nor, while its light dispels each dreary doubt,
To put the heavenly lamp of Reason out,
But trim, and feed it, that its friendly aids,
May shape his track thro' Time's untrodden shades—
Point out his path thro' many a puzzling maze,
Where Revelation's light ne'er pours its blaze—
For Heav'n lights up its feebler beams, to show
Best use of objects in this Life below—
Objects far less important, and sublime,
That simply appertain to Sense and Time;
While by that pure effulgence, Man enjoys
That boundless bliss, in part, which Heav'n supplies!

CHAPTER 2nd.

GENERAL VIEWS OF NATURE.

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!

CHAPTER 3rd.

NARRATIVE CONTINUED.

Our Hero's plaintive strains, and piteous tale,
Had struck the pensive Poet of the vale;
Who wish'd to help, but had not wherewithal,
For Heav'n's kind sprinklings were, with Him, but small,
And those, like morning mists, or dews, or dreams,
Soon fled before bright Fancy's fervid beams;
Or transient summer show'rs, on sandy waste,
All soon absorb'd by ever-thirsty Taste!
What could he do? he kindly recommends
The humble Bard to better-fortun'd Friends;
Extols his virtues—tunes his rustic lays—
And tries to trim his brow with sprigs of bays—
To give his Muse a help, his miseries ease,
To pay, with profit—with fair fame to please.

His warm endeavours met their wish'd-for meed;
Hush'd present plaints—new-tun'd his rustic reed—
Flush'd with fresh joys he view'd fair Daphne's charms,
And clasp'd her beauties in his eager arms—
With pristine fondness each lov'd Infant press'd,
With like embraces, to his labouring breast;
And, while warm raptures trembled on his tongue,
These glowing strains flowed forth, in grateful song.

GENERAL REFLECTIONS.

Had I but Wealth, my Charity should shine
In pure Benevolence and deeds of Love divine!
My gratitude to God should fully flow,
To chear hearts press'd with Poverty and Woe!
That glorious Being's far above my reach,
To help, or hurt, by acts, or pow'rs of speech;
But suffering fellow-creatures oft should share
A portion of my Wealth, with fervent pray'r!
And, still, 'mid wants, and woes, and pains, partake
Such gracious offerings for the Giver's sake!
His Love intrusts large loans to Stewards, here,
To calm poor Neighbours plaints, and stifle fear;
For clear accounts must state each talent lent,
By Heav'n's blest usury rais'd, or basely spent—
And each unfaithful Churl be sternly chid,
Whose delegated gifts are, idly, hid!

Had I but Wealth! his kindling Soul would say,
And struck the rythmic Lyre in loftier key.
Had I but Wealth, I'd rear no sumptuous Dome,
Mind's mausoleum! blind Ambition's home!
Mere lifeless monument of Pride, and Lust!
Fixing dull Spirit fluttering in the dust!
Plucks Faith's fair pinions! fetters heavenly Hope!
Contracts celestial Love's unbounded scope!
Makes Pride and Passion's dire deliriums, rave,
Thro' dread of Death, and horror of the Grave!
Binds weak Beneficence within those walls,
And shuts out each kind sound, but selfish calls!
Imprisoning every Virtue Heav'n design'd
To benefit Self more, and bless Mankind!
While fix'd in filth white-rob'd Religion lies,
Confin'd from all pure commerce with the Skies!

I'd crowd no pompous paintings round my rooms,
Trite flags of Fortune! Pluto's trumpery plumes!
Expensive Caricatures! belying Life;
Where Art and Nature wage continual strife!
Poor joyless puffs of genealogic pride!
Frail Air-balloons! where Fools and Frantics ride!
Compos'd of strings, and ties, and silken skin,
Gross paint without, and gas, or fire, within;
Till with fierce burst, or flaming bag, they fall,
Then, mixt with common earth relinquish all!

No frippery furniture should vainly veil
My whited walls, or mark my wealthy weal!
No gaudier garments mix their gilded glare,
To make the starving vex, or vulgar stare!
Nor flash, o'er Christian's face, cold, costly, flame,
To tinge their features with shy flush of shame!

No brilliant Lights, and Lamps, spread blended blaze,
Nor splendid Mirrors mock full Phebe's rays;
Lustres, nor sparkling Girandoles, conspire
To fill sharp Envy's eye with shafts of fire
No princely Equipage, with painted crests,
Shine proud pre-eminence o'er grudging Guests;

Or coated Covers rank'd, in cheating state,
With courtly lies proclaiming all as plate—
Which, like their Owner's outside, silvery, smile,
Unwitting Worth's blind ignorance beguile;
Or painted sepulchre's deceptive show,
Hide rank corruption, and base things below!

In clamorous Coach I'd roll no headlong race,
To hunt choice Nothings in fool Fashion's chace;
Like dizzy whirlwinds, rushing, daily, round,
To grasp at emptiness, or seize a sound—
In every street, at every threshold, seen,
With eager eye, and maddening air and mien—
Doubt creeping close behind, tho' Hope's before,
Lest Friends prove absent, or Foes bar the door—
And while Enjoyment seems for ever near,
Blank Disappointment still brings up the rear!

No badg'd and liveried Slaves should strut in State—
No growling Porter bolt forbidding Gate—
Nor foul deceit, in dizen'd form, attend
To stop the visits of a virtuous Friend!
No pimps, round tables, ply their simpering trade,
Expensive cyphers of profuse parade!
To fawn, or flutter! to insult, or sneak;
And watch each word Simplicity might speak,
About their jovial board, then turn to joke
Whate'er pure Piety, or Wisdom, spoke;
Repeating round with multiplying tongue
What gross, rash, ignorant, Folly fancies wrong—
Perverting all, thro' captiousness, or spite,
Which Reason, Sense, and Conscience construe right!
Frail Fashion's drudges! dupes of Indolence!
Dabblers in learning! Scavengers of Sense!
Pretenders, vile, to Virtue, Wit, or Taste!
Harpies for foulness, greediness, and waste!
Audacious Dastards! Ostentation's Imps!
Purloiners—Liars—Parasites—and Pimps!
Light shuttlecocks of Pride! prompt Slaves of Spleen!
Hope oils, or Fear winds up, each mere Machine!
Dull Sloth's, and Luxury's Dupes! mock Men of stone!
Ne'er more in useful lists of Labour known!
Academies, and Marts, for every Vice!
Where Liberty, when sold, yields paltry price;
And Tutors—Ushers—Scholars—in such Schools,
Of Ridicule, and Rage, all, mutual, Tools!
Where scampering Vanity, of Care devoid,
Runs endless rounds, for Folly, Pomp, and Pride!
And blushless Impudence, pert—bold—and blind;
Drives ev'ry Virtue far from ev'ry Mind;
While Vice pervades, Passion perverts the Whole,
Blasting all hopes that sublimate the Soul!

Ne'er at my Board should Sycophants be found,
With flattery's fibbs to waft my Fame around;
Nor, mix'd in social circles, calmly, sit,
To praise my Wisdom, and applaud my Wit—
To bow, or chuckle, at each childish hint,
While changing scoffs, with other Cheats, asquint.

I'd court no Fops, or mercenary Friends,
Who show sham favours for some selfish ends;
Nor covet vain Acquaintances increas'd,
To purchase Flattery's puff, with princely feast;
Where Luxury wastes much more, in prompt expence,
Than Law's demands for Liberty's defence;
To vamp up Vanity—give Dupes delight,
Impairing health while pampering Appetite!
Each guest still guilty of slow suicide,
For Fashion—Custom—Folly—Pomp—and Pride—
While Emulation tries ten thousand pranks,
To cover scorn and spite, by praise and thanks;
Indulging Sins no Luxury long will save
But hasten earlier to the glutton grave!

I'd ne'er frequent weak Ostentation's haunts,
Where Affectation flirts, and Folly flaunts—
Where proud Ambition's most sublime intents,
Are, flattering praise, and fulsome compliments—
Much less mad Scenes of Dissipation seek,
Which taint the Saint, but tinge not Sinners' cheek—
Where Mind, immortal! can, at best, obtain
But sights of Sin, and hear polluted strain!
Far from such vortices of Vice I'd fly,
Which yield no holy Love, or genuine Joy,
But plunge the Spirit in deep, dark, abyss,
Void of all peace! all hopes of future bliss!
Where Conscience feels, alone, consuming fires,
From dread of Death, and unsubdued Desires!

I'd force no flattery, deckt with regal dress,
Which weakens Friendship—makes Affection less!
Clothe not that Breast with burnish'd golden garb;
Where Fate so soon will fix its fatal barb,
Nor trim that Flesh with flaunting garments, gay,
Which Death will shortly doom vile reptiles prey!
Ne'er idolize curl'd locks, or comely face,
Which Age—Disease—or Sin, will soon disgrace;

Nor shape fine features insolently proud,
Which soon, each sight shall shock, in frightful shroud!
Ne'er throne that Frame in clamorous gilded Coach,
To prompt high greetings, like a God's approach;
Which soon must suffer Vanity's reverse,
The transient tenant of hir'd, common Herse—
Nor lay these Limbs on rich embroider'd Bed,
With which the famish'd Worm will soon be fed;
Closed in a narrow, noisome hole of Earth,
Embracing dust produc'd from humblest Birth!

Had I but Wealth, he'd add, with lucid smile,
While strong emotion stopp'd a moment's toil;
Gazing, afresh, on Daphne's glowing face,
And clasping every Babe with warm embrace—
I'd ne'er exclude Misfortune's trembling claim,
For aggrandizing Thee, my dearest Dame!
Nor shut out Misery's moan, or Penury's plea,
Thro' fondness, Child, for Thee! for Thee! for Thee!
Yet hoard a fund for Thee, my faithful Wife,
To fence from want thro' all remains of Life;
To free thy Heart from ev'ry anxious fear
And furnish every comfort Life holds dear!
Not suffering Thee, my fond, my beauteous, Bride!
To court a favour from imperious Pride—
Nor drive one Offspring poor, and destitute,
To beg an alms of any human Brute;
But yielding each a competent support,
To spurn dependence—shun a shameless Court!
Yet, tho' above proud Man's, or Woman's, nod,
Not spurning Parents, or forgetting God;
But still His Grace to beg—His Goodness bless,
For all they hope, and all they e'er possess—
Without whose Kindness all stands insecure
No Competence can last! no Life endure!
No health—strength—peace—joy—comfort—or content,
To praise that Pow'r, which all, as loans, hath lent!

Had I but Wealth, I'd crown my earthly lot
With searching each sad Cell, or cribbing Cot,
To scatter blessings from Christ's bounteous Store
Till I, myself, should want that Wealth no more.
Fill genuine Joy's most ample measure up,
Decanting comforts in each empty cup!
Pour chearing Spirits, tenderly distill'd,
In vessels, which, before, but half were fill'd!
Search round for those that secretly repine,
Yet scorn to murmur much o'er Life like mine;
Nor wish to win, by stratagem, or stealth,
One single grain from other's Worth, or Wealth!
Seek those that silent pine by lack of bread,
And, o'er my plenty, shake their pensive head!
Count my great wealth—but ne'er their God condemn—
Nor question why, thus, Heav'n witheld from them!
By Famine starv'd, yet stopp'd by painful fears—
Stretch looks afar, confus'd, by misty tears;
Beholding nothing, thro' the welkin wide,
But vacant blanks—a dark and dreary void!
Where nought's perceiv'd o'er all the vacant view,
But troubles, toils, and dire disasters, new!
Sickness and need! labour and carking care!
Each budding Hope still blasted by Despair!
No prospect, pains and sorrows to asswage,
'Midst dire approaches of decrepit Age;
When down to Life's last rags weak Manhood's worn;
All cold indifference—dearth—contempt—and scorn!
A ghastly gloom! replete with want and woe—
Then rear their eyes to Heav'n, and wonder why 'tis so!

I'd stop complaining—still restrain its pow'r—
To each sad Sufferer dealing bounteous dow'r!
The monster Misery, in its cradle, crush;
To strengthen Fortitude and Fear to hush—
Wake every Energy—rouze every Hope—
And yield fair Expectation fuller scope.
Still nerving Strength, and lightening Cares and Toils;
O'er Sorrow's furrows raising crops of smiles;
While happier prospects with full pow'r, impart
Fresh peace, and comforts, to each fluttering heart!
No dread of need, or health and labour's loss,
Should Duty's calls, and Nature's cravings, cross—
No keen remorse disturb connubial bed,
Lest living gifts of God should beg for bread.
No plaints o'er teeming Spouse, and steril purse,
Should show their growing groups a cruel curse!
Prolific Parents feel no false disgrace,
O'er weak, repining, squalid, ragged, Race,
Or Celibacy's barren Monsters meet
More praise, or profit in their loathed retreat,
While dead Neglect would aid, and hope, deny
The friends of offspring, and gregarious joy;
Whose due endeavours faithfully fulfil
The blest behests of Heav'n's rewarding Will!

No neighbouring, humble, habitable Cell
Where patient Industry, and Penury, dwell;

Nor neat inclosures of lov'd garden-ground,
Where countless comforts rise, successive, round,
Should suffer sequestration, or decay,
Becoming Time's, or petty Tyrant's prey!
I'd build new Cottages, or old repair,
As patrimonial prize for humble Heir—
Inclose uncultur'd slips of sloven soil,
To stir up thought, and strength, to thrifty toil!
Dispense small portions, in prudential mode,
To lighten toil of half its cumb'rous load—
Still strengthening willing wedlock's blissful bands,
For Heav'n, and Earth, increasing hearts, and hands!
No poor impassion'd Nymph, or sighing Swain,
Should live and love, and drudge and delve in vain!
But manly Youth, and joyous Maiden, join,
In plighted troth, before Heav'n's holy shrine;
To propagate a strong, laborious, breed,
And furnish future times with useful seed:
Not suffering starving troops, and weeping Wife,
To sink beneath sad wants, and woes, of Life;
Nor hopeless Husband, sunk in griefs, forego
The highest sensual bliss of Souls below.
New hopes, new views, should cherish chaste desires,
From full-replenish'd pots, and well-fed fires;
At fond return from labour's wearying length,
To chear their tables, and renew their strength.
No thatchless roofs, nor unglaz'd windows, grin,
To let all hostile winds, and weather, in;
But sheltering sheds to skreen from stormy strife,
Protecting needful rest, and lengthening Life.
No harden'd heaps of stinking straw be spread
To numb the weary loins, and aching head,
But bolster'd mattrass, sheets, and coverings, clean,
To sweeten sleep, nor wound the Soul when seen.
No rotten rags such useful frames should fold,
To taint the breeze, and catch the passing cold;
Nor cloaths to cramp, or load, each cumber'd limb,
To gratify some vain or vicious whim—
To shame their sight, or simple shape deform,
But reputable raiment, neat, and warm;
All clean, to deck Heav'n's courts, on holy day,
Their due devoirs, with penitence, to pay;
To tune the thankful strain, and bend the knee,
In gratitude, to God, for giving Me!

Humanity should spend, but Wisdom spare,
To heighten effort, and encourage care.
Economy should fence, and clothe, and feed;
No Modesty should mope, nor Labour bleed;
But, like the Sun, Beneficence go forth,
To bless due Industry and humble Worth—
Thro' each dark cell dispensing life, and light,
O'er Penury's need, and Ignorance's night.
To thaw benumbing Hunger's nipping pow'rs,
By fostering Infancy in helpless hours—
To dissipate the mist Youth's morning shrouds—
Still each harsh storm of Manhood's mid-day clouds—
Dispel autumnal fogs, and gloomy fears,
That blind, or batter, Want, in waning Years;
And wintry darkness chear, and check the cold,
With gladdening warmth, when Labour's limbs grow old!
Should drive the damps of Indolence and Sloth,
To give true Diligence its largest growth;
Rejoicing, like a Giant in his course,
To urge on Energy, with fullest force—
Prudence, with keen, discriminating, view,
Should help all right intent, and conduct, through;
Yet every desperate character discard,
That Merit might enjoy more just reward!

Hence springs the Heart's disinterested joy;
The constant Luxury, that can never cloy!
The Clothing that will keep pure Spirit warm!
A Building that will brave the strongest Storm—
A Sun that ever shines, with reflex rays—
Expense that must command all Christians' praise—
A Rain whose drops return to Heav'n agen,
In grateful vapours rais'd by gracious Men—
Benevolence that Angels' breasts might move—
A blest profuseness Heav'n itself approve!

Unchristian Minds may mock such prompt Expence,
Which prison Happiness in cells of Sense!
The Miser may adore his idol, Pelf!
The Sensualist concenter all in Self—
And Vanity may vend Wealth's wasted store,
Amid superfluous funds for ever poor!
True Charity's a gladsome, gainful, Trade,
By Character, and Conscience, doubly paid!
Fair Character gives more than gems and gold!
Clear Conscience, happiness, a hundred-fold!
Reflection finds new gladness—yields new gains;
Repays all spent, and blesses what remains;
While Heav'n remun'rates, here, all Mercy lent,
Returning compound interest, cent. per cent.;

In future, when Faith bids this World farewell,
What Christ's redeeming Love, alone, can tell!

Sure this might Misers sordid Souls excite,
To draw such profit mix'd with pure delight!
A Game where all but witless Gamblers win;
Ensures the Chances—and eschews the Sin!
A Sport where Spendthrifts find the sweets of Love,
In peace, below, and rapturous bliss above!

But Charity still feels her gifts confin'd;
Her mint of Treasure, and her strength of Mind;
Nor need vast Riches roam to distant Strands,
While wretched objects crowd each native Land!
Earth's philanthropic Angels need not go
To search, thro' foreign Cells, for want, or woe,
While thousands perish on their parent shore—
A modest Christian scarce would aim at more;
Unless the good of godlike Souls be sought,
For such can ne'er too hard, too dear, be bought!
Ev'n when we find an Howard's spirit fled,
Tho' all applaud his heart, few praise his head!

God sends his show'rs, and spreads His sunshine smile,
On all, alike; the virtuous and the vile—
Rains boundless blessings down, on Man and Brute,
O'er all the Earth, in foliage—flow'rs—and fruit—
But Man's restricted Bounty ne'er extends
Beyond a needy few, or humble Friends;
And could his favours flow, like oceans, wide,
Still rocks and sands would bound the billowy tide!

All things, created, limits must inclose—
Almighty Mind, alone, no boundary knows!
The wish of mortal Man may range immense—
Still all stands circumscrib'd by Time and Sense!
Man's not like God in Wisdom—Love—or Might—
Yet while He copies Heav'n his conduct's right!
Not absolutely pow'rless, poor, or blind—
Unlike in measure, may be like in Mind!
By Christ's pure, holy, Spirit, humbly led,
When happily renew'd in heart, and head!
No due reward Man's worthiest deeds can win,
His motives, thoughts, words, acts, all mixt with sin!
His virtues—piety—and all his pow'rs,
Bestow'd by Heav'n—his bless'd Redeemer's dow'rs—
Still, tho' excluded thus, from every boast,
He's happiest far who imitates Him most!
No Ostentation Christ's pure conduct shades;
No Vanity upholds; but Pride upbraids!
His favours' ne'er conferr'd for poor applause—
He sounds no Trumpet but proclaiming Laws—
That striking Clarion, which, once more, must sound,
To gather all Earth's reasoning Creatures round,
Their works to weigh—their Heart's intentions trace—
From Nature growing, or that Saviour's Grace!
From kind affection, or weak wish for Fame;
The good of Neighbours, or self-glorying Name!
Mark acts—words—thoughts—and find each moral flaw,
By inbred Conscience, and Heav'n's holy Law!
Strip Ostentation—search those latent cells,
Where selfish drift, or sinful motive, dwells!
All masks forc'd off—all vizor'd views unfurl'd—
All hearts laid bare before the assembled World!
No more will Wealth, nor Pow'r, nor Pomp, nor Pride,
The Messiah, Heav'n's omniscient Judge! avoid—
Nor Cunning's Imps, nor Hypocrites, escape,
Thro' Protean trick, or artificial shape—
For He that made the heart—the eye—the ear—
Infallibly—must know—and see—and hear!
Impanell'd Saints, by His pure Spirit taught,
Shall state each truth—expose each peccant thought!
While Gifts, and Graces, purg'd by perfect skill,
Which form'd Affection—shap'd the wayward Will—
The silver Virtues shining round the heart,
Pure Gold, when polish'd bright by heavenly Art—
And precious Stones, reflecting all the rays,
With feebler beams, the Christian Sun displays,
That grace, and beautify the Godlike breast,
Shall stand the touchstone—the celestial test!
While Wood—Hay—Stubble all, must feel the flames,
Which Pride produces, or vain Fancy frames—
But if the project, and the plan, be pure,
The Architect, and Workman, must endure;
The beauteous Building still remain, unmarr'd,
And each blest Labourer meet his wish'd reward!
Then will the Angels reap the ripen'd Earth,
And separate Weeds of Vice from virtuous Worth—
Will all the tangling Tares, in bundles, bind,
With Chaff to burn, but leave the Wheat behind;
No more to struggle thro' each earthly Clod,
But gather'd in the garner of its God!
Sever the vast, ungrateful, goatish Herd,
Who spurn'd His Wisdom, and despised His Word,
From little flocks of loving, faithful Sheep,
Which learnt His kind commands, and strove to keep—

These will Messiah-Judge, most joyful own,
And call to sing new songs around His Throne!
To taste what Wit, and Learning, ne'er attain—
What warm Imagination vaunts in vain—
What Reason, well-enlighten'd, ne'er can reach,
Nor Inspiration, apostolic, teach!
Where Holiness increas'd, increases joy!
Where Life ne'er fails, and Love feels no alloy!
Those will the mock'd Immanuel, then, disclaim,
To outer darkness driven, with shudd'ring shame—
With teeth still gnashing—pangs which ne'er expire—
'Mid never-dying worms, and quenchless fire!

Had I all Wealth, I hoard up, only, there,
Where no corruption, rust, or moth, appear—
Where thieves and robbers break not thro' to steal,
Or Sin, or Satan, mar the Common-weal!
Seek Treasures only on celestial ground,
Ne'er bought too dear, nor ever lost when found!
That Pearl I'd purchase, whose intrinsic worth
Degrades all gold, and joyless gems of Earth!
Increase, with gracious trade, each talent giv'n,
To gain fresh funds in changeless hoards of Heav'n;
And, when my patrimonial Friend I meet,
Lay principal, and interest, at His Feet!!

GENERAL REFLECTIONS.

Why will proud Wealth expend in pompous Domes,
What would erect a hundred rustic homes?
Or lavish, on their vain internal store,
What might accommodate a hundred more?
Why dress in gorgeous robes, profusely grand,
Whose cost might clothe a Hamlet's humble Band?
Why melt in daily mess, and choicest cheer,
More price than Peasants' household round the Year?
While idling Imps destroy in wanton waste
What would afford poor hords their full repast!
Why wickedly delude gay dangling groups,
To thin the Town's, and Country's, labouring troops;
And on menial Males more cost bestow,
In food and raiment, hire and shining show
More than the useful troops of thought and toil,
Who ply the plastic tool, or till the soil—
More than maritime Crews, and martial Corps,
That guard their dwellings, and protect their shores—
Ev'n more than rural Priests, who humbly plod,
For grievous wages, in the work of God!

How much more wise, and blest, the World would be,
To make each mass recruits for Land, or Sea—
To purge away such weak, and proud, parade,
And turn such tools to instruments of Trade.
Much better such utensils were bestow'd,
To till each waste, and turnpike every road—
Proud equipages chang'd, and tawdry trains,
To teams, ploughs, waggons, carts, and surpliced Swains;
And Maids, so frail, so finical, so fine,
To tend the poultry, and to milk the kine;
And form new families with useful hands,
To furnish Arts, and crop fresh-cultur'd Lands.

Can sumptuous dwellings true delights increase?
Crown every Day with Pleasure? Night with Peace?
Can splendid furniture th' Conscience calm,
Or heal its bleeding wounds with genuine balm?
Can Friends' false portraits that pure Faith supply
Which wakes the Heart with Hope, and Love, and Joy?
Can gaudy garb, and multifarious mess,
Shut Sickness out, or pain, and grief repress?
Can sparkling Caskets, like the Gospel's page,
Give Peace and Comfort in declining Age?
Yield Consolation like Heav'n's purer Pearl,
Amidst a careless World's continual whirl?
Can prancing Coursers, and imperial Coach,
Outstrip rude Time, or stop fell Fate's approach?
Can heedless, hireling troops protect the heart
Against insidious Death's impending dart?
Objects of pity, all! by Ease unblest!
Bold Beggary's pupils! base burglarious pest!
Mean Ministers of Idols! Pride's proud Elves!
Who bow to Others, but adore Themselves—
Amid their Luxury, and their liveries brave,
Each braggart Spirit a most sordid Slave!
And what are all their proud Employers? what?
Rank weeds, on dunghills growing—soon to rot!
Frail moths that flutter thro' their Summer's day!
Blind Butts of mockery! pamper'd Beasts of prey!
Gay lamps, that guide to riot, or to rout,
Or tallow lights, that with gross stench go out!
Hot meteors flying in their fiery cars,
Or wandering, fleeting, cometary stars—
Planets that round some splendid Monarch move,
Impell'd by every impulse but pure Love!
Still urging on, dull days, and noisey nights,
Their trains of secondary Satellites!

Concentric circles—where each Orb, that rolls,
Presents equator, hot; or icey poles—
Their temperate zones, of Friendship, none e'er sees,
But burn, intensely, or intensely freeze!
All move, revolving, as by magic spells;
Self-love attracts, Caprice, or Pride, repels;
While, eager, every Individual runs,
To feel the influence of their central Suns!
Systems, confus'd! where Dupes and Despots toil,
All mock'd by Machiavelian frown, or smile!
For thro' those Clowns, and Courtiers, up to Kings,
From selfish motives each prompt motion springs!
Whirlpools of Time, and Treasure! Urns of Trust!
That pay back bubbles, dim, or blinding dust!
Volcanos! which, tho' calm, sublime they stand,
Like proud protectors o'er their native Land;
But, in each burning bosom, still conceal,
Fell mischief, which, full oft, meek Neighbours feel!
Would scorch, with cruel heat, each prostrate plain,
Did not the hand of Heav'n their wrath restrain;
Turn their fierce fires—reverse their vengeful aims,
And broil themselves, while belching furious flames!

Let not bold Wealth, in rude objections, rise,
Against such self-denying sacrifice.
Let Pride not say great Riches prove a right
To squander all in vain, or vile, delight—
Have not the Rich, as well as Poor, allow'd,
When, at baptismal font their Sponsors vow'd,
All pampering worldly Pomp should be denied,
As well as fleshly Lust, and devilish Pride?
And each, however bless'd with Pow'r, or Pelf,
Was bound to love his Neighbour like Himself.
How well such sacred compacts, now, are kept,
When Wealth's raw Tyros once become adept;
And Passion, Pride, and Lust, scout Christian care,
Let Palaces, and princely Domes, declare!
Let every public Place, and secret Cell,
The Court—the Camp—the School—the College, tell!
Plays—Operas—Bagnios—Balls—Fêtes—Taverns—Stews—
Routs—Concerts—Masquerades, confirm the News!
Where every Wight, thro' Wickedness, or Whim,
Stays not till Satan tempts, but all tempt Him!

Such Pomp and Pride, at first, was never kown,
Till Man's Ambition built and climb'd a Throne;
Each hoping to enlarge the Serpent's lie,
Becoming prouder Gods, thus perch'd so high!
Adam ne'er nourish'd up an idle Child,
Nor pious Noah one Descendant spoil'd!
The Patriarch' patroniz'd no lazy Lout—
Ev'n Prophets, and Apostles, liv'd without—
Nor Heav'n's obedient Heirs in aftertimes,
Offended Christ with such audacious crimes,
But to His holy Will most humbly bent,
Each, bless'd with food, and coverings, felt content!
Nay, ev'n unmatch'd Messiah, whose command
Extended, uncontroul'd, o'er Sea and Land,
Had not a hut wherein to lay His head,
But, daily, labour'd, long, for daily Bread!
Tho' Man's whole Race was subject to His call,
Yet He assum'd no Sovereign Pomp at all!
Tho' hosts of Heav'n His high behests obey'd,
Still, He, by them, ordain'd no proud parade!
Ne'er aim'd to gain by sceptre, sword, or spear,
Grandeur, or pow'r, or high dominion here!
No legions levied—no vain flags unfurl'd—
He sought no Kingdom in this nether World:
And all who fear His wrath, and feel His rod,
Will give all glory to their Saviour God!

Know this, and shudder, all, ye shameless Great!
Who strive to stablish arbitrary State;
How much unlike your Lord—mild—lowly—meek!
Who idol honours, godlike glory, seek;
Unmeet for Man below—or Hosts above—
No Creature claims them in the realms of Love!
You, who, like Deities, demand such Pow'r,
Unbounded—as by Deeds of heav'nly Dow'r!
Who o'er this Globe, as Gods, would wish to reign,
Like Lucifer all vengeful—false—and vain!
In haughty temples place each impious shrine,
Demanding, from your Vassals, dues divine!

In linen, fine, and Fashion's garments, gay,
Still faring sumptuous every passing day!
You, who base honours mutually bestow,
Have had your consolations all below!
Who, labouring, plod, in pain, for frail applause—
Who know not Christ, nor live by christian Laws—
Who aim no high'r than Titles, Pow'r, and Wealth,
Regardless of all Grace, and heavenly Health—
All proudly boasting your superior Birth
But live like Brutes—mere habitants of Earth!

Devoid of virtuous Love; pure Faith, and Fear;
As tho' no Gospel—God—or Hope, was here!
Peruse no Page in Heav'n's unblemish'd Book,
Nor e'er to awful Judge, or Judgment, look—
Yes, weakly look, while full of worldly leav'n,
To reach, and relish, holy joys in Heav'n!

Can You e'er hope with Him in Heav'n to reign
Who pinch His Children, here, with woe and pain?
Who wound, with thorns, again, His glorious head,
By pointed sorrows, round their pillows spread?
You mock and persecute the christian Chief,
Who scourge His faithful Friends with causeless grief!
Again, in them, their Saviour crucify,
And thro' their hearts to His the spear apply!
Their hands, and feet, with toil, and travail, flead,
Make His, with recent lacerations, bleed!
You, as wild asses' colts, like others, born,
His kindly precepts, pure example, scorn!
You seldom seek the broken hearts to bind,
To help the lame, or lead the abject blind!
The griev'd, and needy, ne'er, as Neighbours, greet,
Much less, like Servants, wash Inferiors' feet!
But rarely make meek Innocence amends,
Or, faithfully, forgive repentant Friends—
Much less to Strangers open house, and purse,
Befriend your Foes, or bless the Fools that curse!
In others eyes the smallest mote make known;
But ne'er perceive the beam that blinds your own!
At gnats of etiquette intensely strain,
While swallowing camel-crimes for gust, or gain!
Such beasts may easier pass thro' needles' eyes,
Than You, with Wealth so laden, climb the skies!
Intemperate feasts You frequently provide,
To fatten fatness, and to pamper pride;
Rich Neighbours calling to be call'd agen,
But send no summonses to meaner Men!
Prepare proud banquets to be paid in kind,
Not strengthening meals for poor, and maim'd, and blind;
But Worth, in want, imperiously spurn
For Penury can impart no rich return!
Some filthy fragments of luxurious treat,
That Sycophant, or Servant, scorns to eat—
Some sapless flesh, stale rinds, dry crusts, provide,
That supercilious Cook has cast aside;
But dainty dish, for private use put by,
Become quite mouldy, stinking, dull, or dry,
That oft had grac'd the table, rich, or rare,
Some shameless beggar—dog—or dust-hole share!
Such Friends, on Friends, confer a ready dow'r—
Honour bestows on Honour—Pow'r on Pow'r—
Greatness to Greatness gives, and Pelf to Pelf—
All forming circles—every centre Self—
But Labour, lowly—Piety, when poor,
Are driven, indignant, from your friendless door!
Such liberality will God regard?
No!—Such have, here, receiv'd their whole reward!

SOCIAL REFLECTIONS.

Should Heav'n, in vengeance, on vain Rich and Great,
Curtail the bones, and sinews, of the State—
Nerves—muscles—tendons—ligaments, unbind,
And only leave such heads and trunks behind—
Soon would those Heads lament the want of Limbs,
To feed their wants, and gratify their whims—
Soon find sad insufficiency of Parts,
Without those instruments of Toils, and Arts—
And soon the Friends, by which those Trunks are fed,
Not sending succours to sustain the Head,
The mouth must gasp with hunger—throat with thirst—
The belly shrivel, or, with flatus, burst:
Not cram, and carp, while Hunger cook'd and carv'd,
Nor, gorge, like Lions, while Jackals were starv'd—
No cultur'd Scenes would charm the ravish'd Sight!
No dulcet sounds of Art fond Ears delight!
The Nose no Scent perceive but native stink!
The Tongue no Taste indulge, with Meat, or Drink!
No warm Sensation suffering Feeling soothe,
Nor charm the Nerves, all numb, with soft, or smooth;
But each be shrunk with Sorrow, shame, and smart,
And Death, while Stomach starv'd, seize Head, and Heart!

Would such weak Heads abandon blundering whims,
Nor, proudly cold, despise kind labouring limbs—
Would such dull Trunks their duteous trusts return,
Nor thus the needful Members madly spurn—
Still cordially concoct and render pure,
The funds, and food, poor instruments procure—
Prepare the vital stream, and strengthening juice,
And circulate them free for general use;
Then each apt part, with universal voice,
Would with pure Justice, and prompt Truth rejoice!
Not glutton Trunks, with guilty cries complain

That Limbs are loads, and prove their Bearer's pain,
Nor haughty foolish Heads indignant flout,
And boast they well could bear their pomp without—
Or, with imperious pride, like ignorant Fools,
Contemn, with taunts, such needful, working, Tools.

Ye Pagods! Statues! Busts! Medallions! Coins!
Each, in respective Niche, inertly shines—
Look large with artful frown, or frigid smile,
O'er chemic Skill—and subterranean Toil—
Which, with a dead indifference, tamely stand,
Regardless of each gift from forming hand;
Nor guess the good poor circling pence produce,
More than mere Medals ne'er once turn'd to use!
All aiming to impose your shameless parts,
As proofs of native Powers, and skilful Arts;
And make proud forms for gold, or silver, pass,
While all's but Wood—Stone—Lead—or burnish'd Brass—
With supercilious leer, or stupid stare,
Scorn skill which form'd, and furnish'd, all you are,
Or, with dull self-sufficient, fronts, deride,
That industry, which wealth and worth supplied!
Yet tho' indebted, thus, for each fond claim,
Of Pow'r, of Pomp, of Fortune, and of Fame,
You stir no eye—no ear—or head—or arm,
Exhausted strength to chear, or Taste to charm;
To urge ingenious hands; soothe Want, or Woe;
Labour, or Skill, which bear such loads below;
But, idly lounge, or insolently stand,
The base opprobrium of a nerveless Land!
Mere Portraits on their proud posteriors placed,
Inspectors, weak, of Genius—Art—or Taste!
Or, deckt in golden glories, heedless lie,
While your poor Manufacturers pine—or die!

Behold! Ye Rich! the wretch'd brood around!
Who dig your dismal mines, and work your ground—
Ply countless curious Arts, that You may 'scape
All want, in real, or unreal, shape!

They build your Domes, where Deities might dwell—
And will not You allow some lowly Cell;
Some simple Hovel—Hut—or sheltering Shed,
Where they may drink their water—break their bread;
When bread they have, and weary limbs may lie,
Secure from fierce attacks of stormy sky—
And where, when all their pence, on wants, are spent,
No feudal Churl can come to rail for Rent?

With Furniture they fit Your radiant Rooms—
Invent—prepare—and furnish, rich perfumes—
Shall such kind Friends, in squalid holes comprest,
'Mid atmospheres of filth, and rubbish, rest?

They fence Your Gardens—force Your fruits to grow—
And will not You some petty patch bestow,
Where Industry may find its frugal dish,
While God gives You game—ven'son—fowls—and fish?

They dress Your meadows—fertilize Your field;
And ought not You some small inclosure yield,
Where each may range, or rest, when Sundays shine,
Look round their little spot, and cry—'tis Mine?

They clear the plains—They pulverize the clod—
Will You, Wealth's Heirs! withold the heathy sod,
To thaw their frozen fingers—warm their feet—
And cook the scraps Your slaves would scorn to eat!

They watch Your woodlands—fell Your stems, and trees—
Give frost a fire-stick! rain a day of ease!
Nor let poor Worth with want—cold—toil, expire,
While You enjoy full choice, and chearful fire!

They brew Your beer—press pear, and apple, wine;
Yet quaff cold water, daily, when they dine—
And, while you satiate each base, beastly, Lust,
Munch vegetables, crude, with mouldy crust!

Your Horses—Hounds—Yes Hogs—at board, and bed,
Are better clothed—skreen'd, fenc'd, and lodg'd, and fed—
Ev'n Farmer's Hog may fill his hungry maw,
Well shelter'd take his rest on wholesome straw,
Whilst labouring Boors may find more scanty draff,
And lay tired limbs on stinking straw, or chaff!
Princes and Peers, for Horses, or for Hounds,
Expend, in mansions, twice ten thousand pounds;
While those that furnish all, yield all defence,
Crowd kraals that ne'er cost half ten thousand pence!

Wealth squanders time, and strength, and countless store,
To bolster Pride and Lust with barren Whore,
While wedded Mates who feel as fellow Men,
May breed, like beasts, and starve in dreary den!

What! ostentatious Monsters! shall your Beast
Better than Brethren sleep! than Sisters feast!
Shall steril Strumpets live more costly Lives
Than fond, affianced, pure, productive Wives?
Shall clam'rous Broods, for bread, 'midst plenty, cry,
And skill'd Mechanics, prest with penury, die?

While You, with Pomp and Luxury, still devour
What wise Heav'n meant for all Men's dow'r!

That such things are no Sceptic e'er denied,
Such is the curs'd economy of Pride!
Such the expence of Vanity's pursuits,
And Lusts, which fain would lurch all Nature's fruits!
While Towns thrust thousands out, in starving Trains!
Legions of meagre martyrs press the Plains!
See the sunk eye—lean look—and shrivell'd limb!
Nor deem it Fancy's dream, or Poet's whim.
With faltering step behold each Phantom stalk!
Like ghastly ghosts, hear Spectres muttering talk!
Whose rambling murmurs, while to Heav'n they rise,
On You must fall, in curses, from the skies!
There Angels weep, while Wealth's hard hearts below,
Pass heedless by, or mock their wants, and woe!
Which from the Artist, and the Hind, withold,
Earth's plenteous produce, and grasp all its gold!
And tho' those haughty hearts so deep despise
A Bard not boasting wit, not learn'd, not wise—
Yet, hear, tho' he's unskill'd in construing Greek,
Hear, in plain English, an Apostle speak:

“Go to, now, wretched Rich! and weep, and howl!
“Your miseries come, for all your conduct, foul!
“Your wealth will feel corruption's fell alloy!
“Your gorgeous garments fretting moths destroy!
“Your gold and silver, deeply canker'd o'er,
“Whose rust shall rise one adverse witness more;
“Shall eat your flesh! as fire on fuel preys,
“Together heap'd against Your latter days!
“Behold the Labourer's hire, Your fraud denies,
“Who reap'd Your crops, to Heav'n, for vengeance, cries,
“Entering the Lord of Sabbaoth's listening ears,
“Who notes their sighs, and bottles up their tears,
“In Judgment to confront the guilty Great,
“Makes shame and misery's punishment compleat!
“Ye live in pleasure, here, and wanton lust,
“While they with labour bend, and lick the dust!
“Your hearts grown callous to their starving call,
“Like sanguine Chiefs, when slanghter'd Victims fall!
“You dare to judge the just; condemn, and kill;
“While he resists not Your tyrannic Will.
“Be patient, O my Brethren! help will come—
“The Lord will quickly call his labourers home!
“Behold the Husbandman still waits the birth,
“And ripening, fully; precious fruits of Earth;
“With faith and patience waits, nor waits in vain,
“But shares the early and the latter rain.
“Oh! be you patient! stablish well your hearts—
“Your misery's short—with death each pang departs!
“Then shall you meet your Saviour in the sky;
“In faith and patience wait—Redemption's drawing nigh!”

Thus taught the sacred Saint—Thus sung the Swain,
While casting pensive looks o'er all the Plain;
Then view'd, with anxious eye, his little store,
And fondly wept o'er all the friendless Poor;
Wishing his Wealth as large as Penury's call,
That Pity might dispense full shares to all!

How weakly twinkles Reason's glimmering spark!
Obscure, the present—all the future, dark!
Reflection finds, in Memory's mirror, shown,
Each fleeting moment objects, newly flown;
While dim ideas, passing rapid by,
Maugre Man's grasp, scarce catch the mental eye!
Fears—hopes—desires—with feather or with dart,
Pierce deep, or tickle, passing o'er the heart!
Weak pains, or pleasures, faintly frown, or smile,
With feebler joys, or sorrows, each recoil;
But deep misfortunes at each strong rebound,
Strike deeper, still, and widen every wound!

Good-nature, destitute of spleen, or pride,
Leans, fondly, tow'rds the favourable side;
While different reasons urge their different pleas,
To jostle Judgment's dernier degrees;
And spurns, with promptitude, ungenerous Doubt,
Till deep Experience points each danger out;
Who often travels far, and suffers long,
Ere taught to shun Gulphs—Rocks—and Syren's song!

A Friend, still poorer than Crispinus' self,
Discovering he possess'd some pounds of pelf,
With winning pathos came, his cause to plead,
Imploring help to ease the pressing need;
While, more to move his Will, with solemn Oath,
Vow'd soon to send back loan and interest both.

By Pity soften'd, while a Friend complains,
No weak-wall'd Resolution long remains!
Batter'd by groans, and sapp'd by streaming tear,
While summon'd by the sighs of kindred, dear—
And when such siege lasts long, and waxes warm,

To scape more conflict, and avoid the storm,
Self-love no more repulsive weapons wields,
But opes her portals, and the plunder yields!
True, sympathetic hearts, assail'd with woe,
Feel failing strength while struggling with the Foe;
And oft, too late, this troublous lesson learn,
Such Captors rarely captur'd rights return!

Who could withold ten paltry Guineas, long,
When sorrow's troops attack'd ten thousand strong!
And prude, Pretence, in Candour's cloak array'd,
With Truth's meek mask, Simplicity betray'd!
As hapless Females listen to the lies
Black Villains vend beneath Love's fair disguise.
Ere the prompt Bounty bless'd his poor abode,
Compassion lent the Stock large Wealth bestow'd!
—As tantalizing phantasms take their flight,
Whose unsubstantial gildings glad the Night;
In fumes dispers'd before the focal ray,
When rays of Reason blend with beams of Day;
So Crispin view'd that visionary Store,
Which, like such dream dissolv'd—to mock no more!

FRIENDLY PROPOSAL PROVED ABORTIVE.

A simple proverb, long, to Rustics, known,
That, “Sad mishaps but seldom come alone,”
Repeated, frequent, with mere monkish phlegm,
At length feels fix'd like holy apophthegm—
This, Crispin, soon, by sore experience knew—
Just then dear Shenstone bade the world adieu!

That Patron, once, with pure intent, essay'd
To court shy Crispin from his native shade,
To stand in social situation placed,
Far more propitious to poetic taste—
In literary circles fix'd, to find
New nourishment to feed his famish'd mind;
And, for his tender Mate, and feeble brood,
A fairer shelter, and much surer food.

He, poor Pedestrian! wander'd on his way,
To proud Augusta, profligately gay!
Not in luxurious Carriage, bosom'd, soft—
Not as a Coachman's comrade, perch'd aloft,
Not on the burden'd summit borne along,
Amidst a merry, rustic, thoughtless throng;
Nor in a tilted town mid motley store,
To loll, at ease a thousand furlongs o'er.
Part of his way some youthful favourites went—
Amused his time, infused some small content—
But when, at length their lingering steps return'd,
With double force his bosom froze and burn'd,
But all the lengthen'd track his footsteps trod,
Without one Friend, but his first Patron—God!
The plan appear'd, from superficial sight,
To proffer competence, and fresh delight;
But on more mature and close inspection show'd,
Tho' new, 'twas Need's, and Misery's, mirey road—
To try his strength in literary skill—
To bend his talents to a Master's Will—
To sacrifice his time, each waking hour,
In dull routine for insufficient Dow'r.
The flight he took, but found it fraught with pain!
He'd left his Mate, repining, on the Plain!
With helpless Younglings, chirping round her nest,
Or fed, like Pelicans, from bleeding breast:
Her absent Partner still her thorny theme,
Which pierc'd her heart, while pouring pungent stream!
What could he do? his bleeding bosom found,
A sharper—deeper—and a wider, wound!
For, ah! he miss'd his Offsprings' pleasing smiles,
Which wont to soften cares, and sweeten toils!
No brood, by tenderness, paternal, bred;
Perch'd on his pinions—twitter'd round his head!
No more his beauteous Consort bless'd his sight,
Made his lov'd bondage dear—his labour light!
He bask'd no more beneath her heavenly eyes,
That kindled griefs, and fears, to hopes, and joys!
Like Nightingale, to city-cage consign'd,
Lost love made solitary! absence, blind!
With myriads mix'd no integer enjoy'd,
For all Sense offer'd, Sorrow still destroy'd!
His minish'd will and mutilated wing,
Depriv'd his heart of pow'r, and wish, to sing;
Like the fond Turtle, banish'd from his Mate,
He felt, and mourn'd, his miserable fate!
Unblest! no billing, cooeing, Consort near,
To calm deep groans or draw out cooling tear!
But, like a House in flames, his fierce desires,
Consum'd his Soul with still intenser fires;
While fann'd and nourish'd with incessant sigh,
All Friends far distant—fountains all run dry;
For when, like sighs, the breezey gales begin
To breathe without, they feed the fires within;
But when the engines' watery fountains play,

The flame's soon conquer'd, and the fires decay:
Such is the sorrow when the eye-lids flow,
And sympathetic Friendship shares the woe—
Sighs quickly cease—soon moping misery's o'er;
And soon each painful passion's felt no more!

Smit with a Lover's—Husband's—Father's, smart,
All pangs, combin'd, that plague both head and heart;
He sought from such unmingled griefs to fly,
And hasten back to Penury, Peace, and Joy;
Where all his wretchedness would sink to rest,
Lull'd on the eider-down of Daphne's breast.
Tho' novel prospects offer'd objects new,
Which might have charm'd an undivided view,
'Twas trouble to His faithful, friendly, Mind,
Who'd left the idols of his heart behind!
Its labours large, its profits far too small,
To satisfy fond Nature's common call;
Much less the fairer fruits of Life afford,
Lov'd leisure, comelier cloaths, and better board;
Or offering hopes, that, any future hour,
Might place enjoyment more in Daphne's pow'r,
But all forboded loss of present peace;
Intenser toils, and anxious cares increase!

CALM REFLECTIONS!

Better be pined on providential scraps,
With Love's beatitudes, and mix'd mishaps,
Than insulated Wretch's torpor share,
Tho' daily fed with Fortune's daintiest fare!
Better in ragged, squalid, robes be clad
Where cordial bliss can be, with labour, had,
Than swell, elate, with splendid garments, gay,
And die, with indolence, the live-long day!
Better be lodg'd in small, sequester'd, shed,
Daub'd with plain plaster, in uncurtain'd bed,
Enjoying revelry in Love's delight;
Or watch, or chide, with children, all the night—
Than, in seclusion cold, unsocial sigh,
No faithful wedded Friend, or Offspring, nigh—
Still tossing, sleepless, on a bed of state,
Surrounded by proud Imps of Spleen and Hate;
Where not a Soul among the selfish tribes,
Moves foot, or finger, but from threats, or bribes!
Thus warn'd by Wisdom, and impell'd by Fear,
While eager to escape such task, austere,
To Daphne's arms impatient Crispin hied,
To taste the bliss Her bosom ne'er denied,
Cast all his cares and sorrows to the wind,
And left black melancholy far behind—
Resolv'd again to ply his pristine trade,
Whose labours Daphne's love still over-paid;
Where in her looks, and on her lips, he found
A balm for ev'ry woe, and ev'ry wound!

AT HOME.

Now plac'd, once more, upon his native height,
Amidst dear scenes of ever-new delight!
Where former themes conspir'd, with present things,
That first allur'd his Lyre, and tun'd the strings,
Again the strings, with higher transport, strung—
Again his Friend's enchanting Site he sung—
Sung the sad loss of Him, with genuine grief,
And grateful strains to all who lent relief;
Unconscious where, or when, his cares would end,
Yet well assured that Heav'n was, still, his Friend!

No finite Mind can comprehend the plan
God's providence marks out for favour'd Man!
Nor, with his feeble sight, distinct, forsees
One future hour His deep and dark decrees!
But, by the light of Revelation, knows,
Midst clouds of ignorance—wickedness—and woes;
Beset with Satan's wiles, and worldly strife,
And all the countless temporal plagues of Life,
Whatever ills Believers' hearts betide,
Their God's their Guardian—Governor—and Guide!
Who cleaves to Him no curse can e'er befal;
Friend—Father—Saviour—still controuling all!
Each dark occurrence, clearly understood,
Shews embryo Evil growing into Good!
All foolish Man calls Accident, or Fate,
Dispos'd by Him in measure, shape, and weight!
No change of Fortune, and no freaks of Chance,
Thro' Nature's realms, in mingled Atoms dance—
'Mong particles of Dew, or drops of Rain;
The tracks of Comets, or the Meteor train—
Dire Earthquake's depredations—Lighting's stroke—
Wide-wasting waters, o'er their boundaries broke—
O'erwhelming flames or wild, impetuous, Wind,
Or wickedness, or whims, among Mankind—
The murderous massacres of wilful War—
Contusion slight, or superficial scar;
With all the tricks of Vanity, and Vice,

That now perplex this earthly Paradise—
All that to Time, or Property, pertain,
Health—Sickness—Languor—Death—or Loss, or Gain;
Thro' Heav'n's Foreknowledge, forms one perfect plan
For God's full Glory—greatest Good of Man!

Whate'er dire dangers Christians' course surround,
God's Wisdom, Love, and Pow'r, are faithful found;
And while they offer Heav'n their willing hearts
Christ fills the Father's—Friend's—Proctector's, parts!
Should misery, or mistake, their Minds mislead,
Thro' morbid Habit, or unchristian Creed,
Yet, humbly bowing, with obsequious Will,
Omniscient Wisdom proves their pilot still!
Tho' Foes may persecute, by fraud, or spoil,
Unchanging Justice shapes their weal the while;
Or Pride—Lust—Malice—present Peace destroy,
Eternal Truth ensures unending Joy!
And, tho' the Earth, and Heav'ns, all pass away,
God's witness'd Covenant will ne'er decay;
But full affianc'd Mercy—Love—and Grace—
Will find—and fit—and fix—their endless resting-place!

Nature instructs, as Reason travels round,
O'er starry firmament, or teeming ground;
While God's blest Book, the Soul's instructor, true!
Enlivens, and illustrates, every view—
Where Faith, and Hope assist the strengthen'd sight,
And His pure Spirit wills—“Let there be Light!”
Faith sees celestial radiance beam above,
Tho' vapours, dense, eclipse the sapphire cove,
Veil each faint sun of night, and planet's sphere,
She knows uncounted numbers twinkle there.
Tho' murkey clouds obscure the Sun's bright blaze,
The spungey Air imbibes his trindled rays;
And, while those meteors melt in sighs and tears,
Its covenanting arch the rainbow rears!
Thro' thickest mediums of misfortunes, dark,
Love gathers light from every sprinkled spark;
And Hope, fair Sister! wandering by her side,
With borrow'd beams illumes the welkin wide,
While Faith, on both their full-grown shoulders borne,
O'er Earth's horizon looks, and marks Heav'n's opening Morn!

The Summer-Sun, with Soul-dissolving heat,
Cooks animated Nature's constant treat—
The Thunder's grumblings, with keen Lightning's glare,
Diffuse Heav'n's balanc'd fires, o'er Earth and Air—
Rude Rains that spread intemperate ruins round,
Replenish springs, and irrigate the ground—
The Mountain's naked breast, in fruitful rills,
The suckled Vales with health, and fatness, fills;
While, from its teeming wombs, immense supplies,
Of stoney wealth, fair fanes, and villas, rise—
Ev'n while Volcanos roar, and Earthquakes rend,
The faithful Christian finds in each, a Friend:
For, tho' ingulphing lavas' liquid glow,
May fix their frames in burning depths below;
Or cloven Mountains, 'mid their craggy glooms,
Imbed their Bodies, deep, in stoney tombs;
Yet, while they burst the soil, and burn the sod,
They lift and light their Souls from Earth to God!

But Man, thro' colour'd lenses, need not try
To scan the Volumes of the Earth and Sky,
Or catch uncertain truth, or dubious hint,
From Sibyl phrase, or frail, imperfect, print;
While, smarting much, and oft, from Tutor's stripe,
Few Scholars understand a single type—
Much less can learn, in this World's carnal schools,
Their sovereign Master's more mysterious rules!
No classic teaching those pure Truths imparts,
That Scripture stamps on humblest Christians' hearts!
'Tis wisest, far, by Heav'n's clear light, to look
O'er the bright pages of God's gracious Book;
By which each eye of heav'n-illumin'd Minds,
Some useful science, in each sentence, finds.
Whence Nature's wonderous objects all arose—
Whence Man's foul, wicked, fall, with all his woes—
Where cloudy Ignorance may most clearly read,
Whence grew each graceless wish, foul word, and deed:
All that concerns the Souls of all the Race,
Consulting God, in Council, face to face.
May see Him in His Son's bright image, there,
Devoid of doubt, surmise, or slavish fear!
Behold Him wise—benevolent—and just—
For ever faithful to His promis'd trust!
Prompt, boundless Gifts, and Graces, to bestow,
To fit bless'd Souls for Heav'n, while here below!
Conferring Faith's—Hope's—Love's—full evidence,
Past Reason's reach, and Learning's proud pretence!
Fresh strength still offer'd to support the Soul,
'Gainst Prejudice—Lust—Passions'—strong controul;

Presenting motives—views—and objects, new,
All Pride to conquer, and each Lust subdue—
And, every heart, with tenderness, to win,
Forgives iniquity—transgression—sin!
With pure affection pardoning every flaw,
In debts of duty, and in rules of Law—
Where Justice joins with Mercy, hand in hand,
Like wedded Pairs' indissoluble band.
Not urging force, or fear; but chearful choice,
To wed with Virtue, while divorcing Vice!
With promise, full, of permanent reward,
For each true instance of the heart's regard!
The Mind's meek wishes, unpossest of pow'r,
Esteem'd much more than Pride's imperial dow'r.
Ev'n Widow's freewill mites are valued far more
Than grasps of gold from Ostentation's store;
The Kid, Lamb, Turtle-Dove, or Pigeon's prized
While Birds of Prey, foul Dog, and Swine's despis'd!
He gives the Whole—yet wooes one simple part,
One small return—an undivided Heart!
The Parent, He—the all-sufficient Friend,
Of all that on His Word, and Will, depend;
Whose Nature purest designations prove,
Sublime, and abstract; Truth—and Light—and Love!
Enfolding, in a Father's bless'd embrace,
Each Child that chooses His forgiving Grace;
Yet, with stern sentence, like a Judge severe,
Declares He never can the guilty clear!

Such paradoxes, who can reconcile?
Admit such sentence, yet make Justice smile?
Make ingrate Man lift up his guilty head?
In sin and trespass twice condemn'd, and dead!
How shall he clear the cost, and purchase peace,
While every hour condemning debts increase?
A poor insolvent Bankrupt! fetter'd fast!
All pow'r, all hope, of legal pardon, past!
By crimes, become, to Death, a destin'd prey;
Without one merit, or one mite, to pay!
Yet—lo! each crime's forgiv'n! each farthing's paid!
On blameless Innocence each burden's laid!
All damning debts are cross'd, all crimes discharg'd,
And every praying Prisoner's Life's enlarg'd;
While God's decree declares Christ's death, alone,
One crime can cancel, or one fault atone—
No blood of Beasts, or Man's polluted gore,
Whose Life was forfeit, by offence, before;
Tho' His pure Heart be pierc'd, His blood be spilt,
Whose Life was ne'er disgrac'd with debt, or guilt!
That high, celestial, gracious, Life was giv'n,
The second Adam's Soul—the Lord's, from Heav'n!
That perfect Pattern! free from fault, or flaw,
Which none, before, or since, Earth never saw,
Of Sion's purest Love, and Sinai's perfect Law!
—He, rich in mercy, to Man's wretched Race,
Before He drove them from their pristine place,
Instead of figleaf breeches shame had made,
With coats of skins, Heav'n's workmanship! array'd—
—He, Noah sav'd, but drown'd the World of Sin—
Taught him to shape the Ark, and shut him in.
—He held back Abraham's arm, and threat'ning knife
And gave redeeming Ram, for Isaac's Life.
—He instituted each succeeding type,
To stand in strength till His pure plan was ripe,
Then—thro' His Father's image! Glory bright!
In servile shape appear'd to human sight,
That Law, Himself had fashion'd, to fulfil,
And execute His Father's righteous Will!
Vouchsaf'd to labour—suffer—bleed—and die,
To purchase Man's clear title to the sky;
And sent celestial influence, from above,
To fit him for that realm of rest, and love—
And that's the Friend and Follower most caress'd,
Who leans, most loving, on His bleeding breast!

By Him repentant Prodigals are own'd,
And crimson crimes, of deepest dye, aton'd;
Inviting ev'n the vilest of the Vile,
So long the slaves of Sin, and Satan's wile,
To seek His pardon, and accept His peace,
That Faith might flourish, and mad Sin might cease,
Hope more abound—Love more believers bless,
And turn each view tow'rds Heav'n's pure Happiness!

He soothes the miseries of the Saints who weep—
Throws wide His fold for stray'd, returning, Sheep—
Protects from wolves—secures from cold and heat,
And feeds with streams, and pastures, pure, and sweet!
Who, when he wond'rously resign'd His breath,
Procur'd Man peace, and conquer'd Sin, and Death!
Wash'd Earth's delinquencies with second flood,
And sign'd and seal'd new Covenant with blood!
Blest Pact! comprising all the human Race,
In every period—and in every place!
For all that simply seek, and meekly claim;

Believe his written Truths, and own His Name!
Sure Legatees, by new and blessed birth!
Adopted Denizons of Heav'n, on Earth!
Copy his Life in each fair signature,
And, to the end, in perfect Faith endure—
To prove each document, and pay each dow'r,
He laid Life down, but reassum'd His pow'r!
And now, enthron'd, He executes His Will;
Decrees, as King, on Heav'n's tribunal still;
And sends His seal'd Embassador, below,
Possessions—rights—and titles, to bestow!
Who, in kind condescension, clears each clause
In bounteous legacies, and binding laws!
Helps all enquiring Spirits to perceive,
Why Reason ought assent, and Souls believe.
Subdues their stubborn Wills, and stoney Hearts,
To feel fresh duties, and perform fresh parts!
Confers new pow'rs, Life's conflicts to endure,
Conducts each conquest, and directs each cure;
While, in this World's campaign, so frequent found,
The scars of Conscience, or weak Spirit's wound.
Shows God, blest Giver! will His bounties raise
Rewards of watchfulness—thanks—prayer—and praise.
With Gospel Temperance all His gifts adjusts;
Controuls Pride—Passions—and all lawless Lusts—
And, while He shows the bliss such conduct brings,
Supplies fresh, unstolen honey, free from stings!
Proves the blank emptiness of all, below,
But gifts of Grace, which up to Glory grow!
Shows how the charms of Man, and choicest Maid,
All zest of Youth, and full-toned vigour, fade!
How soon the wizard face, and wither'd frame,
No more enchanting grace, or charm, can claim,
When furrow'd features—awkward actions, move
No warm emotion, or fond look of Love;
But sympathetic Pity, each, excites
To mourn Immortals trick'd with Time's delights!
Which marks 'mid crowds of crimes' wild pains, and woes,
No Faith's refreshment, and no Hope's repose;
Unless pure Piety, and calm Content,
Console dull Age, and smooth Life's rough descent!
Shows how rapt Poet, and cold-thoughted Clown,
Alike must lay their wit, and dulness, down!
The proud and pamper'd Rich, and wretched Poor,
Shall share Earth's joys, and miseries, now no more;
But mix, both blank and mute, one common crowd,
In naked shame, or frill'd funereal shrowd!
Where Hero vaunts no more, nor victim weeps,
But with proud Conqueror prostrate Captive sleeps!
Each senseless title, and distinction cease!
All troubled christian Spirits rest in peace!
The mightiest Sovereigns, and the meanest Slaves,
Forgotten equals, in their clay-cold graves!
Except rich sumptuous Mausoleum, rise
With pompous labels, eloquent in lies!
With dazzling look, and flattery, well-refin'd,
Like chousing Courtiers maskt, to cheat Mankind—
Compressing Peers, and Despots, in the dust,
Till marbles moulder, and remembrance rust—
While Penury sleeps before Pride's heedless feet,
Till summon'd, both, from Earth, as Equals, meet,
To share just Sentence, at Christ's Judgment-seat!

He holds the balance, with suspended weights,
Which poises temporal and eternal States—
Hangs Life's most valu'd boons on Nature's beam,
All drawn, unheeded, to Life's last extreme—
A lovely Consort's faithful, fond, embrace—
Cherubic Daughters—Sons of godlike race—
Chaldean Kingdom—Wit—with boundless Wealth—
Firm Peace—full Pleasure—length of Life, and Health—
While Fancy, Pomp, and Flattery, still, conspire
To raise each monstrous estimation high'r—
Yet, on each object, and its best delights,
His rectifying finger, TEKEL, writes:
While, sliding slow'r, at length Life's motion stops,
Then, from the broken link, down, down, each bauble drops!

He purges Mind thro' all its visual pow'rs,
To view Earth's transient, Heav'n's eternal, hours;
With clear conceptions, thro' assisted Sense,
That Time's a point! Eternity, immense!
Proves what substantial blessings Mortals miss,
By bartering Heav'n's for Earth's ignoble bliss!
Compares poor Coins, and unleas'd Acres, here,
With fadeless Crowns, and freehold Kingdoms, there!
Time's empty trifles—Sense's cheating toys,
With endless Life's, and Love's, extatic Joys!
All, genuine Joys! unmeasur'd! and unmix'd!
These, frail, and fleeting! those, for ever fix'd!
And, as Death drives to Time's remotest shore,
Earth's vain distinctions merge to rise no more!

He teaches Saints true perspective—divine!
Shows tinsel, near, may distant gold outshine—
Transparent Pebble's feeble neighbouring rays,
Excel remoter diamond's brightest blaze;
And span-wide puddles, by, with greensward verge,
Vast Ocean's tow'ry strand, and mountain surge!
Why Glowworm's glimmering spark seems brighter, far,
Than strongest gleams from high Herschelian star;
That smallest motes may intercept the sight,
And quite obscure the lunar Lamp of night;
Or interpose before the purblind eye,
And blot full sunbeams from unclouded sky,
And flying Meteor's train, and fiery trace,
Drown brilliant Suns that speck unbounded space!

Nor teaches, He, these obvious truths, alone,
By Sense perceiv'd, or narrow reasonings known;
But helps the Soul to search the inward parts,
And mark the movements of all human Hearts,
As well the workings of Satanic Souls,
As those His truths, and Influence, controuls.
Tells Understanding how Vice teems within,
From procreant slips, or pregnant seeds, of Sin!
With every dangerous shade, and different shape,
Hypocrisy invests as Virtues ape!
What lep'rous evils venom'd Pride hath spread,
Thro' every feverish heart, and frantic head!
How bubbling Passions burst from poison'd springs,
Taint every thought, and tinge ev'n sacred things!
How Lusts, from Appetites degraded, grow,
To spoil blest plans, and purposes, below;
While both, combin'd, perverted pow'rs mislead
To wicked wish—curs'd scheme—and dreadful deed!
He clearly shows how Passion, Pride, and Lust,
Make Minds, heav'n-gifted, grovel in the dust;
Yet, oft exhibits Pow'r, when Age, and Youth,
Yea, ev'n weak Childhood, traces ways of Truth!
How, when His Word convicts, His Grace converts,
Conducts to Christ—condemns all self-deserts:
And, while that influence, Faith—Hope—Love, imparts,
Gives Heav'ns blest bias to all humbled Hearts!
With Might, resistless, turns Hell's strong Man out—
Governs tumultuous Passion's rabble-rout—
Reduces Lusts to simple Appetites,
And proves pure Temperance yields Lifes true delights!
Still checks, and mortifies, the pow'r of Pride—
Turning, tow'rds Heav'n, sublime, Ambition's tide—
Enlightening heav'nly Faith's pure visual pow'rs—
Points out the Saviour, and His promis'd dow'rs—
Expands the Spirit's clear, celestial, scope,
With elevated look still strengthening Hope;
And fills the Soul with sanctifying Love,
To fit each faculty for bliss above!

The weakest Christians, faithful when they fall,
Still feel that quickening Spirit's pow'rful call,
Which rouz'd, at first, the heav'n-illumin'd Race,
To fear the Father, and the Son embrace—
Will, thro' that filial fear, and grateful glow,
Still prove pure foretastes of true bliss below;
With full assurance, when their frames decay,
Each Soul shall still survive in endless day!
For tho' frail Friends may ne'er, thro' Pride, presume
To spread false praise, or build the boasting tomb;
Yet, in the list of Life each Name shall stand
Inscrib'd, in Heav'n, by God's paternal hand!
For, when the Body feels Death's full disgrace,
The Spirit must attain appropriate place—
That mix'd with homogeneal Parent Earth—
This go to Him who gave its Being birth—
While dust to dust, by gravitation, tends,
Spirit, spontaneous, to its Sire ascends!

FURTHER SERIOUS REFLECTIONS.

He, Nature's Ruler—Legislator—Cause—
Thro' all Creation acts by general Laws.
Earth—Water—Air—and Fire—all, freely, fly,
When disentangled, to the Earth, or Sky—
So, immaterial Spirit, needs must find
Its proper medium in paternal Mind.

Why should frail Man annihilation fear?
Matter's minutest parts ne'er perish here.
Each particle partakes corporeal Life,
In torpid state, or elemental strife.
Fix'd—fluid—scatter'd, or in masses run—
Planet, opaque—or lucid central Sun—
Inert, and passive, tide, and time, defy—
He, only, who created, can destroy.
Shall Agents, then, of wonderous pow'rs possess'd—
By Conscience—Will—and Understanding, bless'd—
Endued, distinctly, with apt pow'rs of Speech,
No other earthly Creature e'er can reach—
Still more distinct by superadded Sense,
Which tastes, alone, all Beauty's charms dispense.

Can compass all, with vast extent of thought,
Which God created, or Mankind hath wrought.
Unnumber'd Systems built in boundless space,
Or Arts atchieve, for glory—use—or grace.
Can attributes, and schemes, of Heav'n, conceive—
All Angels laud, or blessed Saints believe.
All truths that Revelation's code contains—
What Inspiration gives, or Reason gains—
Imagination shapes—or Knowledge knows—
Wit's Fancys form with grace, or Science, grows.
Shall He—shall godlike Man—on Earth, supreme!
With impotence despond? with dotage dream?
At once his Nature, and his God, forget;
And deem Death claims an everlasting debt?
A Being bless'd with force, and free to will,
Dread Non-existence should Existence kill!
Think Nothing's hand should Something's act erase!
Or pow'rful Essence sink absorb'd by Space!
That Chance or Accident should Choice devour!
Or inert Matter prop up active Pow'r?
No! He who Forms and Hues to Substance binds,
And Matter links to immaterial Minds—
Who thus can make such compound Natures known,
Can cause the sever'd Soul to live alone—
Destroy, by Truth, the fancied strength of Fate,
And give clear Consciousness in separate State.
Those Minds which animate, and move, the Clod,
Partake the Nature of their parent, God;
And must Identity most amply prove,
While by His Will they breathe, and live, and move!

Tho' mortal Man, who dreads his destin'd end,
Might, with full Trust, on such fair Truths depend,
Yet on much firmer base wise Christians build;
On wonders work'd, and prophecies fulfill'd;
Confirming fully Inspiration's page;
Distinct from dogmas of uncertain Sage—
From cunning Mahomet's imposing scheme,
Mysterious nonsense, and deluding dream;
Or bare assertions of deceptive Pope,
To found true Faith, or stablish holy Hope.
Here facts, historic, firm foundations lay,
Defying Foe's attacks, and Time's decay;
And while blest doctrines fence the dome about,
Innumerous miracles demolish doubt—
The superstructure perfect precepts rear—
Rich promises repel each faithless fear;
When Grace's top-stone plac'd, secure, on high,
The Fabric's fill'd with Peace, and Love, and Joy.

Within this Structure Man may rest at ease,
Prepar'd for all God's Providence decrees,
Till that bless'd Sovereign summons back his breath,
Then shout, in triumph, “Where's thy sting, O Death!
My Saviour Soul and Body both will save,
Then where's thy vaunted Victory, greedy Grave?”

Such blest reflections eas'd the burthen'd Swain—
Fed every transport—stifled every pain—
To gain that goal Faith gave Affection birth;
Pure Hope cast anchor far above the Earth—
While Piety made each meek Passion move,
To Duties, drawn by silken cords of Love—
And, while his limbs employ'd their youthful pow'rs,
Unnumber'd blessings hail'd his labouring hours!

CHAPTER 4th.

HISTORIC AND DOMESTIC REMARKS.

Distinctly mark'd, among his fellow Clowns,
Not long his Daphne's eyes the dew-drop drowns;
But, as the morning zephyrs blithely pass,
With gliding wing, to wipe the weeping grass,
While fair Aurora gilds the flying glooms,
And, with fresh touches, brightens all the blooms;
So soon the breath of Fame, soft-whispering, bids
To chear her cheeks, and dry her pencil'd lids—

When with new hopes each gladden'd feature glows;
More white the lily looks, more red the rose;
While opening prospects, join'd with present joys,
Struck starry lustre from her azure eyes!

All prompt reports, like village gossips, gad,
Confounding false and true, and good and bad;
Ev'n friendly narratives, thro' notions vague,
Tho' meant for profit, oft become a plague,
When Ignorance, with her wild ideas, warm,
Gives each frail image its most monstrous form.

With rapid progress fly all novel tales,
Thro' hankering villages, on hills and vales;
Where hungry ears, agape, seize every sound
That Rumour's ready pipe dispenses round.
Thus the fair kindness which on Crispin fell,
Fill'd every neighbouring height, and bordering dell,
To fellow Craftsmen soon his Name was known—
His kind Acquaintance wish'd him all their own—
Each fond Relation felt Self somewhat more,
Connected with a Poet, tho' so poor!
While boasting Brethren spread his puny fame,
Vain of Alliance—vainer of the Name.

But while Fame's wide-mouth'd tube, obstreperous, blows,
With files of Friends it calls up corps of Foes—
Envy, and Hatred baneful banners rear,
And clamorous hosts of Pride's recruits appear,
To chase unlisted Youth, whose happier choice,
Quits each vile Comrade in the ranks of Vice;
Whose blinding powder, and dismembering ball,
Stifle fair Fame, and make true Merit fall—
Proclaim their conquest, and exult with joy,
When Virtue staggers, or Deserters die!
If pure Ambition chaunts her votive strain,
Vice toils to render Virtue's labours vain—
Spleen's harsh prophetic speech, pronounc'd by Hate,
With Spite predestinates his future fate—
Mocks each manœuvre—right distorts to wrong—
Degrades God's Soldier, and condemns his Song!

Envy, alike, in Courtier, or in Clown,
When others rise deems idol-Self pull'd down,
All strive, thro' such mistaken, vile, self-love,
To balk bold Minds which mean to mount above:
But Nature's Father, with far nobler plan,
When he infus'd Mind's faculties in Man,
Like other Passions, Pride was meant a spur,
Intended, mainly, mental strength to stir,
With pow'r, exciting, by apt sense of pain,
To fly some evil, or some good to gain—
Not envying others for more fame, or pelf,
But, by fair efforts, to exalt Himself.

NEW SCHEME.

Some elevated Minds, with kindest aim,
Projecting profit—fabricating fame—
To help finance—give permanance to praise,
Printed and patroniz'd his rustic lays;
Tho' simple, read by simple readers still,
For mere amusement, or from great good-will—
While the Bard rests from fame and friendship fled
In blank oblivion, four decennaries dead!

Here the pleas'd Muse might ornament her page,
With Names which honour'd that distinguish'd Age—
Names that might now employ a Maro's pen,
Or Horace rank amongst Augustan Men!
Names, that might less-enlighten'd Souls inspire,
And give to Saturn's phlegm Apollo's fire!
Give Peasant's hack a Pegasean wing,
And make a Clown—a Dunce—a Coxcomb, sing!
Show Wisdom listening to his rustic reed—
Wealth, Wit, and Title giving gracious meed—
Learning lay selfish prejudice aside,
And Genius drop cold, customary, pride—
Greatness, a moment feel a Friend's regard,
And help the interests of a boorish Bard;
For no proud competition could accrue,
To spoil their plans, or thwart one venal view.
No genuine Genius would with envy look,
Nor Wit, nor Learning, dread a dangerous Book—
No Natural heats of emulation rise,
To vex vain Wealth, or agitate the wise;
Nor needed Coxcombs—Fools—or Courtiers, fear—
His Song was simple, and his Soul sincere.

PATRONESS.

Then most alert seem'd one celebrious Dame,
Vanessa was her neat, appropriate, Name;
Which, with Scintilla—apt agnomen, join'd,
Might mark her conduct, and depict her Mind—
The one her pompous Spirit well displays,
The other sparkling wit, and wish for praise.
Supreme among the Fair, by common bruit,

For love of Eulogy, and Pomp's pursuit.
Esteem'd for taste, and products of her pen,
With promptitude to mark ingenious Men.
But brilliant Writers met the most regards,
And chief of them the chattering Race of Bards;
For they could best bestow delightful dow'rs,
By flattering speech, or fam'd poetic pow'rs.
Nor was her shining Conduct clearly shown
By courtly Bards' lov'd Compliments alone;
Rais'd high'r, in aftertimes, by various ranks,
For queenly palace, and for curious pranks.

Her favours, much, his warm affections won,
And Friendship fix'd what Benefit begun.
In Pity's train she chose to stand the Chief—
Lent strong attention—offer'd large relief—
And, to the eye of Hope, and simple Sense,
Those offer'd favours promis'd permanence.
In proof of gratitude new praise he penn'd,
To thank each noble, generous, virtuous, Friend—
Thank'd other Women—but he thought her more
Worthy of worship—dar'd, almost, adore!

Ah! 'twas not perfect heart, but pregnant head!
'Twas hungry Pride, still hoping to be fed!
'Twas Ostentation gaping for a bit
Of clownish Wonder, or of country Wit—
'Twas Affectation starv'd for flattering strain;
'Twas Vanity—the vainest of the Vain!
Alas! 'twas Cunning, weaving specious wiles,
With smooth expressions, and well-polish'd smiles—
False proofs of fondness and a forg'd pretence;
While hollow promise pledg'd rewards immense;
To furnish Manhood with most plenteous meed,
And raise old Age beyond the reach of Need!

He ne'er had learnt the hypocritic skill
To make Self-love resemble pure Good-will;
Or practis'd Arts that prove habitual guides,
To point out subtle plots in All, besides—
To flatter—lie—or fawn—he never knew,
Or spy out circled spells Deception drew.
To trace the threads feign'd Sympathy had spun,
That thro' Dissimulation's labyrinths run—
Which form'd the wiley web feign'd Friendship wrought
With golden tissue, wrapt round every thought—
Hid nets which Inexperience oft entrap,
When laid at ease, in Hope's alluring lap;
Throughout the heart, knit with each nerve and vein,
To thrill with pleasure, or to throb with pain—
Entangling Reason in Love's silken snare,
And captivating Will, ere well aware—
Barb'd hooks well-baited with fictitious wealth,
To trail the eye, and take the Heart by stealth!
Soft laudanum that lulls each bent sublime,
Neglecting talents, and forgetting time!
Fond, soothing lures that fascinate the Soul,
Its force contract, its faculties controul,
Till independent Spirit feels its loss,
And oft complains, while Patience bears the cross—
Whilst Liberty laments with ceaseless moan,
O'er Peace expir'd—o'er Faith, with Comfort, flown!

The silly Bird, that ne'er such miseries met,
Listens the Pipe, nor e'er suspects the Net—
The foolish Fish, seduced with longing look,
Beholds the bait, but not the barbed hook—
The flirting Fly, devoid of art, and dread,
Ne'er notes the subtle Spider's network spread;
Pursues her sports, and pleasures, till, too late;
Then feels her folly—mourns her captive state!
So simple Crispin never spied the plot,
Which Falshood laid to form his future lot—
No net beheld, nor faithless treachery fear'd,
Till Liberty, trepann'd, no more appear'd!
The hidden hook, and baited barb, ne'er saw,
Till fretting wounds were felt in Freedom's jaw;
Nor once the hypocritic snare descried,
Which Cunning schem'd, and Flattery twin'd, and tied;
Till Persecution couch'd his clouded sight,
And made vain Visions fly 'mid floods of Light!
That Light, devoid of warmth, which Winter shows,
While Hopes and Comforts fade, 'mid frosts and snows—
When each dear dream—each airy phantasm, flew
Which Fancy form'd, with vain impassion'd view;
While Cruelty's keen blade cut every noose,
And let kind Friendship, and Affection, loose!
Yet, still, in bondage long was Crispin kept,
While Offspring suffer'd, and poor Daphne wept!
Which cramp and puzzling paradox to clear
Shall, in the pending narrative, appear.

'Twas wond'rous, then, a Bardling should be found
To twang the Lyre on ought but classic ground—
Who dar'd presume to print poetic page,,
In such a letter'd, such enlighten'd, Age;

Except some critical, some courtly, Cook,
Form'd bill of fare, or dish'd the dainty Book.
Some read with rapture, and some drawl'd with doubt,
'Twas long since Duck had thresh'd his harvest out—
And, since his day, no Rustic had been seen,
Who sung so deftly on the daisied green!

'Twas then suppos'd no Clown could thrum a verse,
So soft—smooth—simple—solid—strong and terse;
Fit for sheer Fools in male or female shape—
Much less learn'd Critic's keen remarks to scape.
None could bind couplets—stanzas twist, and bend,
Figures, and tropes, at tongue's and finger's end,
But those that folios, learn'd, would, frequent, thumb,
Whose titles strike rude, English, readers dumb.
None without Latin stilts could stalk sublime,
In bold blank Verse—or more elaborate Rhyme.
None chaunt choice strains but Horace' Art must prune,
Confined, by modern scale, to time, and tune;
Or clearly comprehend Rhyme's perfect scope
By keen Roscommon, or mellifluous Pope—
None gain Parnassus' heights, with Poet's gait,
But Virgil construe, and could well translate;
Or Pegasus, with whip and rowels, ride,
Except old Homer's Epics pois'd each side—
Ne'er sit secure, and prance in rapid Ode,
Till often train'd in rough Pindaric road;
Nor Bacchanalian Song, or Sonnet, boast,
Unless Anacreon learn to sing, and toast—
In amorous Lays ne'er Love's clear language claim,
Till fired with Sappho's fond consuming flame;
Nor in her slippery sandals learn to dance,
Till taught her stagg'ring step, and glowing glance.

Now every laughing, longing, leering, Nymph,
Whose Frames are full of fire; their Souls of lymph—
Each Miss, in tonish School completely taught,
With tuneful phrase to spell each private thought—
Each snivelling Youth, not quite an arrant Fool,
Just fled from College, or just flogg'd from School—
For taste, or feeling, fram'd by Heav'n, unfit—
Nor once condemn'd, on wicked charge, for wit—
The dullest smatterer in his Accidence;
Void of all Science—half-supplied with Sense—
Yea, sighing Swain, and sheepish Shepherdess,
Can deck their drivellings in a shyming dress;
And while their ideot-bells in cadence chime,
Fools judge the jingle Poesy sublime!
Spruce Maids in puling Elegy complain—
Clowns mimic comic cant, or tragic strain—
Or on low hobbies take Olympian flight,
And, prompt, in measur'd prose, heroics write—
Some, in Acrostics, meekly condescend,
To court a Flame, or compliment a Friend—
Some, far remov'd from thoughtless human Throngs,
Like Owlets chaunt their childish, simple, Songs—
Some in sad gurglings, like dear Turtle-Dove,
In scrannel numbers thrum hoarse lays of Love—
Some with a more eccentric, wandering, wing,
In silly, soft, or pert, epistle, sing;
Like Swallows, when they've skimm'd their devious flight,
Well-fill'd with flies, achieve some chimney's height;
There, in thick smoke, perch, twittering, on the top,
To speak their passion, and to clear their crop—
While some still stretch their hardy pinions high'r,
Climb Helicon! and court Apollo's Choir—
Yea, fancy with their full career to fly;
On proud Icharian plumes to scale the Sky—
But, like the Lark, they quickly reach the clouds,
Where, 'mid thick mists, each, tuneless tweedling shrowds;
Or, like that Hero's, every feather's found,
With its frail glory, scatter'd o'er the ground!

But who can wonder such attempts are tried—
Poor Swains, and Damsels, thus indulge their pride,
When proud Professors of cold Critic-Bands,
Who long have judg'd the judgment of these Lands,
Have pledg'd opinion, whether right or wrong,
On all bold products, both of Prose, and Song;
(Whether their length, or merit's more or less)
That issue, hourly, from the procreant Press;
Place some, immortal! on Apollo's shelves,
To honour their Favourites, or to help themselves;
And some with simple ipse dixit, doom
To fiery tryal, or to filthy tomb!
These have decreed—what Poet dares dispute!
Homers—Popes—Miltons mourn, for ever mute!
That Poesy's no more than trick and trade
Its first Proficients not born Bards but made.
That common Minds may this high Art attain,
Whate'er the structure of the breast, or brain—
An Hog—An Ass—A Mule—a Bear—an Ape—
That Heav'n has honour'd with a human shape;

Man—Magpie—Parrot—Starling—Daw—or Jay—
Let intellectual pow'rs be what they may,
Can, by a proper discipline in Schools,
With numerous readings and with measuring rules,
By plodding, daily, proper space of Time,
By counting numbers, and by coupling rhyme,
All pure poetics cleverly acquire,
Without one spark infus'd of heavenly fire!

'Twould ill become poor Crispin's blameless Friend,
With such vast Hosts of Veterans to contend;
Who help'd Him forward once by kind decree
And, now, may, peradventure, favour Me;
If I their Pride, or Passions, ne'er provoke,
With spiteful puncture, or ungenerous joke;
A cruel practice they indulge, themselves,
On Sons of Prose, or poor poetic Elves!
But I ne'er deprecate dull, feeble, Foes,
Whose shafts are feathers—breezes all their blows—
But those with Knowledge, pure, and Wit possest,
With Genius furnish'd, and by Wisdom blest—
With kindred feeling, and with Candour's flow,
Such as false, frozen, Critics never know.
For tho' Vain-glory those tribunals dreads,
They trouble not true Christian's hearts, nor heads;
But while the World's self-seeking Coward quakes,
They meekly call false maxims foul mistakes.

Knowledge, and Learning, may supply, in part,
Their needful helps in true poetic Art—
Like crutches, may assist mechanic skill
To hobble round the base of Ida's hill;
But by their artful aids can ne'er attain;
To climb one pace above the bordering plain—
May, like strong stirrups, in their poney race,
Help them to mount, or, mounted, keep their place,
But ne'er make Pegasus a paltry Hack,
Or seat them safely on his bounding back.
Tho' Locke, with sharpest intellectual sight,
Could bring close workings of the Soul to light;
Yet all those abstract pow'rs could never climb
The summit of blind Homer's true sublime!
Tho' Newton's mental wit could mete, and weigh,
The size, and substance of our Orb of Day;
And, riding on his swift sidereal Car,
Whirl round with each planetary star;
Or, flying with fleet Comets' full career,
In other systems mete each circling sphere;
Yet, tho' that Car such wide circumference runs
With Moons and Comets, round their Earths, or Suns,
His kindling Spirit never could acquire,
The fervid flame of Milton's epic fire—
How then should Learning's Louts, and Coxcombs, rise,
To catch one spark, Promethean, from the skies?
Blockheads may boast dry Science, or dull Arts,
But these confer not Feeling—Wit—or Parts—
Ev'n Common Sense may with pure Knowledge plod,
But Genius is the special Gift of God!

Man's Mind inform'd by facts from holy Writ,
Finds God, alone, can give inventive Wit—
Not only works on human Heart, and Will,
But still bestows all mere mechanic Skill.
When, in the Desart, Deity appear'd,
And order'd Hebrew tabernacle rear'd,
He pointed out the Artists then requir'd.
Which He, Himself, with needful pow'rs inspir'd.

Such strange phenomena are seldom known,
Among the votaries that invest a Throne;
Who, round the sovereign Idol form the rings,
To show, like shining Moths, their wavering wings;
In hopes, that Idol, by prompt smile, or speech,
Some image-worship will return to each;
While every idol Sister, idol Brother—
With sham adorings worship one another—
Like Sybils, uttering some unmeaning sound,
For Truth too high—for Feeling too profound;
Or, Parrots, telling lies, by Custom taught,
At full expence of Truth, but none of thought.

When, on dull Wild, such prodigy appears,
Like Comets once within long Course of Years—
Strange! to behold such versifying Clown,
Remote from every City, Court, and Town!
A rude, unletter'd, and unburnish'd, Boor,
With Court-Distinctions at his Cottage door!
To see a Peer's precursor, with dispatch,
Ride, ambling, up, and lugg his leathern latch!
Note learned Lords, in coronetted Coach,
His humble Hut, with complaisance, approach!
His lowly lays, and virtuous views commend,
And each profess to prove a constant Friend—
While numbers more, of different Rank, and Name,
Some, led by Fancy; some allur'd by Fame—
Some, smit by sympathetic Pity; some,
By bruit of Daphne's beauty, curious, come—

Some thro' mere wanton whim—some chance—some choice—
Some to give guineas—some their sage advice;
For specie is expensive; counsel cheap;
Both Wisemen wish—but neither Blockheads keep!
Crispin perceiv'd the benefit of both;
And, constant, scouted Vanity, and Sloth;
Determin'd, still, by Duty to abide,
And keep in check his passions, and his pride.
Not pert'ly scattering stock with weak expence,
Squandering kind Gifts of God's pure Providence!
But fence them round from Folly's rueful sway,
For Self, and Family, each future day.
His short experience of such shining stuff,
Made Ignorance fancy he had found enough—
And, while he estimated thus the store,
Thought no contingency could call for more;
Or deem'd God's Goodness, still, would store afford;
Enough to shut out Need, if none to hoard.

Thus, weighing transient Wealth, with rapturous joy,
Imagin'd Want, and Woe, were both gone by—
Dreamt anxious cares, and toils, and troubles, past—
That human Patronage would always last—
That human wonder never would subside,
But Passion prove as permanent as Pride!

He thought not, then, of Nature's changeless Laws,
Whence no Effect is found without a Cause.
Where no new impulse wakes up new desires
Time soon extinguishes frail Passion's fires,
That Husbandmen must yearly plow, and sow,
Or no new crop of summer corn can grow—
That sexual mixtures must, at seasons, meet,
Or Nature's stock will ne'er be kept compleat.
All animal, and vegetable, Seeds,
Invariably produce distinctive Breeds;
So, dark endeavours in the human Mind,
Each Passion generates in like proper Kind.
If, thro' strange mixture, mulish Monster drops
A curse ensues, and propagation stops.
Foul progeny, deform'd from Hatred springs,
But Love a heavenly Race of beauty brings;
While Spite, with waspish stings, would fain destroy
The Offering, fair, of Peace, and Love, and Joy.
Virtue from Virtue grows—grim Vice from Vice—
No Mortal sins, and Sleeps in Paradise!
As each subsides its opposite ascends,
To neither Party t'other gives or lends.
No Man two Masters' mandates can obey
Whose aims and interests draw a different way.
Can Faith and Unbelief, alike, impart
Sweet mutual sympathies to Head and Heart?
Can Belial's worship, by his idol Band,
With God's agree, and in Christ's temple stand?
Or can a grovelling Soul, that thirsts for gold,
E'er shine in Heav'n's blest registers enroll'd?
On Flattery's base, if Reputation's built
Then Grace must fall a sacrifice to Guilt,
When Falshood makes, and Cunning mills, the Coin,
The Heart must Honesty, and Truth, resign.
If Credit springs from impious, wanton, Wit,
The Mind must Modesty and Wisdom quit;
Or, if the Hypocrite will purchase Fame,
Both Christ and Conscience must such Soul disclaim;
For principles, like these, can ne'er unite,
Till antemundane Darkness weds with Light.

Crispin, as any simple Soul might do,
Suppos'd that all was pure—and right—and true—
Felt his own Heart, with grateful fervours, glow,
To Pow'rs above, and Instruments below;
Nor judg'd Deception, garb'd in deep disguise,
Could personate, so well, the good, and wise;
Or Pride and Vanity, like Virtues mask'd,
Would give Want more than Prudence hop'd or ask'd;
But look'd both ways, thro' means, to Cause and End,
Gave God the glory—thanks to every Friend!

His Friends of fortune, and of inward weight,
Whose Minds might guard a Church, or guide a State,
Propos'd a plan, that, this uncommon Clown,
Should porter new impression thro' the Town,
To every dwelling which would deign a Name,
To help his low finance, and limping fame;
And, striking single stroke at every door,
Present the wonderous Book, and wand'ring Boor!

As tutor'd Bears are led from place, to place,
Displaying biped gait, and burlesque grace;
Their action clumsey, and their shape uncouth,
While grunting bagpipe greets the gaping youth;
And, with most solemn phiz, and upright air,
Make witlings titter, whilst the ignorant stare—

As dancing Dogs make Oafs and Children, swarm;
Dress—mien—demeanour—all in human form—
As Monkeys, rear'd erect, on paws, or breech,
Well mimic Man in all but laugh, and speech—
Or as, from street to street, queer Camel's shown,
From other beasts, by pipe and tabor, known;
Tho' seldom eye perceives a bungling brute
Whose make, and motion, less with music suit;
So was he sent the twofold City through,
For Cits, like Swains, are pleas'd with something new,
That each Subscriber's eyes might freely range,
O'er Clown, so clever! Spectacle, so strange!
But no Bear's Cub was He, lick'd just in shape—
No gawkey Camel—Dancing Dog—or Ape—
No Brute that might disgrace the Bard's high Art,
Or Monster, heteroclite, to mock his part:
No Pope, whose short, crook'd, shape, no Wit would chuse
To wooe fair Mistress, or to win fond Muse—
No lumbering Johnson, of gigantic size,
Like Learning, Wit, and Genius, in disguise;
So slatternly—distorted—graceless—loud,
To startle strangers, or convulse the crowd.
No dapper Hawkesworth, upright, spruce, and clean,
With pleasure heard, but scarce compos'dly seen,
While starting doubts, by sword so long and trim,
Whether 'twas He wore It, or It wore Him:
No fleshy Shenstone, ponderous full, and fat—
Or Lyttelton, the lean reverse of that—
Nor Irish Titan combating the sky;
Yet rising something more than six feet high:
Not quite the cottage Loon, or squalid Lout,
Nor Courtier, for St. James's just rigg'd out.
Not bent with plodding Ploughman's boorish Air,
Nor Bath's prim Sovereign, brisk and debonnaire.
Nor with sly, scowling look of leering Thief,
Nor brazen front of Drury's buskin'd Chief.
Nor with a face, or frame, the Fair to fright,
Nor spoil their peace, at first, or second, sight.
No Beau, bedizen'd in fantastic dress,
Nor Sloven, gross, confirming Fancy's guess.
To fix ideas, fit for Gossip's chat,
He ne'er to Reynold's—West—or Beechey—sat;
Yet was he hitch'd in monthly Magazine,
Like playful Hogarth's Tyburn-Prentice, seen:
Not nail'd in figur'd frame, well-gilt with gold,
But, press'd with prose and verse, for Sixpence, sold—
And, since—oh! strange to tell! in windows placed,
With Kings, and Warriors—Cats and Dogs, disgraced,
In front of writing-books, for School-boys bought,
With stitching, paste, and paper—for a groat!
The common butt of sportive Imps' abuse;
At length thrown by for any beastly use!
Yet, on a witless Poets' punctual word,
That awkward sketch could little light afford,
For not one shapely lineament was shown,
By which the antetype could e'er be known.
Besides each reader, there, a libel read,
Cobbler was foisted in Cordwainer's stead;
With drunkard's designation on his stall,
Which never mark'd his character at all.
This pert misnomer could have caus'd no pain
Had such sore blunder been impos'd in Spain;
Where Cobblers find more creditable fate,
Than Makers, who the cobbling Mart create—
Perhaps, malfounded, on that strange mistake,
That others mend whate'er first Authors make.
Such sad mistakes each fatal Month are found,
When puppies pace their literary round,
And, impudently proud, with envious slur,
'Gainst Learning, Knowledge—Genius—Nature—err.
Dull Critic tribes, who, by mere dint of toil,
With bungling patchwork Poets' labour spoil;
And, while vain views their puny minds pervade,
Still practice, botching on, their stupid trade;
Devoid of judgment, and unblest with taste,
Oft laying noblest works of Nature waste!
Thus, with a proud impertinence of thought,
Re-edify what heavenly Genius wrought;
Or, acting barbarous Goths, and Vandals,' part,
Reduce to rubbish richest works of Art!

That Fame, or Honour, he could ne'er endure,
Which Flatterers e'er confer, or Pimps procure;
His Spirit all such empty praise abhorr'd,
From Coxcombs, Clowns, or Knaves, tho' nam'd my Lord!
And felt for them, not for himself, the shame,
When Envy—Fraud—or Folly, brought forth blame.
Blind errors never stirr'd his temperate blood,
When Blockheads blunder'd while their guess was good—
And here, tho' thus pourtrayed in form and face
What Billingsgates might spurn, and Bawds misplace,

So queer—old—squalid—corpulent, and squat,
Like Dutchman in decay, or Beggar's brat;
All this, with proper temper, might be borne,
And why? 'twas meant in kindness, not in scorn:
For, tho' some small self-interest show'd its aim,
It help'd to form, and fix, the Bardling's fame;
And while it gave applause and sav'd expence,
No candid Mind could feel a just offence.
Tho' near his side the Porter-pot was seen,
It ne'er provok'd his pride, nor rouz'd his spleen;
'Twas neither meant in wickedness nor whim,
And fitted numerous others, tho' not him.
Such graceless Attributes could ne'er degrade,
A mere Professor of true cobbling trade;
Yet all the mean assemblage seem'd unmeet
For one who worshipp'd at the Muses' feet;
Squat-figure—features—habit—far beneath
Apollo's Votary, and proud Poet's wreath:
In fine to gratify each curious Mind,
While busy thought might feel full range behind—
Afford Imagination fav'rite clue,
Yet leave fond Fancy still enough to do—
To stint enquiry—stop the plastic pen;
He look'd—spoke—acted—much like other Men!

Poets, like Ladies—oft severe the cost!
Ne'er let Fame lie o'er-laid—or Flattery lost;
But fondly feel, whatever the design,
That compliment conciliates more than coin.
A friendly, candid, literary, Lord,
Strange! when such epithets with Rank accord!
If Courtier e'er can tell the simple truth,
Beyond the age of Infancy—or Youth—
More when Court Lord can make trite adjuncts true,
Himself a Poet, and a Neighbour too!
Still, tho' the Poet's praise is ne'er o'er nice,
Coaxing each other is no common Vice—
For, tho' from tongue, and pen, tropes—figures—fly,
They, dignifiedly, scorn a downright Lie—
And, while they deal in satire, jeer, and joke,
They fib not half so oft as duller folk;
But hold their honesty, and honour, dear,
Their Looks all open, and their Souls sincere!
'Tis true some small allowance must be made
Betwixt the Courtier's, and the Cobbler's, trade;
But Common-Sense perceives, with obvious view,
No Rivalry could reign betwixt the Two.
He was both Baron Lord, and Bard, sublime!
Crispin, a Clown; a rustic Son of Rhyme!
Yet, still, to prove himself poor Crispin's Friend,
Without one sidelong look tow'rd selfish end,
Pronounc'd, in simile, the simple Swain
Appear'd like Lily's bloom on barren plain;
Whose face, and form, and mien, and manners, known,
Might shame some vulgar danglers round a Throne!
To fix his lineaments, and look, at once
One of known taste—ne'er deem'd a Knave, or Dunce,
To mark the Man, distinct from village Loons,
Styl'd him St. John, in Raphael's fam'd Cartoons.

But Crispin long had lowering truths retaind,
From Revelation gather'd, and from Reason gain'd;
That, Frame, or Mind, offensive, or admir'd,
No form, or faculty, by skill's acquir'd;
But—whether ugly—handsome—short—or tall—
God's Goodness—Will—and Wisdom, fashion'd, all—
And, whether mental Pow'rs were weak, or strong,
Still grateful thanks, and praise, to Him, belong—
While Man's whole Worth depends on proper use,
And all his Blame on Pow'rs' perverse abuse!

To prove the Bardling neither block, nor beast,
He oft was summon'd to the social feast—
By flattering notice honour'd, now, to sit
With Knowledge—Learning—Titles—Taste—and Wit—
Where the great Little, and the little Great,
Would frequent kindly question what he'd eat;
While dainty Dame, or Wit, with barren fob,
Would urge, familiarly, to hob and nob.
A condescending Peer would, sometimes, ask
How he perform'd his literary task?
And, with a cunning hit, would coolly hint
What risks poor Poets ran who dar'd to print.
Some brother Bards would scowl askance the while,
And mark, and mutter—nod, or, sneer, or smile—
Fashion would frown, turn heads with haughty toss—
Crampt Emulation look—a little cross—
Courtier, contemptuous, note a Clown so near,
With scornful features, and unfriendly leer;
While squeamish Arrogance, and captious Pride,
With grievous grudging, saw him at their side.

What direful conflicts did poor Crispin feel,

With such associates mixt, each mimic meal!
In pensive lounge—peregination long—
From piquant temper, and from prating tongue!
Penurious Riches, and Politeness rude!
Coquette and Coxcomb—Profligate and Prude!
A gazing gauntlet's feverish race to run
Thro' flattery—falshood—insolence—and fun!
Proud persecution, of continued length,
Too much for patience, fortitude, and strength!
Requiring breast of steel, and front of brass,
To make plebeian pow'rs, uninjur'd, pass.
Journeys of labour, jeopardy, and pain—
Made his heart sigh for guiltless scenes again—
For social Friendship, and for simple Fare,
With customary toil, and quiet care—
But sad necessity condemn'd to stay
With whipping skinn'd in many a friendly fray:
Ordeals, dread! by Water, and by Fire,
That more of Art, than Innocence, require.
Hot ploughshares—whirlpools—promontory steep!
The blindfold burning—plunge—or launching leap!
Feign'd smile, intense! or frown, of cutting cold!
As Shame was backward, or Presumption bold—
While Modesty, with Resolution, slack,
By Impudence was always elbow'd back;
And, frequent, brazen Vice, with blushless face,
To Virtue dar'd impute her vile disgrace!
He hop'd such trials never more to meet,
Such agueish coldness, and such scorching heat!
His Body ne'er at rest, or Heart at ease,
Thro' Quacks, unskilful, and false recipes,
Relaxing potions, or astringent pills,
By counteraction aggravating ills.
He found 'twas better to remain obscure
Than risk fresh wounds for such uncertain cure—
When finding pleasure far o'erweigh'd with pain,
He groan'd to tread his native heights again!

His feelings found more beatific bliss
From Offspring's prattle, and sweet Consort's kiss;
Whose Love lull'd weariness when light was fled,
On peaceful pallet, tho' in shabby shed—
With them to share the shreds that blest his board,
Such cates as Clowns affect, and Cotts afford;
More than in Ostentation's high abodes,
Where Flattery still misleads, while Fortune loads!
Amid mad scenes of Luxury, and Lust,
Folly—Confusion—Treachery—and Distrust!
Where Cunning and Contrivance pimp, and peep,
And vain tumultuous visions torture sleep—
Where mimic rapture murders true delight,
And curious cookery poisons appetite—
Where Fashion makes Content, and Comfort, fly,
And Affectation strangles genuine Joy!

Before the fond experiment was tried,
He dreamt all bliss with Pomp and Pow'r allied.
Conceiv'd pure pleasure! happiness divine!
Where Wealth and Wit must make each Virtue shine—
Where Ladies look'd so soft—so great—so good—
None, sure, could share the faults of flesh and blood!
None suffer sinful Pride's or Passion's fire,
To light up Lust, or prompt impure Desire!
All temperate—placid—prudent—chaste—and wise!
All Angels—just commission'd from the skies!
With matchless Beauty—Wit—and mental Worth;
Still trafficking for Love with Heav'n and Earth!
Not like the beastly, Luciferian, breed,
Unjust—untrue—in thought, and word, and deed;
But pious—pure—benevolent, and learn'd;
All Falshood—folly—spite, and envy, spurn'd.
And, judging much the same of Gentlemen,
Suppos'd he ne'er had peep'd in Heav'n till then!
Thought each fine House was fill'd with heavenly scenes—
All their pure Tenants petty Kings and Queens!
Judg'd formal fopperies traits of genuine Taste—
Rank luxuries proof of Wealth exempt from Waste—
That looks, and laughs, and words, were all sincere,
And happiness, unmixd, most perfect there!
But soon right reasonings, with Reflection, found
'Twas not God's garden, but enchanted ground;
And, more mature Experience, amply, prov'd,
The mix'd machinery some sly Demon mov'd;
Some secret influence urg'd each sep'rate Part—
While Pride and Appetite sway'd Head and Heart—
One universal Scene of deep disguise,
To fascinate frail Minds thro' Ears, and Eyes;
And, with like false, fantastic, proud, pretence,
Delude weak Souls thro' every other Sense!
Where Necromancers work'd in fairest forms,
To spread mock moonlight, raise up transient storms—
Show brilliant landscape, or electric spark—
Resplendent idol, or dire spectre, dark—
While Self-applause and Flattery, smil'd, serene,

Or turbid Passions blacken'd all the Scene!
'Twas all sheer Vanity, prompt Lust, and Pride—
All but a base, deceptive, bright outside!
Shells—husks—and bubbles! golden visions, gay!
Which vanish when Heav'n shoots Religion's ray—
Like clouds, with rainbows deckt, while Summer reigns,
Which add but splendour frail to flowery plains,
For soon the meteors melt—fair colours fly—
Soon all the freshest flow'rets droop, and die!

Alas! all pleasure, and all pow'r, below,
Are but the transient show'r, and brilliant bow!
And mortal favours—mortal friendships—all;
But beauteous flow'rs that fade, and leaves that fall!
Mere Summer fruits, that perish on the spot,
With cost and care, collected, quickly rot—
So, soon Disease, or Age, the Rich condemn,
And thus their Owners' Bodies die, like them!

Among the Births, and Deaths, of every day,
Fresh honours flourish, or dull hopes decay!
What novel forms obstetric Time brings forth,
Of pension'd Wickedness, and pining Worth!
In each Nycthemeron's rolling Zodiac's found
Twelve Signs, symbolic, still revolving round.
Tho' no impartial Balance Earth can boast,
Celestial Libra weighs the heavenly host—
The stellar Twins show Friendship shines above,
And one pure Virgin reigns in realms of Love;
To hint that each are, here, disgrac'd—disown'd,
And, only, now, among Immortals thron'd,
But lust, and lies, and every foul offence,
From fall'n originals, are copied hence—
All thrust, by Art, in that ethereal sphere,
Strong types of impious Man's mad conduct here!
Fish—fluctuating Streams—Beasts—Monsters—shine,
Monopolizing all the other Nine:
Love—Justice—Friendship—are confin'd, alone,
Within the swathing ring of girdling Zone;
But Serpents—Hydras—fabled pagan groups,
Nonsense, and Nullity, compleat the troops!

If sage Experience thus depicts the Skies,
As portraits of the pests that, here arise—
As emblematic traits of earthly Life,
'Mid scenes of Pride and Passion—Lust and Strife—
Apportion'd, chief, to Riches, Pomp, and Pow'r,
Which waste, in emptiness, each active hour—
Where Learning puffs, and paints, the monstrous Race,
To gloss defects, and dignify disgrace;
While skilful Wit, so carefully, conceals
Their grosser Vices, mask'd in mystic veils—
What will not Wisdom's brighter eye behold,
Among the many Corps of courtly mould—
What right Morality, and Reason, see,
Among the millions that support their plea—
Or pure, and spiritual Religion find,
Which boldly dares anatomize Mankind!

In Fortune's gambling Lotteries always rise
Ten thousand blanks for one transporting prize—
The lesser lots drawn out so very small,
Man's peevish Spirit deems no prize at all!
Mad, clumsey Mortals, by their bungling aim,
Disturb the blindfold Goddess in her Game.
Life's common tickets, hardly, here, obtain
Contentment's pence, procur'd by pounds of pain!
Ev'n Wealth which grasps fair Fortune's golden fleece,
Can purchase neither Happiness, nor Peace;
Nor can its Honours, or its Pow'r procure
Friendship, or Love; or Life, or Health, insure!

What fond perturbings tender breasts appall
As Time turns round Earth's huge, terraqueous Ball!
What instant revolutions rise, unfurl'd,
Within the boundaries of this blighted World!
What unforseen events proclaim His pow'r
In every teeming, many-coloured Hour!
What countless chances—what continual change,
Within the meanest Mortal's narrow range!
Prospects and plans develop'd every Day,
Ere Night's arrival drop his destined prey!
How numerous Fancy's—Fate's—and Fortune's, freaks,
Spring up and perish thro' revolving Weeks!
What strange events emerge each teeming Month
While Providence's wheel perpetual runn'th!
What stranger metamorphoses appear,
In the wide orbit of one circling year!
Then what mishaps must trembling breasts deplore,
What woes accumulating every Score!

As Philomel, thro' sylvan shades, is sought;
Pursued for profit, or for pleasure caught—
Art tries her limetwigs—Cunning lends her Lure—
The silky net's prepar'd to keep secure—
Not to yield richer health, or rapture, high'r,
Than native glens might give, or spouse inspire;

But in gilt cage, for ostentation shown,
That Pride might call the Chorister its own—
But, when deep Cunning's clos'd the entrance door,
Love's fondling Melodies are heard no more!
For when that Art's put out poor Minstrel's eyes,
And check's due range, delight, with Freedom, flies!
His close-clipp'd plumes, and sad, extinguish'd, sight,
Preclude his prospects, and forbid his flight;
While fluttering round and round, he feels his wrongs,
Mopes—grieves—frets—sorrows—and frogets his Songs!

What eye can pierce the Spirit's hidden bent,
Or see, thro' traiterous hints the Heart's intent,
When hypocritic Fashion's thickening fumes,
Involve that Spirit in impervious glooms,
Confounding Reason, by deceiving Sense,
With vile Dissimulation's vapours, dense;
Till stripping Time rends off the sable shrowd,
And bright-eyed Truth dispels the skreening cloud:
When Opportunity's true pointing, tells
What private motive every act impels.

When Spring o'er Orchard fair, or Garden-ground,
Spreads witching smiles, and whispering odours, round;
While all the bosom beats elate, and gay,
Rapt vision shoots its indistinct survey;
With nice discrimination, then, no Novice sees
True signatures of shrubs, and plants, and trees:
But when such temporary transport's o'er,
And high-wrought raptures now enchant no more;
While scientific Wisdom seeks to find
Class—order—genera—of each separate kind;
All soon display'd when fuller foliage spreads,
And open blooms baptize their petal'd heads,
Then all, within, perspicuously declare,
What all their families, and friendships, are—
But Summer's hotter sunshine brings to birth,
The clear criterion of each fruit-tree's worth—
When, consonant with Nature, all produce,
The sour, or saccharine; pure, or poisonous, juice,
Tho' leaves and flow'rs may note specific name,
'Tis only full-ripe fruit-tree's price proclaim.
Thus genial Vanity's full-rays, unfold,
O'er Ostentation's growths gay flow'rs of gold,
Which waft fond Flattery's loved effluvium round,
To draw from others richer in rebound;
But all, soon sullied, which, at first seem'd fair
Mock modest Cultivator's toil and care.
And, when they ripen their autumnal fruit,
They none but Sots' and Children's palate suit.
On such luxuriant shrubs no fruitage grows
But Bitter sweets—harsh Crabs—or acid Sloes—
Still more offensive trick each simple trust,
Like Sodom-apples, fraught with ashy dust—
Or rear'd on rubbish heaps, and barren soil,
Like deadly Nightshade, cheat, with cherry smile;
Which, ate with eagerness, distress the breath,
And shortly end in misery—madness—death!

But let not prompt Anticipation paint
The curse of Servitude, with rude restraint;
Or, here, illustrate, with poetic plea,
Momentous truths in shadowy Simile—
Nor, like a cold Narrator, hitch, in rhyme,
A weak anachronism, forestalling Time;
Or dull Historian, whose prosaic phlegm
Incurs that guilt grave Critics must condemn.

Some prudent Friends, with comprehensive view
Extended plans, for lasting profit, drew—
In well-pois'd scales plac'd arguments of weight
And tried to turn each way his wavering fate.
Some urg'd the Town, and literary Trade—
Some agricultural Arts, and sylvan shade—
Where Crispin, fully free from anxious care,
With Office might the Muses' Friendship share;
And Daphne's duteous Mind, from labour free,
Might nurse and nurture tender Progeny—
A multitude of votes the City yields,
Amidst few voices for the Woods and Fields;
Yet, lo! the rough, rude, rustic tods go down,
Against the golden, polish'd tons in Town!

The Bard, far banish'd, now, from native Plain,
With faithful Daphne, and her infant Train,
In heedless haste from Friends, and Freedom, drawn,
To prospect unexplor'd—without a pawn—
Lax Honour, undefin'd, the only tie
On which his hopes, and comforts, could rely—
From fond Acquaintance, and Connections, flown,
To people, lands, and languages near unknown!
Amidst ill-cultured, rude, extensive, Scenes,
Where scarce a fertile acre intervenes,
He pitch'd his tent—the wilderness explor'd—

Where Superannuation long had snor'd,
And base Inebriation daily doz'd,
With nought but wiles, and wicked waste, inclos'd!
Where headstrong Tyranny, dispensing fate,
With Ignorance long had kept his petty State;
While slovenly Indifference dull'd the Swains,
Diffusing opiates o'er the poppied plains.
Cold Inattention Idleness had nurs'd,
Till woods, meads, fields, forlorn, wild chaos curs'd;
The Teams were weak—and old—and lean—and small—
Unable to comply with Ploughman's call.
The scanty Kine were ag'd, and thin, and dry—
Not form'd to fill the purse, or please the eye!
The fellow-Flocks could charm no skilful choice,
And scarcely ever heard the Shepherd's voice—
Theft—riot—lust—call'd forth his time and care,
While Swine and Cattle claim'd what these could spare,
All badly hous'd, and folded, nurs'd, and fed—
Basely neglected, both in board, and bed—
In Winter, starv'd—in Summer wandering, wild,
The infant hay, and embryo harvest, spoil'd!

To rectify each folly, cure each fault,
And reach fair thrift, he urg'd each pow'r of thought—
Impress'd each passion of his labouring breast—
Lent all his leisure—shorten'd needful rest—
Nor took one portion of his precious time
To spend in reading, or to sport in rhyme.

The task was arduous; trust and risque were large,
'Twas Judgment's—Duty's—Honour's—Friendship's—charge!
Supplies of every want embark'd for life,
For Self—for Offspring—and for much-lov'd Wife!
One vast alternative involv'd the Case,
His failure must inflict a deep disgrace,
While fair Success might furnish clothes and food,
For Crispin—Daphne—and their feeble Brood.

To keep marauders from forbidden grounds,
He form'd new fence by raising mightier mounds;
Huge parapets to stop each prowling foe,
With trenches, deep, to drain the bogs below;
And, to remove each danger, and each dread,
Rear'd thorny ramparts on each boundaries' head—
For what avails, tho' meads, and fields, unfold
Their grassy treasure, or autumnal gold,
If every forager, from fold, or stall,
Can ramble uncontroul'd and ruin all!

From upland pastures, steril, dead, and dry;
That mock'd kind influence, both of Earth and Sky;
Which nought but rough, and acid, herbage bore,
The matted mass of starving couch-grass tore;
O'er fallow'd surface spread, while Summer shone,
Till all its vegetative strength was gone;
Then, gather'd round, in heaps fierce fires reduce
The former mischief to prolific use.

Fed, by the saline ashes, first was seen,
O'er the glad space fair Turnips' vivid green;
Which, to fond Herds and Flocks, thro' Winter, yield
Rich, fat'ning food, and meliorate the Field.

Next, when prepar'd with pulverizing toil,
Full crops of silver Barley bless the Soil,
To furnish Cattle with sustaining food,
And stregth'ning beverage for the human brood.

Then, o'er the plain the clustering Clover spreads,
Bright verdure, deep, and odourous purpling heads;
And while its thickening garments cloth'd the ground,
And opening blooms breath'd fragrance far around,
It makes fair Sheep with fuller fleeces shine—
With larger udders loads the cumber'd Kine;
Or forms full wintry stores of wither'd Wealth,
To feed the Flocks, or keep the Herds in health.

Last rose the scepter'd Wheat's imperial race,
With golden grandeur prosp'ring every place;
Producing home-born bliss, and general joy,
From welcome wages won by pleas'd employ—
From Ploughman's whistle, and prompt Seedman's song—
Colloquial Weeders' chat, with whisperings long—
Assembled Reapers' happy motley rout—
Wild harvest wassail, and shrill-echoing shout—
The rustic dance, loud laugh and concert's roar,
Where Dearth long dwelt, and barreness before!

From Parents he'd imbibed some prudent rules—
Adopted many more from skilful Schools—
Read each Agrarian tract that grac'd the shelf,
And studied—paus'd—and ponder'd, in himself.

In sunshine hours his six days' labour sped,
While countless projects occupied his head;
To plan improvement, or contrive defence—
To heighten profit, or reduce expence—
To mark each wood and field; each mound and mead—

Fair herds and flocks that batten—milk—or breed—
And reconnoit'ring Teams, and Hinds, the while,
To help their purpose, and appoint their toil.

The drenching rains distinct attentions taught;
New tracks of labour, and new trains of thought;
To guide their streamlets o'er the gutter'd sod,
Turning to use neglected gifts of God;
To irrigate the glebe with small expence,
Thus gathering Manna show'red by Providence.

On Hinds, and Horses, tho' the Sabbath shone,
And all their weekly drudg'ry, then, was done;
Or sacred Festival their toil relax'd,
Still care and toil, Saint's-days, and Sundays, tax'd.
For Vice then pour'd forth low, licentious Pests,
Which range, and riot, while Religion rests;
Disgorg'd from Town, or grovelling Village, near,
Vile mints of mischief! Founts of grief and fear!
Like beasts of plunder, and like birds of prey,
That prowl, and pilfer, both by night and day!

Ere matin hymn had hail'd the holy morn,
He watch'd the Woodlands, and survey'd the Corn;
And, after evening vespers, duly stray'd,
To search, again, each Wood's obnoxious shade;
While shame-fac'd Luna shed unwilling light,
To aid their depredations thro' the night!

Nor were such neighbouring nuisances, alone,
Around those persecuted precincts known,
But, boldly ranging thro' the whole domain,
Like Arab hords on Afric's pillag'd plain,
Vile Gypsey vagabonds beset each place;
Pilfer'd, and spoil'd, and damn'd, with dauntless face;
Who, lawless, long each civil pow'r had spurn'd,
While Nature mourn'd her savage state return'd.
These he expell'd, in spite of threats and taunts,
From all their open camps, and private haunts,
Till, driven, day by day, from post to post,
He extirpated every treacherous host—
No more pert cant was heard, or curse, impure,
But fowls, and flocks, and woods, became secure!

Here all his mental strength, Man's properest pride,
And time, and talents, Duty's posts, employ'd.
He rais'd an Host, well-skill'd in warlike deeds,
To fence the fields, and undermine the meads;
To make more kind communities increase,
And plenty spread, with all the arts of peace.

There gathering groups of plough-impeding Sloes,
And talon'd band of rude, forbidding Rose,
In troops, repulsive, mischievously swarm'd,
And every dry, and healthy, knowle deform'd—
Or quick-encroaching Brambles, rambling round,
Usurp'd large tracts of long-neglected ground;
With rapid runners seizing subject Earth,
Extirpating fair troops of better birth;
Like Goths and Vandals, with wild rabble-rout,
Driving all civiliz'd possessors out.
Where swampy willows push'd unwelcome roots,
And paid but paltry rent with shabby shoots;
Or alders bred aquatic brood
In straggling stems o'er many a marshy rood—
Where hedge-rows, rough, in fritter'd fields appear'd,
Nor prosperous fence, nor grateful fire-wood, rear'd;
But tangling brakes, uncurb'd, at random run,
Devour'd the shaded soil, and damp'd the genial Sun—
Obstructed shining share's, and coulter's, track,
Nor paid utility, or beauty, back;
Their pioneers, who knew their proper trade,
With apt utensils, pickaxe, bill, and spade,
In strong and skilful hands, their pow'r employ,
Those culprit bands to conquer, and destroy.
Or, manual strength, and human toil, to spare,
The strenuous teams, shrubs, stems, and pollards, tear,
And, with one instantaneous effort, strong,
The firmest phalanxes were laid along—
Each garrison, and fort, attack'd, in form,
By ambuscade and battery, sap and storm—
Destroying evil—substituting good—
Till Corn and Clover grew where nuisance stood!

He drain'd the fenny swamp's unfruitful sod,
Where Scythe ne'er swept the swarth, nor Cattle trod—
Completely banish'd, from the splashy plain,
The speary weapons of each hostile train—
The Cat-tail's halbert, high, with sable brush;
The bayonetted Reed, and javelin'd Rush—
The quiver'd Equisetum's arrowy race—
The rough-rob'd Moss, that cloth'd, but clamm'd, its place,
And made, in lieu of Earth's abandon'd breed,
Each sweet gramineous progeny succeed.

From each rebellious, unproductive, lugg,
Of quivering bog, black, spongey peat was dug;

That useless, and unnotic'd, long had lain,
Tho' oft laid open with dissecting drain—
Now, on each hearth, exhilarating, glow'd,
Whose rich cinereous refuse, widely strew'd
O'er every freshen'd field, or moist morass,
Encourag'd trefoil tribes, or gainful grass;
To make fair sheep, and labouring cattle, smile,
Let from the fold, or loos'd from daily toil.
Made Art, and Industry, with Care, combine,
To sink the fosse, or form the latent mine;
Conducting springs thro' adits, hid, below,
To cut off secret aids, and starve the foe;
Drawing their humid food from oozey bed,
Whose founts combin'd, and o'er the surface led,
Invited emigrants of noblest Race
To occupy proscrib'd Usurpers' place.

To prosecute sharp war, in every shape,
He let no short-liv'd enemy escape;
But drove each weedy camp from upland height;
The yellow Crow-foots—Campions red and white—
Restharrows' stinking stem, and ropey root—
The spreading Mayweed's fulsome, fringey, shoot—
The spiney Thistles' multifarious breeds,
O'er districts winging wide their cursed seeds—
Charlock's and Mustard's multiplying pests,
And pompous Poppies, bright, with scarlet crests—
Chrysanthemums, whose tents large tracts infold,
Deckt with gay uniforms, of green and gold—
Stiff Docks, erect, mere Subalterns in mien,
Whose flag-staffs, long, like ensigns fluttering seen—
White Mulleins, tall, with velvet robes array'd,
Of paler green, but crown'd with gay cockade;
Which proudly look'd like Colonels in command,
Heading large gangs that grieved the fruitless land:
These he assail'd in front, in flank, and rear,
Till scarce a troop, or straggler, dar'd appear;
From covert—citadel—and fastness torn,
Replac'd by ampler colonies of Corn!

Thus our small Hero urged the force of Arms,
While Art and Nature spread forth rival charms.
The woods were watch'd—patrol'd—and bastion'd round,
Till pilfering thief, or poacher, scarce was found;
Confronted vagabonds but rare appear'd,
Nor sly, soothsaying Gypsey seen, or heard,
But every lane, or lurking corner left,
Extinguish'd fires and vestiges of theft.

Free Hinds from heedless lethargy awake,
Augmented wages, and full work, at stake,
All former faults, and failings, to atone,
And finding industry desert, alone;
With strengthen'd hands, and renovated will,
Exerted corporal pow'rs, and mental skill;
Their hopes encourag'd, and their hearts at ease,
For profit labour'd, and aspir'd to please:
Soon, ampler barns requir'd, were built anew—
Cramm'd bays, throng'd stacks, transport the Owner's view—
Steers fed the commons—Lambkins fill'd the cote—
Peace, plenty, joy, full diligence, denote,
While frantic exultation ey'd such store.
As Hope ne'er found, or Fancy dreamt, before;
When annual produce rose, on wretched grounds,
From nearly nothing to ten hundred pounds!
These were the fair effects of thought and toil;
Improved-police, and meliorated soil;
When all, concern'd, with one consent, exprest,
Crispinus' care, and skill, such fruits confest,
And Heav'n had all his duteous labours blest!

But, ah! how fickle, and how fleet, the joys,
That e'er from Earth, or Heirs of Earth, arise!
Pure transports only spring from Spirits pure,
No steril soils, or steril Souls ensure.
Growing, alone, on gracious loams of love,
From seeds, celestial! scatter'd from above,
O'er plough'd, and harrow'd, hearts, which, tillering, spread,
From heavenly show'rs, and heavenly sunshine, fed;
Well-weeded, and well-watch'd, it ever thrives,
Till the strong reaper, with full pow'rs, arrives;
The sickle, at his Sovereign's will, to wield,
And close the labours of the cultur'd field!
Such seed, and care, alone, can crops produce
For Landlord's honour—grateful Tenant's use—
To fill, with fruitful sheaves the favour'd land,
The binder's bosom, and the gleaner's hand;
All cleans'd from chaff, and tares; still kept in store,
For faithful Servants, when the harvest's o'er!
Predestin'd limits bound all earthly things,
Terrestrial Kingdoms, and terrestial Kings!
A providential point still strongly stands
Like polar ice, or Ocean's rocks and sands!

Some ne plus ultra runs all Nature through,
No art can counteract, or strength subdue!
No sooner Suns meridian heights ascend
But tow'rds the goal their curving courses tend;
Or full-fac'd Moons assume their circled shine,
But, soon, unequal cheeks prove deep decline!
Above the clouds tho' Alps and Andes rise,
And each proud summit seems to pierce the skies;
Yet, to their tops, when venturous traveller soars,
Each point beyond, still every footstep low'rs—
So Man, by Time, perch'd on Life's proudest head,
A moment views the visual prospect spread;
But, still impell'd, he quits the giddy height,
And sees, each pace, some prospect sink from sight—
Like Suns descends—like Moons full wax'd, must wane,
Then set, like them, beneath the blackening plain!
Shall Farms and Farmers look for longer date
Than Crowns and Kingdoms in this temp'ral State?
Those honours hope Heav'n's Wisdom has denied
To Seas and Mountains—Moons—Earths—Suns—beside?
But oft, by Fable, Wisdom well descries,
From small mistakes, what mighty mischiefs rise!

When eggs of gold a wond'rous Goose had laid,
And vast advantage all expence o'er-paid,
The sordid Owner, greedy, grows for more,
In eager haste to grasp the glittering store,
With prompt attention plann'd a scheme, sublime,
Anticipating tedious acts of Time—
To seize, at once, the treasure and the joy,
The poor prolific Bird was doom'd to die—
But when the sharp, dissecting, fatal, knife,
Had cut the thread of grateful Goose's life,
Impatient Expectation saw, destroy'd,
Its present hopes, and all its future pride!
So when poor Crispin's cultivating care
Had reap'd the golden harvest, rich, and rare!
He was directed, like a plodding dunce,
To make the Goose give all her wealth at once.

Each weak and idle whim—each wild-goose chace,
That Fribbles blunder o'er, or Fools embrace—
That theoretic Dunderheads adore,
Or injudicious Booby slabbers o'er,
Must by our hapless Hero be essay'd,
To learn, complete, the agricultural trade.
All half-inform'd Philosophists suppose,
In whose bleak brains each cold conundrum grows;
Or Fancy-Farmers' vanity invents,
To grace the glebe, and raise the conjur'd rents.
All wild and paltry projects must be tried,
To nourish nonsense, and to pamper pride.
Tried at vast risques, without a glimpse of gain,
With prostrate credit, and increasing pain—
By harsh behests, that best suit ignorant Hind,
And trampling Tyrants, only, e'er enjoin'd:
To gratify a greedy Dupe's desire—
Raise rash Ambition one gradation higher—
Add one fresh flash to Admiration's flame,
The fond experimental Farmer's claim;
To wealth—ton—letters—boasted long before,
One sounding brass, or tinkling cymbal, more!

No reasoning—loss—or ridicule, suffice
To open prejudic'd Projectors' eyes,
When visionary views all strongly tend,
Thro' hopes insane, to Ostentation's end.
On Fancy's soapy bubbles, fix'd astride,
With Maniac's wild career, they, rambling, ride;
Eying the rainbow brilliance, round the top,
Till, bursting sudden, down the Boobies drop—
And, when deliver'd from the burst balloon,
In which Imagination reach'd the Moon,
Had not the groveling Fool, who form'd the gas,
Been somewhat worse than ideotic ass—
They might have gather'd much more golden store,
Than any bold adventurer gain'd before:
Amidst their ramblings, still repeating, oft,
What sights they saw, when lifted so aloft;
And, still to Fellow-travellers, fondly tell,
Their strange astonishment when, thus, they fell!

But, pardon, Reader, (should this e'er be read,)
Nor Crispin deem to all improvements dead—
Suppose Him not attach'd to bigot dreams
By merely antient agricultural schemes;
More than pert prejudice of elder date,
To Superstition's plans in Church, or State—
He courted Candour, and celestial Truth,
With all the open ardency of Youth.
Ne'er stalk'd through sloughs on theoretic stilt,
Nor project spurn'd, on Reason's basis built;
But, lest Deception, sly, in secret, lurk'd,

He circumspectly walk'd—with caution work'd
While mere Opinion, and Surmise, appear'd,
Alone, to prop the fabrick Fancy rear'd;
But, when Conviction had each doubt remov'd,
Let Practice sanction what Experience prov'd.

Some maxims, immemorial, standing still,
Pervade all ranks, and influence Men of skill;
That seeds successive sown debase the breed—
That different soils demand a different seed,
That, sown on parent Earth, repeated years,
A fatal smut, or barren blight, appears.
That sown too frequent, in propinquant place,
Degenerate offspring stamps the ruin'd race;
Poor, shrivell'd, plants prove deep declining brood
Too weak to propagate, too lean for food.

Whether these rules will stand the final test
Of trying questions, Judgment may suggest,
When counter-arguments, in full array,
Brave the bold combat, in unbloody fray,
Let antient veterans, practis'd well, repeat,
Accustom'd to the field, and warlike feat—
But balancing Experience, long has found
Each plant, and tree, thrives best on parent-ground;
Ev'n Animals deteriorate, in time,
Remov'd to distant coast, and different clime.

These facts let farming Artists reconcile;
Whose hearts and heads have long sustain'd such toil;
The first pleads best for speculative pride,
But Nature's Lovers for the last decide.

If distant district makes the evil less,
Then distant country must have more success;
But best of all, when reasoning thus, by rote,
From parts imported, lying most remote.
By spurious arguments, thus loosely laid,
The sacred cause of Truth is oft betray'd:
And here, a case in point, poor Crispin found,
When seed was sought on Caledonian ground;
The trial of experience prov'd so sad,
It show'd both argument, and inference, bad.
Such strings of reasoning might be stretch'd much more,
Might reach remote Kamschatka's frozen shore;
Or fav'rite freight be brought from calid lands,
Even Afric's cape, or Egypt's burning sands;
In temperate zone, on flinty fields, to raise
Fair, fruitful, crops, for profit, and for praise.
'Twas far enough—too far our Hero saw,
As he beheld, foreboding, weeks withdraw;
Employing every needful art the while,
With painful forecast, and accustom'd toil!
His dung he'd scatter'd—mingled compost spread;
While mellowing ploughs prepar'd maternal bed—
But festal rites had clos'd their Christmas round
Ere Scottish cargo reach'd the groaning ground.

Autumn had smil'd with more than usual grace,
While Suns, fast southing, run their shortening race.
The light-rob'd clouds, like vernal vapours flew,
Just sprinkling from their skirts a kindly dew.
The yawning, fretting, furrows, idly lay,
Sighing with every wind from day to day;
And every hungry ridge, impatient, stood,
To close its famished lips o'er needful food.

The Man, more eager still, with heavy heart,
Saw hapless morns appear, and days depart!
Beheld each golden gleam, with anxious eye,
While tedious weeks, and months pass'd, troublous, by!
Meantime, with woe, Anticipation, pale,
Survey'd the prospect of each hill and dale,
And, while he counted all the fruitless cost,
Predicted boundless blame, with labour lost!

The freight, arrived, afforded small relief—
Faith saw bad harvest—Foresight saw but grief!
'Twas all a multitude of mongrel sorts,
The granary's garbage—and the market's orts—
What sloven slattern'd, or town-tollman mix'd—
With no specific signatures affix'd—
All interspers'd with smut—and, tho' unsown,
Long soak'd in fields, or fix'd in stowage, grown;
No more to pierce, thro' earth, its pointed head,
Its vegetative germs all dry'd, and dead—
Mere caput mortuum! buried, ne'er to rise—
Nor fit for food, in coops, or stalls, or styes!

Now days reduc'd to short, and showery, space,
The Labourer, like the Sun, soon run his race!
The fields were drench'd with driving, drowning, rain,
Each furrow smote and smooth'd their surface plain;
And, oft, when seed was sown, on muddy soil,
Some sudden frost, untimely, mocked the toil—
Like stoney pavement stopt the harrow's way,
While half the scatter'd corn, uncover'd, lay;
Expos'd to priestly birds, whose greedy mind,
Rapaciously collect their tythes in kind.

Perch'd on the topmost boughs of bordering trees,
They snuff'd this folly thro' the floating breeze.
In convocations, vast, collected round,
Survey'd, with eager eye, the corny ground;
While hideous croaking fill'd, with wild alarm,
Poor Crispin's breast, and sad, ill-fated farm—
Both doom'd to bear rebellious Jonah's lot,
The only victims, then, their hunger got.

Long, neighbouring farms Levitic dues had paid—
On this, alone, the levy, now, was laid.
Rectorial Rooks, and Crows' vicarial bands,
And lawn-sleev'd Magpies, from far-distant lands,
Mix'd in one clamorous chorus, harshly loud,
Each echoing wood—grove—tree and hedgerow, crowd;
And, in one morning, or one evening's Hour,
Full half the hopes of the whole year devour!

Nor could the thin, and small, remains, escape
These cruel miscreants' iterated rape,
For, when the few, and languid germs, at length,
Put out their puny vegetative strength,
Oh! 'twas a sad, a melancholic sight,
To see, while fields around, wav'd fresh, and bright,
These but a scene of brown, and barren earth,
With here, and there, a thin, and feeble, birth;
Those, in thick, shaggy, shining robes array'd—
These, speck'd with points of blue, and needley, blade—
Those, rooted deep, defying frost and snow;
These, flinching from attacks of every foe!
The scissar'd frost shear'd off their shrivell'd shoots,
And sapping snows unfix'd their flimsy roots;
While these wing'd depredators, wavering nigh,
The ridges blacken'd, or obscur'd the sky—
Till Spring appear'd, dire desolation spread,
By rended heart, or decollated head—
And while they waged fierce rapine, far and wide,
The voice—the rattle—and the gun defied!

They, like their proud compeers, the lazy Priests,
From others' toil partake their fattening feasts;
Ne'er handling plough—or spade—or hook—or scythe—
Yet every year extort a double tythe.
Nestling and brooding round the Rich and Great,
The pert appendage of each large Estate.
Their fond employment still to prowl the field,
And claim the harvests care and labour yield.
When found in duty, on pretence of good,
Perch'd far from Earth on elevated wood,
Exerting loud, and harsh, their thrumming throats,
With rude, unmeaning, immelodious notes.
Would Priests, and they, their proper tasks pursue,
Destroying cursed sins, and insects' crew,
Instead of spoiling blessings, ere their birth,
By injuring all the precious fruits of Earth—
Then would the Husbandmen, and Hind, rejoice
To view the Rook, and hear the Rector's voice;
Nor grudge the gleanings of his hard-earn'd grain,
Or proper tythes from every fertile plain.

But Crispin passions found, more painful, still,
Excite, and turn about, his balanc'd will;
Descrying chorists of celestial song,
Join'd in the riots of this rabid throng—
Collected Skylarks, from surrounding farms,
Assembled there, in thickening silent, swarms,
On freshest Clover, scorning, now, to feed,
Or greenest grass that clothes the marshy mead:
But, finding dishes of far daintier taste,
In wanton forage lay the furrows waste—
To cull sweet sallads from the milky corn,
Tearing each tender blade as soon as born!

It hurt the feelings of the simple Swain,
To fright poor Poets from the hapless plain;
Much more endang'ring Life's uncertain date,
By sending forth decrees for cruel fate!
Bewail'd those warbling Bards that lost their breath
By pitfalls—silken snares—or leaden death!
It damp'd his Soul one Songster to destroy,
Or mock their wishes of one moment's joy;
But, these were joys, and wishes, so impure,
No Bird should e'er indulge, or Bard endure!
Such practices as Man should ne'er maintain,
Deriving pleasure from another's pain!
'Mid Crispin's countless, multiplying, cares,
He lov'd the Minstrels, and admir'd their airs;
Nor ever could indulge a base design
To vex one votary of the tuneful Nine!
But, when pure Conscience, and plain Duties, call,
Feeling must suffer—fondled idols fall!
But tho' he fled such feelings' bitterest fruits,
Deputing others to those dire pursuits;
Compell'd to kill, tho' such mandate scarr'd
Crispin's torn breast, to slay some feather'd Bard!
'Twas needful, now, soft sympathy to thwart,
Such foes must be expell'd, tho' near his heart.

'Twas self-defence—not weak despotic will,
With wantonness, or pride, to scout, or kill;
But, bent on Duty, dared fine feelings wrong,
By sacrificing feasts of sylvan song!
He once, in whim, attempted to attend
Such fell amusement, with a murderous Friend—
And, once, complying with that custom, rude,
Had fix'd to try such test of fortitude—
But pow'rs poetic ne'er can fully tell
What pangs he felt when one poor culprit fell—
How every nerve was torn, with torturing smart,
Whilst blood seem'd trickling from his aching heart—
And as he view'd his Victim steep'd in gore,
Resolv'd to meet such pain and grief no more.

They, with their bold, gregareous, light-arm'd groups,
Atchiev'd more mischief than the weightier troops,
Which, while their warlike shouts, and dark attire,
Directed where to face, and when to fire,
These, cloth'd in colour like the fallow field,
Each cavalier the smallest clod conceal'd;
And, in sly, silent, secret, ambuscade,
Still carried on their dire, destructive trade,
Till all the hostile plain, at every pace,
Was throng'd with myriads of the martyr'd race!

Was this that prospect, this that proud success,
Which Patrons boast, or Providence could bless?
That fill the barn, and figure in the book,
While wondering rivals, round, with envy, look?
Alas! enlarged emoluments, alone,
Can please Employers, or mistakes atone!
And tho' Heav'n's blessing constantly attends
All prudent means, pursuing proper ends,
It ne'er substantiates Fancy's foolish schemes,
Or crowns, with miracles, what Madness dreams!

Here Crispin's case was cruel—horrid, hard!
To force the measure yet to blame the Bard!
Nor did he only now, his fate deplore,
But felt like smart in countless cases more!

The empty Barn with hollow murmurs sigh'd!
O'er cypher'd columns sunk, Pomp mourned with Pride!
While Emulation pass'd in triumph by,
With biting babble, and exulting eye!
The pensive Swain, with melancholic look,
Pined o'er blank pages in his barren Book;
And thence predicted Peace must fall a prey
To the sad sentence of his judgment-day!
He felt Earth's blessing from his bosom fled!
Saw Fortune—Fame—Content—ev'n Hope, drop dead!
But, tho' these favourite Friends all disappear'd,
His Heart, Integrity, and Conscience, cheared;
Yet, while he long his dreary lot endur'd,
The wounds his heart then wail'd could ne'er be cured!

Not only this, but many a wilder, whim,
Compell'd to practice, still tormented him.
Some sown, on smaller scale, of bitter shape,
Plump'd up, by sun-beams, at hot Afric's Cape,
Here, only sapless sands, and flintstones, fed,
Or agues pined, upon a clay-cold bed—
While, dwindling down, with northern blasts embrace,
Rear'd but a weakly—lean—and wither'd race.
—Some from Siberia's frigid climate came,
To pour in ready rent, and full-mouthed fame—
To shoot first blades beneath warm Auster's wing—
And smile with youthful charms in tepid Spring—
To feed while bigots fast—grow gross in Lent,
And heedless laugh while culturing dupes repent.
—Some rear'd with rancid Oil, must wonders yield,
With Nitre mix'd, to mend the morbid field—
Some thickly strew'd with refuse dregs of Salt—
Some sprinkled with the magic dust of Malt:
To give fresh vigour to the steril soil
And make those barren knowles like banks of Nile.
—Here stood Tartarean Oats, erect, and tall,
In promise, lavish; in performance, small—
With roots extensive—constitution strong—
Whose haughty heads, with floating tresses hung,
Unlike fam'd Sampson's energetic hair,
No proofs of pow'r—but mocking toil and care;
From richest earth all nourishment to draw,
Repaying little but poor chaff and straw.
—Siberian Barley, there, unthrifty, grew,
Deceiving fancy with rich silvery hue—
Grain light, tho' chaffless, rang'd in naked rows,
While from its produce weakly profit flows;
Deluding labour—baffling Art's intent—
Defrauding tythes, and retrograding rent.
—Absorbing Chalk its filtering substance spread
O'er every sunny swell's hot, arid, head;
Whose gasping pores both rain and dews devour,
And pant and pine for more each passing hour.
—Exsiccant Soot, procur'd at large expence,

Was stor'd, with care, in magazines immense;
Then strew'd o'er scorching stones, and thirsty sands,
Assisting Suns to roast lean shrivelling lands.
—Dry sandy loams from central depths were dug,
And thickly-laid o'er every ruin'd lugg,
By men and cattle hir'd, at heavy cost,
While better soils from native surface, lost.

Females, in flocks, with children, rambling round,
O'er steril Commons' long neglected ground,
And every barren bank, in lonely lane,
With feet all froze, and hands all pinch'd with pain,
Collected steril moss, in tiny scraps,
Dispos'd in distant heaps from loaded laps—
While mowers, ranging o'er heath, hill, or knowle,
The spreading fern, from starving pauper, stole—
Dragg'd leagues, from ev'ry wind, in loitering wains,
Amidst astonished Nymphs, and simpering Swains:
At home, heap'd high, in proud prodigious piles,
O'er which each wondering Traveller stares and smiles.
The same, assembled, full-grown, female, bands,
While pulverizing ploughs slit cultured lands,
In proper furrows this new manure spread,
To form potatoes' fructifying bed,
Where each might propogate much prosp'rous brood,
To help the purse, and furnish household food—
But—on their barren mossy mattrass placed,
All culturing skill their stinted growth disgrac'd!
No hopeful haulms full-appled fruitage rear'd—
No swelling bulbs o'er surface soil appear'd—
Display'd no vivid shine, nor vigorous shoot,
But stretch'd on starveling couch each wretched root—
All shrunk to sickly size, with famish'd face,
In pity pining o'er their dwarfish race—
And when, in time, to greatest stature grown,
Ill-omen'd signs in minish'd shapes were shown—
For, when in summer months hot sunshine burn'd,
Each shriveling plant, with impotency, turn'd,
While each poor leaf, prognosticative, lops,
Presaging sorrow from earth's future crops!

With this weak race, when badly boil'd, or raw,
Were sordid Swine to cram concocting maw;
And thus mere mites, when multiplied to pence,
And pence to pounds, must swell to sums immense!
Success was certain—the grand scheme secure—
Stock still augmenting crops, and crops manure;
The whole increasing, in continual rounds,
Would swell finance, and fame, beyond all bounds!

How oft such vain, imaginary, views,
Projectors ruin, but Mankind amuse—
And oft, alas! fond calculations fail,
As proves the sequel of this simple tale—
Like stars, erratic, pigs some progress made,
Like them, capricious, quickly stopp'd—and stay'd—
Then soon run, retrogade—and—sad to say,
To meteor's turn'd—decay'd—and, died away!
Thus, as a rustic Maid, in days of yore,
From market, eggs, in osier-basket bore,
Still calculating, as she stalk'd along,
Without all thought of chance, the chicken-throng;
From chicks fresh eggs; and, from those eggs, again,
Chickens, and eggs, a multiplying train,
Till riches rose, to such an endless height,
That sovereign pow'r appear'd in Fancy's sight—
When, in a transport, o'er those views of State,
Her fame and fortune turn'd to direful fate—
For, as she bounded o'er the blissful dell,
Her footstep slipp'd, and down the treasure fell;
And, when Ambition, thus, the eggs had broke,
The witless Wench became her Country's joke!

These vain vagaries would the Bard rehearse,
In plaintive prose, or elegiac verse—
In rumination, sigh—in speech deplore
Such mad mistakes, with countless whimsies more!
A monstrous catalogue of megrims, quaint!
Enough to stir chagrin in Soph, or Saint!
Such a long list of wild conundrums, queer,
Credulity, itself, would start to hear.
Things, Crispin's prudence hardly dar'd relate,
A servile Slave in pure despotic State!
Which, more contempt than couplets must inspire,
Beneath all Song on soft bucolic Lyre!
Plan, after plan, and scheme succeeding scheme,
Like Politician's, dull, or Poet's, dream—
Plans, ball'd, and batted round, from Fool to Fool,
All tried, by Crispin, in his culturing school—
The chief recorded clear, in different forms,
While strength was weathering Time's convulsive storms;
In hopes his Muse might reach some safer port,
No more a Trifler's toy—a Despot's sport—
Where he might shape each rude elastic part,
To show the workings of his worried heart;

Or some kind Friend the matter might arrange,
Should Heav'n confirm them, ere his final change.

Amid misfortunes, thus, with pains oppress'd,
A racking conflict rent his throbbing breast!
He felt past favours—dreaded foul disgrace—
And wish'd, while deprecating, change of place!
Felt kind affection grown to fix't regard,
While dreading shame, and benefits debarr'd.
He long'd to fly, but fearful to be rude,
And bearing blame for gross ingratitude—
Of keen reproach, and calumny, afraid,
With persecution's torments, whilst he staid.
His Spirit still unbroke, he could not brook
Dissecting censure, or contemptuous look;
Much less by Self-abasement's test atone
For freaks, and faults, he could not call his own.

He wish'd, with ardour, to resume, agen,
The pristine callings of his tools, and pen,
But dreaded conflicts of severer kind,
More murd'rous tryals of a tortur'd Mind!
He fear'd Acquaintances' obscure surmise
More than Malevolence's looks and lies!
Fear'd more what mute Relations might suppose
Than foul aspersions from professed Foes!
Much more what pious Parent might predict
Than fiercest persecution's pow'rs inflict!
His old Companions, tho' devoid of spite,
Needs must imagine all things lookt not right.
His moral Relatives, with virtuous view,
Might whisper wishes all the hamlet through;
And, with a kind, interrogating tongue,
Raise dangerous doubts that somewhat must be wrong!
But most he deprecated that keen pain
He knew a tender Mother must sustain,
While, with a labouring breast, and tearful eye,
Her justling spirits fought with fear and joy!
Lest, thro' the conflict strong, her harrass'd heart
Should sink, with dread and her pure soul depart!

He could not practice hypocritic tricks
Nor Art, with Morals and Religion, mix;
Ne'er thrown, by Fortune's freaks, within the calls
Of flattering levees—simpering routs, or balls—
Ne'er nurs'd, 'mong swindling smiles, at hoaxing Courts,
'Mid compliments profane, and poisoning sports;
But early vers'd in Virtue's wary ways,
Still taught what ills await the Wight who strays,
What pains and terrors, plant his thorny path—
What wretched miseries from almighty wrath—
Distress thro' Life; and, at its awful close,
Time's horrors heighten'd with unending woes!
By parents guided round the gulphs of Youth,
He, o'er his horn-book, learn'd to lisp the truth;
Tho' after taught, by deep dissembling Dame,
The talk of flattery for the task of fame!
But he escap'd untouch'd the tainting blight,
Tho' neither novice, monk, or eremite;
For, while She impeach'd such faults on honest elf,
She only shaped him something like Herself.
He scorn'd to copy crimes his heart abhorr'd,
Tho' class'd with puppy packs which whin'd accord;
Still conscious whereso'er his footsteps trod
His heart lay open to the eye of God!
And, lest that God, or Conscience, should arraign,
Watch'd acts, words, thoughts, foul—false—perverse—or vain.
Each wicked wish, and devious, dark, desire,
Brought before Conscience, and all-seeing Sire!
Correcting all their tendencies in time,
Ere ripening to resolve's condemning crime!
The presence of that awful Pow'r he felt,
Where'er he wander'd, or where'er he dwelt—
That boundless Being! who o'er all presides,
And all, thro' Heav'n and Earth, controuls and guides!
Rules every ample orb, that rolls and runs;
Planets, opaque; or light-dispensing Suns!
Impels their speed, or holds restraining reins,
As millions move o'er Space's boundless plains!
Still kindly nourishing, and ruling, all
That range, or rest, o'er each obedient ball!
Not Men, alone, their Maker's kindness share,
Each living Creature finds that Father's care!
Ev'n animalcules, creeping, round the Earth,
And down to vilest, vegetable birth!

But tho' His providential Pow'r's display'd,
In all His Wisdom—Will, and Goodness, made,
The base and being of His wonderous plan,
All center'd here, on His frail minion Man;
While, tho' he daily disobeys His Will
His Loving kindness centers in him still!
Not on proud Wealth alone, o'er whom His Pow'r
Hath scatter'd shining gifts, in golden show'r;

Who deem the dow'rless herd all doom'd for use,
Their mere amusement, or their base abuse;
To torture—kill—insult—cheat—chase away—
Like kindred Cats, or brother Beasts of prey!
Yet, tho' their Penury, Power, and Will, withold—
Proud domes—gay trappings—costly cates—and gold—
His kind attentive Love, so, turns aside
The strong provocatives to Lust, and Pride;
Still nobler boons their lowly lot have reach'd,
Who humbly hear the glorious Gospel preach'd!

Our universal Sire's complete designs
No passion prompts—No selfishness confines—
But, mixing Love and Wisdom, thro' the Whole,
Combines the bliss of every human Soul!
Like rain and sunshine, His unshaken Love
Keeps all that show'r, below, or shine, above!
Tho' labouring Virtue mundane blessings miss,
No well-meant aim will fail of future bliss;
But all who cultivate the Soul, or Soil,
Will find rewards for each right care, and toil!
Not recompenc'd with crops for skill their own,
But products from celestial seed when sown.
Not by Man's deeds deserv'd, or wisdom won,
But, fed by heavenly air, and rain, and sun—
Harvests, proportioned to the pains endur'd
By Heav'n on all well-manag'd tracts matur'd—
For Christ will culturing toils, and cares, requite,
On Lands luxuriant, steril, strong, or light—
Lands, intellectual, bounteous Heav'n bestows,
Still blessing every gracious blade that grows!
Not lands mark'd out, by Mortals' measuring chain,
Nor hoping produce from corrupted grain—
Not claiming tythes for Folly's temp'ral feasts,
To live like blockheads, and to die like beasts;
But seeking crops of durable delights,
From duteous industry, and managed mites—
Raising those mental mites to pence, and pounds,
While hours—days—nights—run on in annual rounds;
Till Worth's Redeemer welcomes to His Dome,
And there prepares an endless Harvest home!

CHAPTER 5th.

No labour, care, or skill, can e'er perform
Crude schemes that wake Imaginations warm,
That spawn or sprout, with quick successive train,
In teeming mansions of a moon-struck brain;
Which no spring-rains, or ripening suns, require,
But breed on hot-beds, forc'd by Fancy's fire.
Like mushroom-births, which reach their boldest height,
Born, nurs'd, and rear'd, in one productive night—
Or sallad-plants by preternatural heat,
In one nycthemeron grown to crops complete.
But corn and cattle rise by slower growth;
Not rais'd by Madness, or matur'd by Sloth.
Can skill and labour, by intense turmoil,
Break flints and pebbles down to procreant soil?
Will peaty swamps, or spungey marshes, yield
Earth's rich gramineous growths like fertile field?
'Tis counteracting Nature—fighting Fate—
Expecting Desarts turn'd to proud Estate—
Converting stoney tracts to mellow mould—
Transmuting iron to ingots form'd of gold—
Attempting wonders to excite surprize—
Exploring lands all strange, with hooded eyes.
Pushing discoveries, in each unknown part,
Without Cook's genius and consummate Art.
Conceit encourag'd as skill's giddy guide—
Opinion setting Practice quite aside—
Pride wresting Pow'r from Reason's royal hand,
And robbing Judgment of its calm command—
Strapping Experience down to maniac bed,
And ordering Ignorance to rule instead—

Stretching, full strength, thro' perils round each pole,
While spurning learn'd Lieutenant's kind controul;
Devoid of compass, card, or cool advice,
'Mong promontoried Alps of wedging ice,
To find, on swallowing sands, and foundering rocks,
Spontaneous harvests—well-fed herds and flocks.
With wild impetuous course in phrenzies, run,
To seek for snows beneath a zenith sun—
To strain the cordage—bend each swelling sail,
And drive, regardless, with each dangerous gale,
Till, wearied out with effort—stung with shame—
Lamenting loss of honour—badg'd with blame—
The purblind Pilot strikes, on hostile strand,
Amidst insulting Foes, in foreign Land.

Oft have I heard the wretched Swain relate
The murdering miseries of the transport state!
His trials—troubles—wales—and wounds—and woe—
While thus a Pilgrim in this World below!
Then, tho' his bosom pour'd the just complaint,
In striking colours, would reflection paint
Each winning grace which gave affection birth—
The specious Virtues—the apparent Worth—
Each blandish'd promise his mock'd mind betray'd—
Scarce one perform'd among the numbers made—
How faithful Friendship, still, was firmly fix'd,
While sighs, and smiles, and blame, and blessings, mix'd!
Oft would repeat—“I feel a ponderous debt
Of divers favours, undiminish'd yet!
And still must feel much kindness undischarg'd,
Which thriftless purse, and throbbing pulse enlarg'd!”

From Pride, and Spleen oft fiery javelins flew,
Which pierc'd his pensive bosom thro' and through;
Still, when Resentment stirr'd his troubled breast,
Kind Recollection Passion's rage repress'd—
Quell'd rash Revenge, and quench'd fierce Anger's flame,
Reviving fond Affection's cordial claim!
These, when impeachments, false, his feelings pain'd,
Authority still strengthen'd—pow'r maintain'd—
Oft curv'd his neck, borne down by injur'd heart—
Steel'd his torn breast to bear sarcastic dart—
Low stoop'd his head, like tame, unfeeling Fool,
To 'scape sharp shafts of spiteful ridicule!
Chill'd his wan cheek with self-condemning look,
When cruel Scorn maliciously mistook;
While mute submission dropp'd his flurried eye,
Unable to outface a fearless lie—
Apparent guilt by shy confusion shone,
Thro' pitying shame adopted as his own!
With blushing innocence oft bending down,
When snubb'd by sneers, or nipp'd by freezing frown!
Still bearing blame for knowledge—wit—or sense—
Ev'n piety and morals prov'd offence!
For groundless guess-work suffering foul disgrace;
Brav'd, when refuted, with a brazen face!
No proof could stop that persecuting tongue,
Most eloquent when most inflicting wrong!
Tho' guiltless Conscience gave some small relief,
In silence suffocating groans and grief;
Yet could not quench the fires that burnt his breast,
Nor give his heart, or anger'd reason, rest!
With rustic manners charg'd, both rough and rude—
Affection flown—and gross ingratitude—
With fierce, malicious, acrimony fraught!
Which neither candour, truth, or justice, taught!

When left alone he'd raise his hands, and eyes,
To the blest Umpire of both Earth and Skies;
And pour a sacred—solemn—sad—appeal,
To Him who watches o'er all woe, and weal!
Who tries Mankind with metage right, and due,
With standard stamp'd by Heav'n's strict measure, true!
Who weighs all actions, pure—impure—or mix'd,
Their worth appraises, and each price is fix'd!
Sees where direct, or devious, works begin,
From pious principles, or seeds of Sin!
Where Truth's plain tracks, or wiley windings, lend,
To social usefulness, or selfish end—
Whence wounding thorns, and tangling brambles, breed,
And, spiney thistles spring from self-sown seed;
Or luscious figs, and grapes both good and fair;
From heaven-born plants, or cyons, grafted, there!
Marks thoughts meandering from their secret source;
Their private pointings, and their current's course!
Sees incorporeal images advance,
Siz'd, shap'd, and colour'd, at one single glance!
Views evanescent, rude, conceptions, rise,
Distinctly plumb'd, and pois'd with errless eyes!
Notes when His honour, or Man's own's the aim,
From Heav'n's fix'd fervour, or from Earth's frail flame!
Adjudging, justly, every varying case,
And pens right records in their properest place!
Whence bold Ideas rise, on wing sublime,

Above all idols wrought, and rear'd by Time—
Skim Earth's cold surface after shadows run,
Where Self's dark substance intercepts the Sun,
Or, groveling, stoop, to grasp at vapours, vain,
Which, press'd, prove empty, and when burst prove pain!
No preference gives to Princes' shine and show,
More than mere blushing Louts while bending low!
Pays no respect to Learning's large pretence,
More than to Peasants' plain unsifted Sense!
Reveres no more vain Lord with vast Estate,
Than squalid Cripple groaning at his gate!
His equal Providence respects the Proud
No more than parish Paupers' cringing Crowd!
His Eye, most pure, no more complacent, sees,
Mere titled Mortals, claiming high degrees,
Than Boor, that boasts no fortune, pow'r, or fame,
Or nearest Neighbours' barely known by Name;
Or more great glory—Pomp—and Gold, regards,
Than Crispin, and poor, humble, brother, Bards!

He looks, in mercy, infinitely down,
On Potentate, who claims imperial Crown;
Where all the influence, felt, and gold, that glows,
Are gracious gifts His bounteous hand bestows!
His Pow'r, paternal, guards the Cottage door,
As watchful as proud State, and princely Store!
His Providence, tho' dealing different meed,
To full inflated Wealth, and weeping Need;
Yet long Experience, looking to the end,
To both beholds Him Father—Lord—and Friend!
A blessing still attends the life of each,
Whose Minds pure Piety and Virtue teach;
But Vice, and Vanity, and Sin, and Sloth;
Bring down destruction on the lots of both!
When Lust and Luxury feed from pamper'd purse,
A close inspection spies their constant curse!
When Pomp, and Pride, on Wealth's high axles whirl'd
Oft, down to Dust, find State and Honours hurl'd;
While ostentatious Vanity destroys,
All moral comforts, and religious joys!
Where His wise Will witholds fond wish for Wealth,
Pure Temperance builds a stabler tow'r of Health;
And where He sets aside both Pomp and Pow'r,
Bestows, on Penury, Peace's better dow'r!
In Cot, content, from Fraud, and Theft secure,
With Piety reclines Man's Conscience, pure,
While calm-ey'd Meekness makes his humble bed,
And, Duties, done, compose both heart and head!

With such reflections, drawn from sacred source,
Pump'd up by strong Oppression's tyrant force,
Oft have I heard his harrass'd Soul complain,
In words of woe, or penitential strain,
The plagues and pangs, sad fortune and sore fate,
From slights, and slanders, in his vassal state;
Contrasted with the purer transports past,
From blissful freedom, ere he breath'd his last!
His eyes with gushing rills encircled round;
His bosom burst with frequent sigh, profound;
While quivering lip, and faultering voice, in vain,
Strove hard to tell his praises, and his pain—
To tell what blessings Friendship first bestow'd,
How much he honour'd, and how much he ow'd—
In lamentations, now, that lot deplore,
His Heart, so swell'd with hopes, embrac'd before!

If Candour e'er was found with Man's fall'n Race,
She spoke her presence, in his friendly face—
If now, Integrity, on Earth's e'er seen,
It stood conspicuous in his manly mien;
Or Truth was e'er among frail Mortals known,
His prompt replies announc'd her native tone.
No dark deception turned his head awry—
No doubtful twinklings mark'd his stedfast eye—
No awkward twist, or attitude uncouth,
Show'd innate Conscience struggling with Untruth—
Nor faultering tongue with stammering accent, spake,
Wrapt up in Reservation's cloak, opaque;
While Falshood's looks, words, acts, all felt controul,
By Mind's Misgivings in the secret Soul!
No bold Asservation strove to blind;
No Imprecation bellow'd from behind;
But true Simplicity her traits display'd,
In all chaste charms of Purity array'd—
Like Earth's prime Pair, in nakedness divine,
No robes to shrowd, no ornaments to shine!
Pure as the breathing atmosphere of Spring,
Which sweeps the Welkin, wide, with Zephyr's wing—
Fair as the landskip, rising full in view
Unfolds each brilliant object's form and hue
Clear as the cove of Winter's tranquil sky
When every tiney star salutes the eye—
Limpid as mountain's filter'd streamlets flow,
No sand concealing in their beds below—
So, void of Art, did his vex'd Soul disclose,

His deep embarrassments, and wounding woes!
Referring all, with manifest delight,
To Him who sees, hears, knows, and judges right—
And will, with faithfulness, at future time,
Avow each Virtue, and condemn each crime!

Oft pour'd he forth his true and plaintive tales,
Loud, o'er the hills—low whispering down the dales—
Conscious exalted heights, like upright hearts,
To no base pimps, deposits dear imparts;
But babbling dells the tenderest truths repeat,
Like echoing lips, in talkative retreat.
He dar'd to breathe abroad his muttering moan
While wandering round sequester'd scenes, alone.
There held with Heav'n, and Self, close conference, pure,
From prying sight, and listening ear, secure—
A cool, impartial, canvas! where the Mind
By no prevailing Passion's force, confin'd:
But, knowing Nature's God, alone, was by,
He spread each case before His equal eye,
Free from all design, or fettering fear,
Aware prompt Wisdom, and pure Love were there—
Nor durst indulge wild wish, or thought untrue,
Conscious that Truth was there, and Justice, too.
There full before his all-sufficient Sire,
Could vent each deep complaint, and pure desire.
Let loose each burden from his throbbing breast,
By sigh—groan—speech, his various pains express'd!
He thought, while thus he gave his griefs full vent,
His woes were weaken'd, and assistance lent—
Still found, from new attempts new knots untied,
And all his griefs grow softer as he sigh'd—
Or, stronger efforts tried, the bindings broke,
And loads felt lighter while complaining spoke!
But when with Friends, and Family, he mix'd,
Each feeling in the Soul's recess was fix'd;
All close conceal'd within the suffering heart,
No whisper—sigh—or groan, proclaim'd the smart
Nobly resolv'd each bosom-pain to bear,
That Daphne's heart might miss the sharper share!

She, sympathizing Soul! would watch his looks—
His short mock-meals—his abstinence from books—
Accuminated visage—haggard eye—
The struggling sorrow, and the stifled sigh—
Answers abrupt—and pensive head reclin'd—
Predicting deepest miseries rent his Mind.
For still such symptomatic signs appear'd,
Whene'er his Despot's will, in words, was heard—
Scarce e'er approach'd his arbitrary Queen,
But, at his mute return, such marks were seen—
Ne'er saw her sentiments, in written types,
But ev'ry nerve was numb'd, with secret stripes,
Which visibly display'd in face, and form,
The inward workings of the mental storm.

Such signatures of air, and mien, and look,
Poor Daphne's penetration ne'er mistook,
But plainly could explore some secret pang
Was wounding Crispin's peace with poisonous fang!
Then would her bosom burst with murmuring moan,
While rack'd with wretchednesses, all her own!
Her poor perturbed spirit frequent felt
What castigating strokes the Despot dealt;
Full oft, herself, the persecuted prey,
Of proud, unpitying, tyranizing sway!
Her clouded lids distilling heavier show'rs
Than all the rains that rins'd her April hours;
While proud Employer's keen, sarcastic, tongue,
With murderous mockings heighten'd every wrong!

Daphne, in whom, even female casuists find,
While no ill-natur'd bias bends the Mind,
The simplest Soul, fair'st Frame, and loveliest Face—
Such mild amenity! such glowing grace!
Such personal purity! such neat attire!
That Youth ought imitate—Age must admire!
Yet impish Spleen, with her abasing brush,
Would blend base colours with her angel blush!
Distort symmetric features! cherub smile!
Blast every beauty! tinge each virtue vile!
With umbery brown, smoked foul in Envy's fire,
By Malice mix'd—ground dark by gross Desire—
Stale, turbid oil, would blurring Rhetoric bring—
Wit point her pencil with a hornet's sting—
Hate press in poisonous drops, of each dark hue,
As Eloquence the spurious Portrait drew—
Imagination, heating Mischief's head,
The dingey dabs on Memory's pallet spread—
While Passion, Pride, and Prejudice, design'd,
Cunning caricatur'd, as Fancy lin'd;
Spite, Fraud, and Falshood, plied their proper trade,
By daubing, dense, o'er all, a Remembrandt shade:
Pure Modesty, most bashful, pictur'd bold—
Soft infant gentleness a giant Scold—
Industrious Energy still imag'd slack—

The nicest Cleanliness all blotch'd with black—
Simplicity, like skulking, scowling, Art—
And Probity, thick-splash'd in every part—
Prudence, pourtray'd, like a weak Spendthrift, wild—
Sweet Sensibility a wayward Child—
Sincerity, sketch'd hard, with squinting eye—
Bright Truth besmutch'd, in semblance like a Lie—
Instead of Neatness, in her native shape,
Fantastic Affectation shewn an Ape—
Like Indolence clear Forecast look'd, to loll—
Bland Elegance bedeck'd like Baby-Doll—
True Diligence display'd with heedless air,
And cold Indifference limn'd in lieu of Care:
To make such Monster strike, with full offence,
Stupidity supplied the place of Sense;
While the calm Antitype, Love's kind adept!
Look'd like Despair, and sigh'd—and groaned—and wept—

Was this Benevolence's brilliant proof,
To woo poor Strangers 'neath her hostile roof
With hopes of fuller fame, and greater gain,
And, when these fail'd, inflicting grief, and pain?
Was this great Patronesses true regard,
To call, from common Friends, our humble Bard;
Taught, justly, to expect superior joy,
Then kill his comforts, and his peace destroy?
Was such fall'n fate—such situation, fit
For exercising Talents, Taste, and Wit?
The work of kindness Vassals to deride?
And scourge poor Peasants with the whip of Pride?
Their very Virtues, more than Sins, assault?
And swell small failing to enormous fault?
Should Knowledge—Learning—Courtier—condescend
To vex a servile Slave? or flog a Friend?
Ought Riches—Honour—Influence—fondly aim
To blot clean characters, or blast fair fame?
Or Ingenuity, or Genius, try
To fret the honest heart? and flood the harmless eye?

When Man with subtle, sly, invidious, view,
A subject Slave the lordly Lion drew;
The Lion reason'd thus, and argu'd right,
The figures had been group'd by Fraud, or Spite;
For had the beast been skill'd in painting-trade,
The Man had crouch'd, the kingly Lion sway'd.
Revers'd positions, here, prove different case—
Proud, crafty, Fox, assumes the Lion's place;
Propped up, by Spite, on kingly Lion's seat,
Insults a Lamb, seduced to her retreat;
Low at her feet, long overwhelm'd with fears,
Mocks all her moans, and tears her 'midst her tears!
Her innocence upbraids—her virtue blames—
Shuts Justice out, and stops kind Pity's claims!
In murkiest traits, and tints, mistaken Elf!
To spoil that harmless Lamb, depicts Herself!

Had that poor Lamb possess'd such limning art,
To figure cunning face, and cruel heart,
Hyena's blink, and Tyger's tyrant breast,
Fierce looks, and features, cruel Fox express'd,
When Pride and Passion, in their full-moon-tide,
With pow'rful surges, push'd her mask aside;
The Beasts that fawn'd before her idol throne,
And, long, with flattery, made false merits known—
Devour'd her offals—with devotion burn'd—
While praises twice their full expence return'd—
The fellow-Foxes, and convivial swine;
Colloquial Cats, and Dogs which doze and dine—
Birds chattering loudly round, by Custom taught,
Unmeaning compliments, without a thought—
News—scandal—calumny—soon learnt by rote,
And chaunting fame, with soft and swelling note,
Sure of applause for Genius—Learning—Sense;
While praise paid praise, and panegyric, pence—
Did these behold, in those obnoxious hours
When eyes flash lightning while the forehead low'rs—
When blazing looks, deep, darkling, plots betray—
By trick to trap, or pounce her trembling prey—
As prowling Leopard lurches round the lawn,
To rend, with savage rage, a timorous Fawn;
Or hostile Hawk, in cunning, skims the grove,
And, glaring, darts on guiltless Turtle-Dove,
Then must the connoisseurship turn to shame,
Seduc'd by dazzling Wit, and fibbing Fame;
Wondering, in spite of prejudices strong,
And innate pride, at being bilk'd so long.

No portrait Daphne draws; no charges brings,
Tho' injur'd, thus; thus pierc'd with serpent stings—
Her tender Mind forbad—for Heav'n had taught,
No ribald railing bright Archangel brought,
Ev'n in the cause of God, when feuds began,
Betwixt meek Michael, and fierce Foe of Man,
When Moses' body caus'd such keen debate
While his pure Soul was blest in separate State:

She, Seraph-like, referr'd her silent suit,
Betwixt her blameless Self, and subtle Brute,
To that high Advocate, whose matchless Might
Can execute what Wisdom judges right;
And will, at length, tho' suffering Sinners long,
Redress each grievance, and revenge each wrong!

Meantime it much compos'd her Heart, and Head,
In Scripture truths, and moral rules, well read—
Truths, pertly sneer'd at, by the Sons of Pride,
And rules that Folly's Daughters all deride;
Remembering, well, her blest Redeemer bore,
Of such mute sufferings infinitely more;
Scorn—ridicule—disgrace—woe—penury—pain—
A spotless Lamb! by Spite and Envy slain!

I knew them both, in special, and in whole,
The outward substance, and the inward Soul.
Discern'd in feature, form, and voice, display'd,
Each Passion's and Affection's varied shade;
Clear spied, by virtue of instinctive sparks,
Internal motives by external marks,
Sure instinct shows by plain and simple signs,
Clear actions, striking tones, and limning lines;
By constant tokens on corporeal parts,
The well-known workings of all human hearts.

Nature's great God, who all deception hates,
On Man's exterior parts, distinctly, states,
In written eye, and hieroglyphic face,
In voice, look, act, throughout that reasoning Race,
The strong intents, and meanings, of the Mind,
To all but ideots—dull—or deaf—or blind.
He, knowing Satan's influence, might infuse
Those monstrous tricks His bounties most abuse,
Impress'd unravelling pow'rs, on eye, and ear,
To make that Serpent's dark devices clear—
To trace, perspicuous, and, in part, controul,
The deep designs of each deceptive Soul—
Thus helping Spirit, Spirit's aims to scan,
That stamp the Fiend—the Monster—or the Man.

That none might Momus' wish'd-for window need,
Instinct's heav'n-taught the secret Soul to read—
In tone, and turn, of human voice, to note,
How passions operate, and feelings float—
But, chief, by penetrating vision view
Each devious veering's trace, and motive true—
All changeful features obviously behold,
Enkindling love, or turning kindness cold.
Not needing precepts, or experience, ripe,
To sift hid sense, and spell each printed type;
For untaught Infants, and fond Nature's Fools,
Require no lecturing in learn'd classic Schools,
But, by pure intuition, promptly feel,
What clearly indicates their woe, or weal.
Ev'n dull domestic Animals perceive
What philosophic Dunces disbelieve.
Untutor'd Cats, instinctively, descry
Both love and hatred by the ear and eye;
While Dogs, what learned Doctors ne'er could teach,
Distinguish, aptly, all the powr's of speech—
And tho' debarr'd from Tutors, and from Books,
Still understood clear languages of looks.
Tho' schools no stated principles instil,
They watch each meaning of their Master's will.
And, from a smiling smirk—or vengeful voice,
Perceive just cause to tremble, or rejoice.

The Spaniel knows, the Pointer still discerns
Each change of emphasis, each feature's turns;
And may not Man, with nobler pow'rs endued,
Read faces, fell? vociferations rude?
Mark livid lip? harsh eye, suffus'd with flame?
The fierce convulsion shaking all the frame?
And shall he not perceive the friendly smile,
The honest accent free from graceless guile?
Distinguish tranquil cheek, and eye serene,
With winning movements of the air and mien?

Heav'n-lighted Instinct, with precision, spies
The Soul's true symbol imag'd in the eyes;
And, with like accuracy, well defines
All Nature's varying signatures and signs;
And will not Reason, with her added light,
Assist Man's hearing, and illume his sight?
With intellectual vision's clearer view
Pierce deep Hypocrisy's devices through?
See, full, false fondling looks, and simpering smiles,
Wear not the stamp of Heav'n, but Satan's wiles?
Discern when wheedling sounds and soften'd voice,
Are Affectations, not chaste Nature's choice?
From every angled limb's distorted turn,
Clear indications of deception learn?
To help Experience, still perform her task
In stripping off Dissimulation's mask;

And by Heav'n's pure celestial Spirit taught,
Trace out each close recess of secret thought—
Exploring deepest plots—profoundest pacts—
By labell'd looks, and clear-recording acts;
While wisdom in her heavenly light array'd,
Looks, calmly, thro' shrew'd Cunning's closet shade.
Supremely plac'd, on intellectual seat
With mental Councils rang'd around her feet,
Like Solomon, when He, Her Son, was seen,
Worshipp'd by Sheba's oriental Queen;
Or Harlots' litigated lots decreed,
By sights and sounds disclosing darkest deed;
She sits, enthron'd; midst Officers of State;
To see—hear—argue—ponder—and debate.

Imagination marks external store;
And Memory hoards materials found before;
Then shows, and shifts, successive written rolls,
While quick-ey'd Understanding skims the scrolls—
Reason to proper scales each point conveys,
As Judgment holds the beam, and Justice weighs;
When Will, by all advis'd, full, frank, and free,
With promptness, executes, each clear decree.

Thus piercing Spirits poise all weak Mankind
By sterling standard form'd in manag'd Mind;
While Wisdom, learn'd, by long-experienc'd pow'rs,
Concentering all her intellectual dow'rs,
With heavenly light, explores the latent parts,
Of labyrinthine heads, and muffled Hearts—
For faithful Truth this Apophthegm declares,
“The Man that knows his own heart knows all Their's!”

This clear decision calm experience proves,
With small exceptions, Reason soon removes,
From situation, circumstance, and sex,
When tempers violate, or temptations vex;
Distinct in every time, and every place,
What Clown, or Coxcomb, deems a dubious case.

So, sky-born Wisdom, with inspection keen,
Like sunshine pierces each transparent scene.
Beholds ideas rise, in form and hue,
Embodied, obvious, to her probing view.
Sees her own estimate in other's eyes,
Or lov'd, or hated—construed weak, or wise.
Perceives, at interviews, 'mid smiles and bows,
Enquiries, compliments, assertions, vows;
Whether the heart's full approbation shone,
Impatience—pride—or grudging, bade be gone.
Marks the Soul's manufacturing labours pass,
Shown on the gazing pupil's figur'd glass.
The Spirit's pure, or impure, form pourtray'd,
In meet-shap'd miniatures of light and shade.
Notes Kindness, Friendship, or Affection, clear,
Or Anger—Envy—Spite, depicted there.
Sees easy attitude, and lucid look,
Or features, forc'd, and Arts continual crook.
Simplicity's and Candour's cordial smile,
Or dark Deception, labouring to beguile.
Discovers Cunning, in close corner lurk,
Or Honestly perform fair open work.
Affected Prudery, and hooded Pride,
Aim all their coquetry, and tricks, to hide.
Notes hungry Appetite, and prurient Lust,
Expose their grossness, or intemperate gust;
And every Passion, or impure Desire,
Disclose each carnal wish with phlegm or fire.
Rude Anger, starting, past all Art's controul,
Reveal vile secrets of the vengeful Soul!
Observes when sweet celestial Truth illumes,
Or Falshood gilds her dark, deceitful, glooms!
When warm'd with Love's, or Inspiration's, rays;
Or Hate, Spleen, Spite, dart forth demoniac blaze!
When Innocence emits mild heavenly light,
Or Malice sheds her shades of noxious night!

When, bent on prey, gaunt Eagles' eye-balls glare,
And all their desperate cruelty declare,
Look they not different from the gentle Dove?
Emblem of Peace, of Purity, and Love!
Or when the scowling Cat, in coverts, cow'rs,
Bounds on the Red-breast, and her frame devours?
How much unlike the look of harmless Lamb,
When dancing, blameless, round her bleating Dam!
While Foxes, form'd for hypocritic Art,
With lamb-like visage, veiling wolfish heart,
By cunning both characteristics join,
The smile of Love with Demon's base design!

But Wisdom rests not on mere looks, alone,
For Voice betrays intents, with varying tone;
As wires, and strings, when struck, the passive strike,
Size—tension—substance, like, they sound alike—
To sympathetic nerves will throb, or thrill,
Not waiting for the bare behests of Will,
But echo back the same impressive note,
As Pride's, or Passion's harsh pulsation smote.

Anger, and Arrogance, acute, and strong,
With quick-vibrating treble trill the tongue;
Like flageolet, or fife, or catgut scream,
Their scrannel thrill, and incoherent theme,
Strike fellow-feelings with discordant shake,
While keen-according bosoms beat, and ache.
Revenge, or fix'd Resentment, slower sound,
Like harsh bass-viols; hollow, and profound;
But softer tones Love's fine sensation suit,
Harmonious organ, or melodious lute.
The trumpet never soothes the savage breast—
Nor horn, with strepent rattling, lulls to rest—
No sweet somniferous flute, to combat calls,
Guitars, nor harps', weak tinklings level walls.
When feather'd matrons watch their tender young,
How much unlike their sounds of guttural song,
Or fondling cluck, that calls their feeble brood,
To gather round, and share their scatter'd food,
Are those alarming cries, that catch their ear,
When hovering Kite; or skimming Hawk appear—
A well-known warning, when such Foes are spied
Bidding, beneath their wings, with haste, to hide!

The great Creator, pow'rful—wise—and good!
Not only caters all His Creatures' food,
But every kind convenience, prompt, supplies;
As varied wants, and varied wishes, rise!
Not only gives enough for every need,
But, by His bounteous Providence decreed,
Abundant stores to furnish full delight
For each proud wish, and wayward Appetite.
With self-preserving pow'r, full knowledge yields,
To all that swim the floods, or swarm the fields;
That wing the air for food, or wanton flight,
Or dig the soil, to shun the dangerous light.
His tender kindness condescends to teach
Strong fears, and forecast, best befitting each.
The meanest Animal instinctive, knows,
By sundry signs, its Lovers, Friends, and Foes.
The pow'r of speech allotted Man, alone,
By tuneful feebleness, or fuller tone,
To every calm, instructed, ear conveys
His wish, or will, in ever-varying ways;
Yet tho' he ever vary sounds, and signs,
Each secret sentiment deep skill defines.
Ev'n all refus'd instructive tones of voice
Declare, by clearest proofs, dislike, or choice—
For, where that wonderous faculty's witheld,
By looks, and acts, is needful knowledge spell'd.
To some, still lower, tho' providential dow'r
Imparts no knowledge vouch'd by visual pow'r,
To them no necessary aid's denied;
All useful hints by test of touch supplied.

The Worm's quick slide and wretched writhing, show
Shrewd signs of danger, and deep sense of woe.
Devoid of nobler blessings, deaf, and blind,
With single Sense possess'd, of humblest kind,
Sufficient just to feel the mining Mole
Convulse the earth, around its hiding hole,
Or stirring tool, whose imitating force,
Disturbs his toil in subterranean course—
By love of life, and fear of instant wrong,
Driven from his den, he nimbly glides along.

With forceps, arm'd, and well-accoutred mail,
An insect, small, I've seen such wretch assail,
Whilst the weak wriggling reptile, pinch'd with pain
With strange contortions twist itself in twain—
Then, with dread haste, in wild endeavours, hies,
From the shrewd foe, inferior far in size;
Who, with prompt speed, and renovated rage,
In close encounter dar'd again engage;
Again, apart, 'mid strong convulsions tears
And, from the mangled frame, in triumph bears;
Twice to the fierce assailant forc'd to yield,
His length half left upon the hostile field!

So have I seen the Beetle prowl for prey
And mark'd, when Caterpillar cross'd his way,
Tho' shaggy coat, of stiffen'd fur, defend,
His proud superior bulk of body rend;
And, tho' the dubious conflict, fierce, and strong,
With muscular exertion, lasted long,
While grappling on the green-field's grassy floor,
The combatants oft tumbling o'er and o'er;
At length beheld the bristly warrior, slain,
Spread his gross garbage on the battled plain!

Slow, timid Snails their slimey track besmear,
To stay, or turn, some swifter Foe's career;
Alternately protruding horn and eye,
Explore their path—each bordering object try—
Well-taught to watch and ward their little weal,
Imperfect see, but exquisitely feel;

When casual cause gives sight or touch, offence,
Instinctively withdraw their double Sense.

Beneath kind shelt'ring shrub's protecting spray
To shun the show'rs, and wait a warmer day
The scarlet Hemispheria fondly clings,
And shuts her shielding, sable-spotted, wings;
Her tenderer pinions careful to protect,
Which needs must perish through her weak neglect;
And leave her to lament all pow'r to fly,
When vernal sunshine warms the Earth and Sky.
Firm to the bark, by golden gluten, knit,
Which elbow'd limbs thro' manag'd joints, emit,
While shelving shoots the rainy rills divide,
And turn their little streams on either side.

The Bee, well-skill'd to trace her trackless road,
Warn'd to return with half her wonted load,
And homeward speed to shun the shadowy plain,
Predicting ruin from impending rain;
Leaves all the fragrant fields, and blushing bow'rs,
With countless undrain'd cups of honey'd flow'rs.

In drooping bank the Dormouse builds his dome,
With leaves and grass bedding his brumal home—
There closeted, secure, needs no repasts
While Winter's cold, inclement, season lasts;
But closely coil'd, on mossy mattrass, warm,
Defies the frosts, and sleeps thro' every storm.

With keen sagacity, the Squirrel knows,
When plucking bunches from the hazle boughs,
As balanc'd cluster's, poised with nimble paws,
By Instinct's unsophisticated laws,
Each nut's intrinsic value nicely tells,
Nor wastes lost labours on unkernell'd shells.
Then might not Man with his superior pow'rs
Discern the weight and worth of Body's dow'rs?
Might he not, balance all God's gifts, below,
Their nett, or visionary, value, know?
Might he not know, with more, than Squirrel's skill,
By wise experience, how to poise his Will?
He might, were Mind not sluggish, or absurd,
But well-enlightened with Heav'n's holy Word.
—Might he not sleep, by exercising Sense,
More safe than Dormice by trusting Providence?
He surely could were Conscience freed from Sin,
And Faith kept calm his faculties within.
—Might not his natural Knowledge fence, or flee,
More sure from ill than Beetle, Grub, or Bee;
His Pride, or Passions, help him to eschew
Snares, more than Snails which crawl in dust, and dew,
Or Wit and Wisdom teach him better terms
To shun both woe and mischief more than Worms?
He always will when Grace and Reason guide,
And quell the carnal Spirits, Lust and Pride;
Directs its Duties—regulate its Love—
And lift its likings tow'ds the bliss above!

God's providential Goodness never fails,
The eyeless, earless, Worms, and limbless Snails,
Beetle caparison'd with boney wings—
Bees blest with foresight and defensive stings—
Mean Quadrupedes which form a safe retreat,
Or note with nice distinction moral meat.

Can Reptiles, thus instructed, feel a foe,
And groping, blindly, 'scape impending woe?
Insects, directed, with consummate Sense,
Fly safe from harm, or fight in Self-defence?
Are puny Mice thus taught to 'scape the plain,
Preventing all approach of want and pain?
Are frisky Squirrels, ev'n in starving mood,
Instructed to appreciate proper food?
Shall Fish escape their enemies by flight
When singly aided by the gift of sight?
Birds, better furnish'd with a finer ear,
Distinctly judge when jeopardy is near?
And Beasts with penetrating pow'rs, innate
Explore each spring of comfort, pain, or fate?
Shall each mute Being, with mere Senses blest,
Be taught such Knowledge, by supreme behest?
By Intuition's never-varying laws,
Infer effects, yet ne'er conceive the Cause?
Perceive what sights, and sounds, and actions, tend
To further good, or generate evil, end?
And shall not Man, with all God's gifts combin'd,
Each Sense of Animals, with Angel's Mind—
Indulg'd with each inferior creature's dow'rs
Of social impulse, and of active pow'rs—
With nobler attribue of Reason, stor'd,
Whence Conscience feels her force, and Heav'n's ador'd!
Disclosing all the Soul transacts within,
By heavenly rules of right, or tests of Sin!
And shall not He, with all this added light,
Surpass the Reptile's feel, and Fishes' sight?
Discover danger, and discern his good,
Better than habitants of air, or wood?

Doth Heav'n from Him the faculties withold
Bestow'd on thoughtless things of humbler mould?
He walks, spontaneous—leaps—and swims—yea, flees—
Builds better, far, than Beavers—Birds—or Bees—
Procures, by skill, his multifarious food—
Feeds—clothes—protects—Himself—and callow Brood—
Makes Animals, beneath, moult, strip, and die,
For Fancy's—Passion's—Pride's and Lust's, supply—
As well accommodates what Spirit needs,
As builds, and furnishes, and clothes, and feeds.
Makes prey of all that Earth, and Seas, produce,
For strength—health—pastime—ornament—or use—
Yet still vext more, with wants, and woes, than all
That breathe beside round this terraqueous ball.
Fears more, and feels, in such sublimer Mind,
From fellow-foes, than all the Creature kind.

With impish Inquisition, Bird, nor Beast,
E'er torture, only tear, their offer'd feast.
Seize, instant, craving appetites to cloy,
Not to excruciate with a cruel joy.
Tho' Cats torment, 'tis simply self-delight;
Not malice meant, or persecuting spite.
Our Fury Race alone perverts Heav'n's plan,
Seduc'd, degraded Man, still torturing Man!
The Song Bird kill—destroy each bestial Breed,
Much more for pastime than to clothe, and feed—
The softer Sex, indulging desperate spleen,
With virulence convulse Earth's wo'ful scene!
As weaker Woman first transgress'd and fell,
Her female offspring's breasts still most rebel!
By Sin grown savage, barbarous pleasure seek,
By marks of misery on a Sister's cheek!
Enjoy, like sunshine, Innocence's shame,
When Hate, or Envy, light infernal flame!
Find sweetest Music in sore Misery's moan!
Feel raptures grow from fellow-females' groan!
Delighted, laugh o'er deeply sobbing sighs,
And bathe, with bliss, in Sorrow's cistern'd eyes!

What! then, shall modest Worth no wisdom learn?
Ne'er a proud Despot's hate, or envy, spurn?
Against a Tyrant's intrigues never strive,
But still at Cunning's constant tricks connive!
Still suffer Fraud and Force, in Friendship's shape,
Nor e'er from Persecution's paws escape?
Still tremble at bold Arrogance's airs?
Still more, entwin'd in hypocritic snares?
Poor human Elves be more defenceless found
Than all their sublunary subjects round?
Obnoxious dupes to sly Dissembler's arts?
The ready prey of deep-designing Parts?
Unskilful in decyphering clearest signs
Each dull domestic Animal defines?
With all their education scarce descry
The speaking language of the printed Eye?
Ne'er know the types? the styles of Nature trace?
Plain hieroglyphics, graven o'er the Face!
The cypher'd noughts, and integers ne'er count?
Arrange them right, and note their nett amount?
Ne'er genuine touchstone try seducing smiles,
And separate grains of gold from heaps of foils?

It cannot be but Fortitude will feel
And arm her face with flint, her heart with steel!
Nor can it be but sage Discernment, soon,
Will note when tones are in, or out, of tune.
No artful sounds of Simulation, long,
Like Truth's mild melody can trill the tongue!
Art's mimic modulation shows Deceit—
The tutor'd ear soon tires with dull repeat.
Soon the smooth Syren vends her smiles in vain,
Not long her chaunting cheats, with studied strain,
Not bland Hypocrisy's deceitful brood
Can Heav'n-instructed Christian long delude.
Not long her base designs Religion brooks
But loaths the lulling lays, and luring looks.

In April hours, combin'd with objects bright,
The Cuckoo's greetings give the Soul delight,
But when the harmony of May abounds,
His hackney'd note seems harsh and scrannel sounds—
So may the cheated will be charm'd awhile
With Flattery's plausive tones, and polish'd style,
But when celestial Truths pure joys dispense,
Love loaths the sounds, and Prudence spurns the sense.
The breast ne'er bounds in Summer's morn, serene,
While Fear, foreboding, blanks the saddening Scene,
Lest sullen vapours rais'd by sultry heat,
Should close, with clouds and tempest, Day's retreat—
Thus, tho' Deception spreads her shining snares,
With flattering looks, and fascinating airs,
Experience soon forsees what Fancy forms,
Dread shapes and shades of baleful embryo storms!

Each flimsy web sham Flattery's shuttle weaves
In brilliant colours, her bright flow'rs and leaves—

All double-mill'd dark masks, Deceit e'er made,
By daily shuffling lose their dusky shade,
While sound experience, with her piercing sight,
Thro' many a thread-bare mesh explores the light.
While Wisdom's clear, well-educated, eyes,
All spots and wrinkles of the Spirit spies;
And all it notes, at first, not fully true,
Is mark'd more certain every future view;
Till, like an astronomic Amateur,
Her observations end correct, and sure.

Dissimulation's vizors ever show
Vain sparks of Pride, and Arrogance's glow.
Tho' doubly-dy'd, in grain, with ebon hue,
Sense quickly sees bland Cunning blinking through;
The flimsy frippery Affectation wears,
Soon temper—time—or apt contingence—tears;
While Passion shows the Spirit's true intents,
Expos'd, to prying looks, thro' wretched rents.

The mimic sounds of Simulation, may,
Simplicity's pure ears, a time, betray;
And, mask'd Malevolence, with pseudo-smile,
The sight of blameless Innocence beguile;
But Wisdom will, at length, discover, clear,
The Imp of Spite, with Heav'n's Ithuriel spear.
Oft scarified, and couch'd, her eyes discern,
What none but wounded Soul's will ever learn,
Whose vellicated hearts feel vengeful pangs,
From stripes of steel, and fiery Serpent's fangs;
When, pierc'd with bleeding stabs, convictions prove
How Hate can lunge, conceal'd with cloaks of Love.
While Cunning, Scorn, and Spite, with skill profound,
Inject sharp juices thro' each weltering wound!

As Spider squats, inclos'd in secret cell,
Fram'd in all parts external news to tell;
'Mid central radii, bound by circling bands,
The curious clue of nicest network, stands
In snug recess, instructed there to hide,
Still, whether waking, or asleep, employ'd,
Prepar'd for food, or threat'ning foes to feel,
For bliss, or being, watching Nature's weal;
Sensation shooting thro' each trembling string,
From rendings, rude, or insect's wavering wing;
Alarm'd for life, and tenement, at stake,
When strong vibrations her frail building shake;
Or, hoping prey, nor dreading foul designs,
When soft sensations thrill along the lines—
So sits the human Soul on mental seat,
Where all her messengers, and agents, meet;
With intellectual comprehension blest,
While constant correspondents range, or rest;
Commission'd full from Heav'n's almighty King,
Continual notes to bear, or news to bring;
In every part, throughout, their tasks fulfil,
To publish pleasure, or to hint at ill.
These warey Watchmen stand, or, instant, start,
As hopes, or troubles, touch the head, or heart—
Like constant Couriers, kept about the Court,
Appointed to convey complete report;
Or faithful Friends who throng around her throne,
To tell when mischief's near, or misery's known—
When violations press, or vengeful pow'rs
Picquets surprize—attack—or storm, her tow'rs;
Or, eager, with some welcome message run,
With soothing signs of hope, or bliss begun.

There, first appriz'd, by far-perceiving Eye,
To keep her station, to approach, or fly;
Or, timely taught, by quick-vibrating Ear,
Of safety, new delight, or danger, near.
With nearer indication stands the Nose
Announcing fragrant friends, or fetid foes;
While, by a contact close, the tasteful tongue
Proclaims food fit or unfit—right or wrong—
And not an out-post of her dear domain,
That thrills with pleasure, or that throbs with pain,
But scouts, in corps, fill every point of space,
Acute in sense, and rapid in the race,
Spontaneous promptitude and strength, employ,
Foretelling jeopardy, or, furthering joy;
Quick as the sparks pervade conducting wires,
To fright, or tickle, with electric fires.

In mimic Magnet's occult force we find
Mysterious emblem of the human Mind.
With wonderous deeds each sympathetic pole
Asserts its pow'r, like Man's impassion'd Soul.
Devoid of wish, or will, by heavenly Laws,
Like Hate, repels, or fond Affection, draws.
Impell'd by some resistless, latent, pact,
Like Loadstones, all pure Spirits promptly act.
With frowns avoid—with smiling looks invite—
By Love attracted, or repell'd by Spite.
Perpetual impulse courts the kind embrace,

Or turns, with strong dislike, averted face;
Which warn discerning Souls, possess'd of sense,
How far desires are felt, or deep offence.

When thus the Heart is touch'd, by Spirit, pure,
It feels far less the force of fleshly lure.
Its energies, o'er Earth, no longer range,
To seek some fairer choice, or fonder change;
But soon perceives that pomp—sports—pleasures, all,
That so endear this dull, this barren, Ball!
Exciting every unregenerate heart,
With eagerness, to grasp a greater part,
Are like frail colours on the soapy sphere,
That fly the hand, or burst before it's near—
Or slippery glories of mercurial globes,
With brilliant faces, and rich, silvery, robes,
Which, when vain fingers press, as valued prey,
Each touch dissects them, or they slide away.
Frail worldly things thus tempt vain Souls aside,
By sly seductive Lust, or prompting Pride,
But Saints, with fluttering strength will strive to fly
From all vain Pomp of Life which lures the eye,
Still turning with intense, and deep, disgust,
From visual Vanity, and fleshly Lust—
While steadfast Faith's fix'd Eye, looks, bold, above,
Imploring higher Hope, and larger Love;
And, labouring to purge off all earthly leav'n,
Bends all its views, invariably, to Heav'n!

Magnetic needles, like true Christians' hearts,
Well-forg'd, and touch'd, act, promptly, novel parts.
Not now mere matter, passive and inert,
But feel new force, made lively, and alert:
For tho' both lively, and alert, before,
'Twas all gross gravitation, low'r, and low'r;
But, touch'd, and taught, new bias now obey,
Nor once old hypocritic bent betray.
Ne'er feign affection, like Deceit's address,
But, mutual drawn, still mutual coalesce.
Approach'd by fellow-steel, spontaneous turn;
With fondness join, or, strong repulsion, spurn.
No other substance shows this Love like them;
Pure silver—polish'd gold—or pearl—or gem.
This, by elective pow'r, alone, impell'd,
Still firm, to place, and fix'd position, held;
Till some far-different, fresh-directed, force,
Connexion breaks, or biasses their course.
Such influence, maugre Nature's strong controul,
Incessantly affects the new-form'd Soul;
Like impulse pressing on the trembling breast,
By Truth attracted, Falshood's pow'rs repress'd—
While heav'n-born sentiments the bosom win,
Embracing sanctity, abhorring sin;
Unless a moment's Lust, or Passion, sway,
Or Pride turn tempted Will a different way—
But soon such Spirits to their centre turn,
Bemoan their faults, and with fresh ardour burn!

When human forms confront the human eye,
Prompt Instinct summons to approach, or fly—
Strong positive impressions urge the Heart
To like, or dislike, perfect, or in part—
Without premeditation taught to trace
The graven figure, or the fleeting grace—
In fashion'd features, and in manag'd limbs,
The wiles of Art, and Affectation's whims;
Or, signs of Love, and Candour, clearly sees,
In face transparent, and all parts at ease—
In obvious looks, malignant, or benign,
Beholds the Fury frown, or Christian shine;
While form, and feature, manner, air, and mien,
Distinctly show the different shades between.
It instantaneous feels each object strike—
With kindness kindles love, or low'rs dislike—
The first fair gracious glance, from head to foot,
Expands the passive heart, or keeps it shut—
Illumin'd looks, kind acts, and words, that win,
At once invite, and let a lodger in,
Or swindling leers, cramp'd limbs, and careless lore
Block every apt approach, and bar the door.

Such clear discriminations need no rules—
No lessons, taught in Colleges, or Schools—
What all domestic quadrupedes discern
Requires not Arts, or Sciences, to learn.
While deeds declare, more palpably than speech,
What Ministers and Masters never teach;
Nature instructing more, from studied looks,
Than boasted lectures, or Lavater's books.
—Can Cunning frankly look, with full relief?
Or Honesty be blank'd, like skulking Thief?
Can Falshood front with still, and stedfast eye?
Or Truth e'er wink with subtle twinkling, sly?
Can prim Hypocrisy, with sidelong leer,
Like open, artless, Probity, appear?

Can bloated Pride, with supercilious glance,
Like gentle, meek, Humility advance?
Sly Simulation, mask'd with pert pretence,
Awake fond feelings like soft Innocence?
Or Affectation and mock Flattery, move,
Like sweet Simplicity, the Soul, to Love?

Art, never can, with false fugacious grin,
Like lengthen'd smiles of artless Nature, win.
Ne'er can, like pure Sincerity, impart
True transports to each sympathetic heart.
The shapes which Artifice assumes, at will,
Elude the Limner's and the Sculptor's skill,
No Painter e'er Arts fleeting airs can seize,
Nor Statuary fix what instant flees;
For, like as lightning's instantaneous blaze
Rends Night's black mask, with momentary rays,
Art's brilliant blandishments the face illume,
Then instant fly and leave ungracious gloom;
Playing, at pleasure, many a monkey prank,
Now, bright as May—now as November blank!
A moment, graceful, every feature glows;
Pure ivory teeth display'd in radiant rows;
Then, suddenly, the lips their beauty shrowd,
Fleeting as flashes from the cloven cloud!
So have I seen a Pointer's fawning face,
Grinning, ineffable, with fondling grace;
In wrinkled curls contracting nose and cheek,
With eyes as brilliant, smiles soft and sleek,
Expressing symptoms of extatic joy,
Whene'er his feeder turn'd a flattering eye—
But his were smiles more permanently spread;
Not by mere formal affectation bred—
Nature's pure, simple, effort, prompt, and rude,
To show his true regard, and gratitude.

The Soul that hates deceit, and scorns design,
Carves the deep curve, and draws the lasting line—
Her colours pure, and perfect shapes, are seen
In quiet cheek, smooth brow, and eye serene;
And so complete her pencillings adjusts
No trait disgraces, and no tint disgusts:
While well to polish, and preserve, each part,
Truth spreads pure varnish drawn from virtuous heart;
And Piety to fix the raptur'd sight,
Clear, o'er the picture, lays her happiest light.
But specious Policy, with cunning skill,
Still toils, with 'wildering looks to trick the Will;
Each feature fram'd with keen contractions, hard,
In vain solicit virtuous Love's regard;
While wrinkling lids, bent brows, and eyes dropt down;
Smile, illegitimate, just like a frown;
And cheeks, with angular contortions, deep,
Look, while she laughs, like ideots when they weep.

Can Wisdom's Offspring, lectur'd in Her schools,
See—hear—feel—judge—decide—like Fashion's Fools?
Let Cunning's kerchief, drawn, conceal Decit,
Nor know when Passion's palpitations beat?
Be trick'd, when Hypocrites perform their task,
While wearing Mimicry's religious mask?
No! She, of all true Children justified,
Ne'er suffers such mistakes from false outside.
Ne'er long deceiv'd by superficial grace,
Or parasitic twists of gross grimace;
Which, like false fiery vapour's twinkling flame,
On heedless eye-ball shines, but soon to shame;
For, flirting here and there, with flickering rays,
It draws thro' devious tracks, and then betrays:
Not like the blessed Sun's bright genial beams,
Which warm each heart with steady, constant, streams;
With equal splendour round each Mortal spread,
To point out perils each wrong step they tread—
But most like lamps, whose many-colour'd light,
Shoot feebly-glimmering gleams on festal night,
Which, through the throng of fluttering, flattering, Elves,
All dupes adopt as lighted for themselves.

Wisdom, with parts, and judgment more profound
Still estimates each feeling, sight, and sound—
Strips the false tongue of all its deep disguise,
And severs lasting truths from fig-leaf lies—
Distinctly taught, thro' labial aperture,
When sentiments are sound, and praise is pure;
As true-ton'd ears, with certainty, can tell
Notes, well-observ'd, from firm or fractur'd bell;
She, maugre counterfeits, can hear and see,
When simple sounds with simple smiles agree—
Distinguishes, with nice-discerning ear,
When accents hesitate, or tones are clear—
Each secret sentiment as promptly spies
When Truth's or Falshood's tracings etch the eyes;
And, while, with strong contempt, her spirit spurns
The heart's vile views in all its tricks and turns—
Presents the hand, or clasps with close embrace,
As friendliness, or love, illume the face.

Eyes let in light, like lenses, to the Mind—
Shew turbid streams of thought, or rills refin'd—
Disclose the Soul's dark spots, and wrinkles, through—
What tends to benefit, and what undo—
And, as the fellow Spirit spies the stains,
Forbears to rivet on Affection's chains;
Still, judging by celestial Reason's laws;
From threatening dangers all desires withdraws:
As timid Snails their eyes and horns protrude,
To seek a Consort, or to feel for food,
And, when some adverse object hope repels,
Draw them both back, and shut them in their shells,
But when they trace, in slow, and cautious, course,
No strong obstruction, no repelling force,
Still, with strict wariness their path pursue,
For nourishment, and mates, to search, anew:
So prying Wisdom, with her piercing pow'r,
Observes where Virtues laugh, or Vices low'r,
What objects hurt, or happiness portend,
Whether they mark a Foe, or meet a Friend.

Man's intellectual eyes must needs be blind,
Which, in the face of others, ne'er can find
The inward workings of a wiley heart,
Imprest, distinctly, on each outward part—
And intellectual ears exceeding dull,
Which constantly perceive not, clear, and full,
Each turn of Spirit—change of tones, exprest,
Which lurk, or labour, in the throbbing breast.
How grossly ignorant must those Minds be found,
That hear not sentiment in every sound!
Which trace not crystal streams, spontaneous, flow,
When conscious of a Fellow's joy or woe!
More stupid still the Souls that ne'er discern,
From every word and act, when others burn—
Or, like mere savage Beasts, hear—see—and read;
Yet feel no sufferance while meek Sisters bleed!

Such, blest with knowledge—learning—sense—and wit,
For each sweet social office, how unfit!
Unfit for juror, advocate, or judge,
Whom Virtue gives no gust, and Vice no grudge!
Who never draw delight, or feel offence,
At Worth's reward, or injur'd Innocence!
None e'er deal fair, or faithfully decide,
Who pimp for profit, or who plot for Pride.
None who, with false insinuations, aim
To fill the Soul with foul Suspicion's flame;
Or with feign'd kindness cruelly unkind,
Stir up strange doubts to madden Despot's Mind,
Till jav'lin'd Jealousy, with Phrenzy fierce,
Thro' eyes, and ears, a Slave's fond Spirit pierce;
His breast wild burning with some deadly dart,
Deep venom'd Wit had hurl'd with desperate Art;
Which gnaws the nerves, and veins, with miseries, more,
Than ever bleeding backs of Negroes bore!

Like theirs was poor, afflicted, Crispin's case—
They suffer castigation—he, disgrace,
Which proves to upright, independent, hearts,
Much sharper pains than mere corporeal smarts!
Both Fugitives—both suff'ring Despot's pow'rs—
That, pains but Body—this, the Soul devours!
Like Them, He, banish'd from his native Hill,
To feel the force of treacherous Tyrant's Will!
From birth-place—parents—privileges—fled—
His happiness destroy'd! dear Hopes all dead!
No cordial Friend to lend him kind relief,
To soothe his anguish, or asswage his grief!
None but dear Daphne! tender Soul! alone,
Whose deep complainings echo'd all his moan;
And their poor, wretched, offsprings, pining round,
To sharpen pain, and widen every wound—
He would, with patience, his own pains abide,
But felt them tenfold thro' their bleeding side!

Wealth still will Wealth, and Splendour Splendour, court—
Pride, Pomp, and Pow'r, Pow'r, Pomp, and Pride, support!
Poor Slaves' complaints ne'er can descend to learn—
Or forc'd to hear incorrigibly spurn!
They fancy mental feeling's all confin'd
To high-born Courtiers' educated Mind!
Who, to maintain their mutual, crafty, cause,
Repeal Morality's perplexing Laws.
In sordid, sensual, puddles, deeply sunk;
With philtering draughts, and dregs, of flattery, drunk!
Or perch'd on pinnacles of boasted Birth,
All Penury mock, and spurn domestic Worth—
With Self-conceit, on cork, or bladders, buoy'd,
Court Folly's breeze, and crowd on Fashion's tide,
Plying each sail, and oar, to reach some port,
For sordid pleasure, or for sinful sport!
Borne high on mad Imagination's car,

100

By stallion Passions drawn, Pride prompts to war;
Spurr'd on by rowell'd Spite, and whipp'd by Spleen,
While tyranny and rage let loose the rein;
To tread strict Justice down—clear Faith confound,
And grieve all Merit, rear'd on rented ground;
Till Virtue bend, and Piety submit,
To frantic Worthlessness, or froward Wit!
Will neigh or bray with rampant Appetite,
Indulging Lust with assinine delight—
Still wasting wealth, and still perverting pow'r,
With eager gust, each Vanity devour;
While with wide-open mouth, all madly aim
To grasp all glory, and confine all fame!
With cold contempt their subject Slaves despise,
All judg'd unmeet for mirth, hope, peace, or joys;
Afflicting frowns—scoffs—stripes—on each, bestow,
Well-pleas'd with suppliant's pain, or shame, or woe!
Scout kind intentions—past mistakes revive—
Impaling Spirit, while one Nerve's alive!
Fling sharp reflections, prompt, like poisonous darts
Still fixt, and festering in their feeling hearts—
Make every dole of twice-deserved bread
A baneful instrument to bruise their head,
While daily drench'd from Falshood's venom'd bowl,
To torture, not let loose, the sinking Soul;
Till, harrass'd, still, with cruelty and strife,
The shrivell'd Soul no longer groans for Life!

This is their civil Code, their social Creed,
Which all, who know Life's alphabet, may read—
Deem rustic Wretch not fitted to be free,
Whose ignorance ne'er could relish Liberty.
No Right attaches to the clownish Crew—
No Merit rests on ought they say, or do—
No recompence deserv'd by care and toil—
Their Words all vulgar, and their Ways all vile!

Should Merit rise among the boorish band,
'Tis all mere mechanism of Nature's hand—
Should genuine Genius grow 'mid groveling Ranks
It's deem'd her specimen of monstrous pranks—
Bright bullion Wit, among the swinish herd,
Is counted clumsy, brutish, or absurd—
Ev'n every casual seed of Common-Sense,
Give Pride, and Spite, and Envy, vast offence.

To poor advantage village Bards appear
When rich, or titled Poetaster's near.
Not Penury's pure heroics e'er can claim,
Among dull Fashion, more than damning fame;
While Wealth's most vile attempts in prose, or verse,
Monarchs might read—ev'n Angels might rehearse!

No Lily's fair, nor fragrant flow'rs the Rose,
Which in a Hamlet's vulgar garden grows—
No Apple's luscious—Strawberry rich, and red,
In homely orchard, or plebeian bed—
No Plumb looks pleasant—no choice Cherry smiles,
When rear'd by awkward Clowns, on rustic soils—
Currant's nor Gooseberry's many-colour'd breed,
Possess fine flavour from such low-bred feed—
No favourite Fruits' choice taste can charm, at all,
Bred from coarse births beside a cottage wall.
No village Boor can e'er one Virtue boast—
No Wench's charm be fit for courtly toast—
But both, whose origin from huts began,
Are Woman-monsters! moieties of Man!
Yea, every troop such teeming Mules produce
Are neither fit for ornament or use;
But barely helping Fashion as a foil,
Or as poor paltry instruments of toil;
By labour to improve a proud Estate,
Or dull machines ordain'd to grace the Great—
May plod in manufactures, arts, or trade,
Or, when well-train'd, may skip in Pomp's parade;
May clothe, and cover—may defend, or feed;
At last, and best, but Orang-outang breed!

Some few are found, among the courtly Tribes,
'Mid all their scoffs and mockeries, jeers and jibes,
With some small portions of right Reason blest,
Which Prejudice, in part, have dispossest;
Thus argue, candidly, and coolly judge,
Tho' selfish Greatness feels a secret grudge,
That, should kind Fortune change the Poor's affairs,
And give them Wealth—Wit—Knowledge—just like theirs—
Thro' three long Ages, mixing much with them,
To rub off Penury's rust, and purge its phlegm,
At length might whet and wear off dull disgrace,
And look, a little, like Wealth's wonderous Race!

Clad, with large rent-rolls, like imperial robe,
In parchment majesty; around the Globe,
(A badge Kings' bear in their sinister hand,
As well a type of Vice, as vast Command,
Which crowns the wish of every kingly Soul,

101

Unbounded pow'r! unlimited controul!)
A robe, emboss'd with pearls, gems, glittering gold;
Sad pay, perhaps, for every Virtue, sold!
Earth's tyrant Potentates, with pow'r endued
To fix, or frustrate, rules of rectitude;
Like Justice, stand, with vellum bandage, blind,
Prejudging every cause among Mankind;
O'er plain penurious Clients' claims inveigh,
And wield the dagger where they dare not weigh—
Or, when they weigh, still make monarchic scale,
By pow'r, and privilege, o'er right prevail.
Wealth's written documents vast influence draw,
Around their Owners, with full force of Law—
All Virtues, Charms, Accomplishments, that can
Adorn, or aggrandize, the Race of Man!
Like Sybil's leaves oracularly speak;
Proprietors prove wise—all others weak.
Past all dispute, like sacred Writ, declare
That Penury's ever foul—Pelf always fair.
While base Possessors, with unbounded pow'r,
Engross all Deity's agrarian dow'r;
And, with imperious, overbearing, pride
Set every humbler Claim, and Call, aside.
Like Mammon's priests, or Moloch's prophets, fir'd
Prove Want apocryphal; and Wealth inspir'd;
Or, modern, courtly Clerk's, whose words, demure,
Call murmuring peccant—passive conduct pure.
With proud Infallibility's pretence,
Claim all clear Learning—Knowledge—Wit—and Sense;
And, with full, critical, acumen, find
All merits, and demerits, 'mong Mankind.
Assume the Orator's, and Writer's, wreath,
Rebutting each bold claim from all beneath.
Like Popes pass bulls, in arrogance, and haste,
On works of Science—Fancy—Wit—and Taste.
In Critic's seat, on moral conduct, sit;
Yea, spurn fair Piety, in Passion's fit;
As Israel's Legislator strangely rav'd,
And broke both Tables God's own finger grav'd!

He who mere mortal Personage ne'er respects,
But still the humble blesses—proud rejects—
He oft empow'rs the poorest Wretch to write,
The Will's best War—the fingers' noblest fight!
Encountering Wealth and Wit, in open field,
With trusty weapons, Truth, alone, can wield!
Whose documents, like daggers, when they wound,
Leave barbs behind that keep the sores unsound:
While Falshood shoots her feathery shafts in vain,
Which, pointless, fall nor give one grief, or pain;
But, back, repell'd; stick fast on tarry frame,
To show the Shooters Lie, the Lecher's shame.
Tho' quite unskill'd in Falshood's fencing Art,
Truth's helmed mail protects both head and heart;
And—oh! Wealth, cease false Wit—refrain foul Pow'r—
Reflect, Apostates! ponder Heav'n's dread hour!
And let this question check pride—passion—spite—
Shall not the Judge of all the Earth do right?

Twelve times the Sun had joined the Dogstar's ray,
And heavenly Libra balanc'd Night and Day,
While patient Crispin, and his poor Compeers,
Experienc'd hurts, and favours—hopes, and fears—
But, like the cloudy clime in which they dwelt,
More gloom than gleams, more show'rs than sunshine felt!
Passion and Pride, like Scots' Autumnal sky,
Blew frequent blasts, and scarce a day was dry!
Some cloudy, dark caprice, or stormy whim,
Bedrench'd his Mate, or rudely ruffled Him.
Ungenial bickerings kill'd his budding joys,
While infant hopes were drown'd in Daphne's eyes!
Nor could their Flock from accusation 'scape,
Of fraud, or falshood, in some shocking shape,
Sustaining stigma base, or stubborn blame—
Throttled by threats, or gibbeted by shame—
Impeach'd, as Culprits, or condemn'd, as Clowns—
By whispers whipp'd, or ferula'd by frowns—
While, tho' still wrong'd by burdensome restraints,
Proud cruelty precluded all complaints!

Before their sight still former favours shone,
While distant prospects drew endeavours on;
Like Hebrew camp, thro' dismal deserts led,
By sworn protection, and by certain bread;
As cloudy meteor mov'd, obscure, or bright,
Tho' dark, by day, 'twas luminous by night—
And tho' the wilderness with horrors howl'd;
Tho' foes attack'd, and false ungratefuls growl'd;
From fiery Serpents desperate pangs endur'd,
Faith view'd Christ's Cross, and every wound was cur'd!

But there true Covenanter ne'er deceiv'd,
Nor e'er, for fancied faults good Servants griev'd—
No promise might from pride, or passion, fail;

102

Here all was weak, or wicked; false, or frail!
'Twas like base Laban's crimes, and Jacob's case,
Friendship's disgust, and Fattery's foul disgrace!
Allur'd by recompence of love's reward,
He thought no labours long, no hardships hard;
Till finding faith betray'd, and truth destroy'd,
By blear-ey'd Maid, instead of beauteous Bride.
With promises as full, and hopes as fair,
Their trap was baited, and as base the snare—
And tho' their melancholy lot was such
As made their punctur'd spirits grieve and grutch;
Yet Gratitude for favours, long before,
Forbad to tell their tale, tho' sad and sore!
While firm Affection bridled back their tongues,
Sign'd folded blanks, and seal'd their secret wrongs!

Their sorrows, thus, in silence lay, conceal'd,
By mutual sighs, and tears, alone, reveal'd;
Their miseries only to each other shown,
To all their Friends, to all the World, unknown—
For none but Slaves, who feel such sorrows flow,
Can truly construe looks of silent woe;
The only rhetoric such kind Souls could reach,
More eloquent than all the pow'rs of speech!

Thus did they deep distress, and pain, deplore—
Thus, long, their load with passive patience bore—
With taunts and stripes oppress'd, from day to day,
By proud caprice, and arbitrary sway;
Till pitying Providence look'd down, at length;
On deep despondence, and declining strength;
And, for a season, to restore their peace,
From Slavery show'd their Souls a short release.

That Pow'r which could confront a Pharaoh's pride,
And will, in love, all grateful Spirits guide—
That Wisdom—which so long let Sufferers weep,
A murrain sent among the Tyrant's sheep;
Thus, by his mix'd decrees, Man's hopes to mock,
And free the slighted Shepherd, slew the flock.
Nor yet, alone, ordain'd the flocks to die;
Earth bak'd like steel—like molten brass the sky—
Fair hopeful blades, in Spring's blythe season born,
Hot Summer crush'd, and kill'd the promis'd Corn—
The straw curtail'd made raving Monarch rail—
And stubble short made bricks decrease in tale;
While more events of Providence, conspir'd,
To further what was dreaded, yet desir'd!

This, all, from God, thro' govern'd folly, grew;
But Bond-slaves felt foul blame, before they flew—
Bore Egypt's weighty bondage, toil, and woe,
Till ruthless Tyrant urg'd, in haste, to go;
To bear unnumber'd crimes, but not their own,
Like banish'd Goats, in Hebrew ritual known—
Driv'n out, like Israel's host, from Goshen's land,
They wander'd back, by Despot's dread command,
But not by night, with silent, secret, stealth,
With borrow'd jewels, and Egyptian wealth—
With gains of artifice, or spoils of theft,
But small remains Economy had left!

Prudence and Cunning, much alike in make,
Arch Knaves of counterfeit, and Fools mistake,
But widely different are their varied views,
What one dispises t'other still pursues.
The objects, adverse, and unlike the end,
For one is Virtue's, t'other Vice's, Friend.
One follows Wisdom's, and one Folly's, way—
One plans defence, the other plots for prey:
And genuine Judgment nicely draws the line,
Between the sage reserve, and base design.

Prudence conducts her plans with cautious care;
But all her projects, and pursuits, are fair.
Protecting person, or procuring pelf,
She hurts no other to advantage Self—
Or seeking Honour, Influence, or Fame,
Her views, unravell'd, neither shock, nor shame.

Cunning feels no regard for other's good,
But just preserves a specious likelihood.
She never travels in a track direct,
Lest cool Discretion should her tricks detect;
But through the compass, tow'rds each point she shifts,
That no true Soul, concern'd, may mark her drifts:
Would wound all other's interest, health, or ease,
Herself to profit, or herself to please!
Cunning's a niggard—Prudence justly nice—
Prudence is Virtue—Cunning, crafty Vice—
Yet Cunning may sometimes be found profuse,
But 'tis to gain still more for graceless use.
Prudence may truly boast celestial birth,
But Cunning came from Hell to curse the Earth.
Prudence, in moral rules, by Wisdom taught,
Weighs all her words, and deeds, with wary thought,
Not watching others, basely to betray,
But lest herself should lose her heavenly way,

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Her circumspection springs from holy Love,
And always with the Serpent joins the Dove;
But Cunning plies proud Serpent's arts, alone,
Nor seeks one creature's interest save her own.
Cunning, still train'd in false infernal school,
Tho' always learning ends an arrant Fool;
For while she fondly aims the World to win,
She's dup'd by deeper subtilties of Sin;
Deceiving while deceiv'd by every Knave,
Till Satan cheats, at last, this choicest Slave!

School'd by Fiend Cunning, in her subtlest Art,
Crispin's false Friend perform'd her dextrous part,
And, to inflict a still severer scourge,
In spite of all pure Honesty could urge;
All Honour, Truth, Faith, Friendship, could aver,
A trick was tried, deep-dictated by Her,
With such success as all dark plots produce
When vicious views attempt some base abuse;
For Providence invariably destroys
All wicked projects of the Worldly-wise.

The Rich have many Friends—so Truth asserts—
But very various are Men's due deserts—
Some may be low Delinquents, some high Lords,
And well-deserving coronets, or—cords,
Some fam'd for honesty, turn'd out of door—
Some, crown'd with piety, continue poor—
And some by subtle stratagem, and stealth,
Amass estates, and rank with Men of Wealth.

Among the sneaking, sly, and treacherous, train,
A wiley Wight, nurs'd up on northern plain,
Receiv'd full order from his feudal Dame,
To send a Creature, qualified the same;
A chosen Chief from his subaltern band,
In poor discarded Crispin's place to stand—
With humblest arts of Agriculture skill'd,
But with profound complotting Spirit fill'd,
To prosecute their schemes with zest, and zeal,
Yet all their secret counsels close conceal—
With care and labour seeming well content,
While tracing mysteries of true management—
Still keeping careful on the mimic mask,
While trying, diligent, his double task,
Till well-inform'd in all the farming trade,
Then with full ministerial pow'r be paid.

Some time, poor Crispin, and Compeer, to blind,
He plied his part, a duteous, humble, Hind!
To no authority advanc'd pretence,
Or e'er assum'd high airs of consequence—
Attended strictly to the living stocks,
Inspected cattle, and survey'd the flocks—
The hackneys curried, full their cratches fed—
Well-corn'd their mangers—water'd—made their bed—
Fodder'd and farm'd milch cows, or fatting kine,
Or bore full buckets for the herds of swine—
Nor only then, the Shepherd's office fill'd,
But, when his Mistress call'd, her mutton kill'd—
With skill would butcher pork and bacon hogs—
Would sow the ground—well cleave the gnarly logs
With countless cares, and many labours, more,
Without a blush, the lumb'ring Blockhead boor,
Sly Gibeonite! who, thus, by guile, began
To execute his crafty Despot's plan:
A Russian Peter! but without his parts,
By Art endeavouring to obtain the Arts;
To fit him for the task his Mistress meant,
The scheme, complex, of pastoral Government.

With him a proper counterpart was join'd,
A Rustic, skill'd in arts of different kind;
Instructed farm-utensils well to frame,
To number integers, and write his name:
Yet quite unfit for such compound employ,
Of which his Chief was ignorant as the Stye!
What was the result, when our Bard retir'd?
Why, with his rapturing turn of fortune, fir'd,
The doughty Leader's drunkeness and lust,
By gross indulgence gave the Dame disgust—
And learn'd Lieutenant claim'd so little skill
In calcuations, with his figuring quill,
That, at the first campaign's ill-fated close,
A third more skilful Financier they chose,
To state the profits, and to count the cost,
And prove what past Year's warfare won or lost—
When, to the Lady's grief, and Dolts' disgrace,
The wonderous Warriors were put out of place.

Another effort, now, must needs be tried,
For gathering pelf, and gratifying pride.
A Hero, chosen by superior Chief,
Must yield the baffled Lady bless'd relief;
All former losses fully reimburse,
And fix her transport while he fill'd her purse.

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Well—what was He? and what was His success?
In serving Self, and pleasing Patroness?
Why he was crazy! he play'd such stupid pranks
As neither prosper'd thrift, or purchas'd thanks.
That Kine might cram the more, and more digest,
His enterprizing genius judg'd it best,
With one grand scheme more milk and cream to gain;
He stripp'd the haystacks to admit the rain—
Dug monstrous drains, where fields were dry before;
And folded Sheep in ponds, like pigs in store—
To stop such frantic tricks, and sundry others,
She sent him packing like his peerless Brothers:
And yet still more to mortify her pride,
One more, derang'd, in Luke's asylum died!

CHAPTER 6th.

When poor Crispinus, now, was turn'd adrift,
For Self—worn Wife, and Family, to shift,
With dubious character, tho' clear of charge;
His fortune little, and his hopes not large—
Bereft of honour, and so stripp'd of trust,
With marks of guilt which give the World disgust;
And circumstantial shows which most might shock
The feeling Mother, and her harmless Flock—
Thus did the Despot's cruelty discard,
The bleeding Daphne, and the blushing Bard!

At this strange crisis, Crispin, patient still,
Obedient bow'd to heavenly Wisdom's Will;
Nor, midst his dire disgraces once forgot
That God's right hand of Love cast all his Lot;
And, still paternal, in each time and place,
This Loving-kindness gave sufficient grace.
His Goodness limited both loss and gain—
Apportion'd pleasure, and appointed pain.
Convinc'd His Providence had thither sent,
That Sin might suffer—ponder—and repent!
His influence gave the Tyrant's heart each turn,
Aforetime to protect, and, now, to spurn!
Rais'd Anger's gale—directed Pride and Spite,
To force the pain'd returning Pilgrim's flight!
And, to fulfil His Faithfulness the while,
Led their lone steps to seek their native Soil!
Expell'd, like criminals, without a crime—
Their best decennary sunk since purest prime—
With small provision for approaching Age—
Pursued by hostile contumelious rage—
And why? their irritated hearts abus'd
The insolent demands of despot Pride refus'd;
In right resentment, so to counteract
The full completion of that cunning pact,
Thus form'd, and finish'd, with such wicked Art;
Regardless of poor Crispin's grief or smart.
He helps kept back, which justice could not claim,
Deserving neither bickerings, noise, nor blame;
But to obstruct intelligence's course
To Foes, thus acting both by fraud and force.

This was a constand theme, extended long,
In sharp epistle, or with taunting tongue;
With keen afflicting style, to damp delights,
When hoping peace, upon his native Heights;
Or frequent painful speeches, harsh and rude,
Engag'd again in slavish Servitude.

Poor Crispin wander'd home, with aching heart,
Pierc'd thro' and thro', with many a murderous dart!
To meet a Mother, bent with burdening Age!
All torn with sorrows, Time could scarce asswage!
A Skeleton! much melted down with tears,
From past misfortunes, and from present fears!
Perplex'd with cares—by dire disaster cross'd—
Her Friend! her Husband! kind Protector! lost!
To meet Relations, once so blythe and bland,

105

With lustrous look, and close-compressing hand,
Now skulking, distant, with indignant eyes,
While covering, with a scowl, some dark surmise;
Perchance with muttering mock, and frowning face,
Whispering what crimes must cause this deep disgrace—
To front alliances with fawning look,
And fashion'd forms, eleven long years forsook—
New friendships find—bind old connexions, broke—
And humbly bend beneath each ancient yoke—
Find patron views with pristine vigour, fled
Still bend, with toil, to drudge for daily bread,
Amidst the loss of fame—the World's foul sneers—
While doubling down with heaps of added Years;
There, patient, waiting Death's approaching doom,
Then, with Forefathers' dust, partake a tomb!

Was this the Fortune Faith had hopes to find,
To fix his Friends and glad his grateful Mind?
These the fair fruits a Favourite seem'd to see;
Rich grapes of gold, on Patronage's tree!
Suspended, full, on every furnish'd spray,
By fruitful promises, from day to day?
The clustering crops, which, gather'd, more would grow;
That Worth might win, or Bounty would bestow?
Alas! the laughing vintage vainly ends,
That on capricious female Minds depends!
How scanty is the crop! the fruit how small!
Still ripening slow, or prospering not at all!
Oft wanting warmth from Patron's prospering smile,
With breezes breath'd from full free will the while!
Frail is the flow'r, and fugitive the fruit,
That springs from fickle Friendship's cankery root!
Soon buds and blooms are nipp'd by freezing frown!
Soon fruitage drops, by Passion's blasts blown down!
The short-liv'd shoots, that Flattery's radiance fed,
From cold caprice soon hang each shrivell'd head;
Nor long the rotten roots fresh sap supply,
But stem decays, and bearing branches die!

Sometimes gross Selfishness distributes gold,
In hopes of gathering gain an hundred-fold.
Oft Affectation shows a shrewd pretence
To look like Charity with prompt expence;
While Ostentation all her bounties tells
To fill Fame's pipe with more expansive swells.
Oft Pomp, and Pride, and Vanity's conceal'd
With blythe Benevolence's vizor veil'd;
And, kerchief'd close, like Sympathy, appear
To pity Penury's sigh, and Sorrow's tear;
By speeches, labouring, more than gifts, to prove,
All springs from pure, disinterested Love—
But each corrupted Wretch such bribes have bought
Must strangle Truth by throttling honest thought;
Must feel the force of every dirty dole
The seal of servitude, and sale of Soul!
If, ever after, falsely-construed Facts
Should stamp opinion in such tacit pacts—
Should looks appear like proofs of suffering Sense,
Or speech proclaim the injur'd Heart's offence;
Such looks, such words, are construed coarse and rude,
Such honest acts all gross ingratitude!

O Gratitude! sweet relative of Love!
Bless'd loan, like her, transmitted from above!
Delightful Guest! who ne'er dost long depart
From thy warm dwelling in the upright heart.
Yet upright hearts may spurn, and must despise
All cursed lusts of cruelty and lies!
And tho' thy grateful memory ne'er forgets,
From Fellow-mortals, the minutest debts;
But all thy faithful bosom's feelings burn
To make all benefits their full return—
Still striving to remunerate ready meed,
For every gracious word, or gladdening deed;
For every friendly look's fraternal tone,
Each kind intent, or generous wish, when known!
Thou ne'er disclaim'st one act of kindness, wrought,
One soothing word, soft wish, or tender thought;
Still Thou must shrink when sharply suffering wrong,
From frowning face, fierce look, and taunting tongue,
When Hatred's glooms, and Anger's grating sounds,
With Spite, and Malice, break all moral bounds:
And tho' Thou still retain'st each virtuous view,
Compell'd to fly when such foul Fiends pursue:
As tender flow'rs and fruits the Earth witholds
From wintery winds, or Autumn's cutting colds,
So Thou withold'st glad words, and glances warm,
While Passions pass, or blow harsh blustering storm;
Makest no kind accent heard, or sweet smile seen,
While freezing frowns display the Soul of Spleen:
But, as the Virgin, fair, to covert flies,
To skreen her snowy skin from Summer skies;
Or tucks her shining train, and shuns to meet
The splashing crowd, or coach, in spattering street,
Thou hid'st thy bosom fair, and beauteous face,

106

From Flattery's eye, and Falshood's bold embrace—
Conceal'st, with care, thy spotless form, and fame,
From Pride's intemperate force, and Passion's flame—
Fliest faithless Friends, become base Foes, at last,
With Conscience clear, to 'scape the filth they cast.

Pure Gratitude! thy strength can ne'er withstand
Impetuous Pride, and brawling Passion's band!
Thy charms from Calumny scarce e'er escape,
While Scandal Sketches frightful, face and shape!
False prejudice and pique, ne'er, long, will spare
Thy heavenly looks, and inoffensive air;
Nor Envy's eye see clear thy simple mien,
While colour'd lenses, Malice slides between!

By these thy sacred stole is constant stain'd—
Thy best intentions, noblest aims, arraign'd—
For branding Pride no opposition brooks,
But marks, like libels, all thy mildest looks!
Calls writhings rude—the meekest answers rash,
While flogg'd, while flay'd, with Persecution's lash!
Not suffering Servitude to flinch, nor feel,
While struck with weapon'd looks like whips of steel!
No pure designs, nor perfect conduct, saves
From foul surmises, poor imprison'd Slaves,
While Passion prompts dark Prejudice to see,
And prove delinquency from Pride's decree;
For when sore, joyless, Jealousy assaults,
All honest efforts, turn to fancied faults.
All shame-faced fronts—all signs of sorrow shown;
Each plaintive sigh, each deep and dolourous groan;
True Innocence's tears, when amply spilt,
Are deem'd full damning proofs of grossest guilt—
Ev'n Death by razor, water, pistol, rope,
Would ne'er fill up Spite's curs'd infernal scope,
But Passsion's pow'r so fierce—Revenge so fell,
Would wish to sink delinquent Souls to Hell.

But what are they, who, thus, by Hatred blind,
So virulently vex, and curse, their Kind?
Who servile Vassals causelessly accuse,
For thus witholding mere imagin'd dues?
Who thus convict, and vent such sentence vile,
Against ingratitude, or dangerous guile?
Who dare Delinquent's fancied faults condemn,
Yet feel no deeds of darkness fix on Them?
Are they the ruthless Rich; the graceless Great;
Who thus their sinful Fellow-mortals treat?
Still hope in endless happiness to live,
Who ne'er a Brother's blemishes forgive?
Who, for mere foibles Culprits dare condemn,
Suppose pure Deity will pardon Them?

Will Wealth's proud Offsprings, Pow'r's imperious Elves,
With like discrimination damn themselves?
Has every Child of Pow'r, and Imp of Pelf,
Lov'd every Neighbour as it loves itself?
Will Pleasure's Daughters, Dissipation's Wives,
As nicely scrutinize their careless lives?
Will Folly's fashionable Sires, and Sons,
Engage their talents while Time's hour-glass runs?
Turn the same end of telescopic glass
And watch their faults, and foibles, while they pass?
Inspect their Souls with microscopic sight,
And read what Act was rash? what Habit right?
Dissect their hearts with diligence, and care,
To trace what words were foul, what wishes fair?
Their teeming motives accurately mind
And mark how each might influence all Mankind?
That none originate from wish, or will,
To work, with craft, one Fellow-creature's ill?
Doth ne'er one act, word, thought, or motive, tend
Tow'rds some pernicious or unfruitful end?
And, while thus peeping, circumspect, within,
Do They perceive no sprouts, or seeds, of Sin?
No wicked Wish—no dangerous Desire—
Lust, Pride, nor Passion, set their Souls on fire?
No crude conception breeding in their breast,
By Conscience, or by Reason, unrepress'd;
Which, should it boldly ripen into birth,
Would cause confusion in this hapless Earth?
Has Lust ne'er propagated some lewd plan,
To ruin Woman, or to injure Man?
No swelling Pride, or struggling Passion, strove
To raise rebellion 'gainst the God of Love?
Is every Lust so lastingly eras'd
That moral Character's no whit disgrac'd?
Are impious Pride, and Passion, so subdued
They ne'er in acts can rise, or words be rude,
But all become by Revelation's rules,
Religion's noblest tests and happiest tools?
Does grace guide all in strict obedience, still,
To that bless'd Being's ever-holy Will;
Loving the Lord their God, throughout Life's Length,

107

With all their Heart? and Mind? and Soul? and Strength?
That Love express'd in prayer, and thanks, and praise,
His due, as Friend and Father, all their days?

Alas! all eyes too obviously behold
Their faithless manners form'd in different mould;
Their conduct shap'd on Pandemonium's plan,
Disguis'd, as Foes, alike, to God and Man!
Along the stream of time they idly roll,
Nor once reflect each Frame contains a Soul!
Each Vessel sailing, swift, on Seas of Lusts,
Borne on by billowy Pride, and Passion's gusts;
While Penury must submit to drudgeries due,
To furnish cargoes, feed, and clothe, each Crew;
Nor from their toil one moment's time be staid;
Yet meet chastisement still while duty's paid!

And will not wounded hearts, in pain, reply,
Tho' meek as Moses, with a sob, or sigh?
Will not Man's heav'n-lent Spirit seek relief,
From such distress, such pungent pain and grief?
And, boldly independent, stand aloof;
To spurn gross arrogance, and rash reproof?
Just, genuine Virtue's right-lined views enlarge?
Withstand low Spite's uncharitable charge?
Against Injustice and base Lies rebel,
And all a plotting Despot's arts repel?

Can human heart suppress the sigh and groan;
Can human tongue maintain accustom'd tone,
Convuls'd with Anger's vellicating strokes,
While Spite applies her salt and acid jokes?
While base Design, with aggravating pain,
Tears every fibre of the frame in twain?
While countless proofs prove clear to Common Sense
The heart's affliction and the head's offence?

Should conscientious Truth still silent sit,
While Falshood tries to make more fetters fit?
Ought Honesty hold up a patient hand
While Cruelty imprints her burning brand?
A Christian's faithful Soul, thro' dread of strife,
Relinquish every privilege of Life?
Implicitly subscribe condemning debts,
Penn'd down by Passion in her desperate pets?
Indorse blank drafts Injustice dares indite,
Nor e'er make bold to state each balance right?
Permit base lies and libels to upbraid,
For debts and obligations, doubly paid?
Let Pride, for favours past, still fume, and flout,
By drops of bosom blood long blotted out!
While supererogatory items, stand,
A list, much larger, on the dexter hand!

Can Justice clearly solve the doubtful suit,
While Merit's dash'd, and Modesty stands mute?
While Selfishness obtrudes her sordid claim?
While Truth's abash'd, and shuns the public shame?
While Wealth's bold Pow'r, with Prejudice combines,
To plan the punishment, and fix the fines?
But upright Advocates will scout the plea,
When counter-depositions disagree;
And point out every proof, and truth, distinct,
Tho' Juries waver'd, and tho' Judges' wink't.

God's word proclaims, in His unerring plan,
Chastising checks await poor, pecant, Man.
That Tribulation's tryal all attends,
Whom He adopts as Children and as Friends.
That Happiness's path, and Grace's gate,
Are steep, and narrow; difficult, and strait.
When left cheek's smitten by Caprice, or Spite,
In humble patience bids to turn the right.
Thwart not Contentious Spirits, nor provoke,
But when Force takes the coat, to give the cloak—
When to go one mile Tyrant's calls constrain,
In mute humility to travel twain.

Such humbling precepts, Heav'n, in mercy, meant
Curs'd Pride to combat, and promote content.
To spread mild meekness o'er the humbled breast,
And yield both heart and head most heavenly rest!

Imperious Pride may deviate or delay,
And Passion turn prudentish steps astray;
But false Abasement needs not block the road,
To fright weak Faith from Heavenly, blest, abode.
Mischievous Man will Man each day disturb,
But Christ alone can rightly scourge, or curb;
Nor need Man stoop to every Tyrant's whim;
But wholesome castigation sent from Him!
Not cringe or crouch, by Fellow's claim confin'd
To pains and miseries of a prison'd Mind;
Nor strive and struggle in a cribbing path,
Frail Fortune's tool—the Wretch of human wrath!
Not slavishly to suffer—pine—and die—
Nor rashly to resist—but freely fly.
True Self-denial turns no Virtue back,

108

Nor makes supreme, or social, Duty, slack;
Yet needs not kiss the cross—revere the rod,
That graceless Man inflicts, but Father, God!

When Christianity, at first, arose,
Encompast with a World of powerful Foes,
Confronting calumny, and suffering scorn,
A Babe, among wild Beasts, in Cities, born;
She fear'd to struggle, in her infant state,
When each fell Tyrant's word was wing'd with fate;
But check'd her feeble hand—restrain'd her tongue—
While Wickedness was old, and She was young—
When every Potentate, and Priest, around,
Endeavour'd to destroy, or wish'd to wound—
When Prophets and Apostles hid their head,
And pure Evangelists and Prophets fled—
When brave Professors forfeited their breath,
And rash resistance expedited death.
When all its trembling Votaries vainly strove
To recommend its truths by Peace and Love.
When Wisdom, pure, and Grace, with Pow'r supreme,
Alone could execute the heavenly Scheme.
When only miracles and signs, sublime,
Could sanction Doctrines, and encounter Crime—
Could conquer Sinners' hearts—could Demons quell,
And gain full victory o'er the gates of Hell—
When strength celestial stooped to mortal Might,
Such precepts, and such practices, were right.
When God was pleas'd to work, by secret ways,
His Son's eternal throne, on Earth, to raise;
Justice then slumber'd—Pow'r, apparent, slept—
Tho' Martyrs bled, and all the Faithful wept—
But now to greater strength and stature grown,
She fills the Senate, and supplies the Throne—
Kings become Fathers, or professing Brothers,
And mighty Queens proclaim'd Her nursing Mothers—
While Princes prostrate fall before her feet—
And Nobles occupy her Judgment-seat—
Now Heav'n's pure Spirit's offer'd free to all,
And none, inferior, Fellow-Christian's call.
None, now, with Fellow-man may strive, nor strike,
For all Mankind, by Christ, are call'd, alike—
Bodies all form'd alike from earthly clod,
And reasoning Spirits all inspir'd by God—
Like innate Appetites, Pride, Passions, fire—
All fall'n, alike, with one, unfaithful Sire—
And all alike mixt up with mortal leav'n,
Alike the Heirs of Sin, of Hell, or Heav'n!

Who, then, the same, in Body and in Soul,
Shall now usurp, o'er others, stern controul?
Shall poor Professors rights and dues disclaim?
Among all genuine Christians just the same.
Shall they now stoop to arbitrary Pow'r,
Whose Wants—Time—Talents—Strength—would all devour?
Resist not Riches, Pomp, or titled Pride,
Which dare to set their dues, and rights, aside?
Obey the tyrant nods of boastful Birth,
Devoid of Knowledge—Learning—Wit—or Worth;
Because Heav'n's Lord, in Wisdom, and in Love,
Hath cast Wealth's lot below, and Want's above?
Bow down to sovereign Sceptre—Princely plume—
Because His Providence thus fix'd their doom,
While exercising full their frantic sway,
To make Men's liberties, and lives, a prey?
To Fellow-fall'n implicitly submit,
The Dupes of Despots in each selfish fit?
Forego, for cruel Tyrants, Grace, and Truth,
To please proud Males, or Females? Age, or Youth?
Let all Her dearest lessons dormant lie,
Because some courtly Fools, or Fops, are by;
And forfeit Reason's claims, and Common-Sense,
To 'scape the force of Profligates' offence?
Justice be deaf, and dumb, as well as blind?
Her sword and balance basely slung behind?
Ne'er stigmatize with pencil, tongue, or pen,
The worst of Women, or the worst of Men?
Her Laws dead letters—all her trusts betray'd—
Each moral compact social Man has made;
While Reason's aid, and Revelation's end,
To Bigotry, and Superstition, bend?
Shall Christians Liberty and rights resign,
And still with tameness weep? with patience pine?
All frantic force, and persecuting scorn,
With coward cringe, and brutal stupor borne?
Indignity, and insult, still endure,
Nor seek alleviation, cause, or cure?
From all Earth's hopes, and privileges, hurl'd,
Because their Kingdom's not this nether World?

Justice, and heavenly Truth, stands Penury's right,
As much as Emperor's—King's—and Men's of might;
For all who enter Christ's impartial School,

109

Must humbly yield to one eternal rule,
Who lays, alike, on Sinners, and on Saints,
The same reciprocal, and strong, restraints;
Commanding Kings, and Clowns, and all betwixt,
However muster'd, or however mix'd;
“See that ye, simply, to all others, do
What ye would have all others do to you.”

All pow'r's of God! and every Soul on Earth
From Him derives an equal right at birth;
And all Usurpers, who presume to bind
Another's Frame, or faculties of Mind.
No Pow'r but that which gave him Life and Pow'r
Can justly claim one talent, limb, or hour.
Can truly call him Subject—Servant—Slave—
Controul his will, or doom him to the grave;
Except some bond, or mutual compact's broke,
By which he bows himself to bear the yoke—
Some wilful act of murder, theft, or strife,
To forfeit freedom, property, or life;
Or other breach of moral rules be found,
By which time, faculties, and strength were bound.
No Mortal may another's rights command,
Whate'er his Office, Wisdom, Wealth, or Land.
No King can claim till People rights resign,
However Dupes may deem His right divine—
To rule Man's will; to exercise the rod;
Or life infringe, belongs, alone, to God!
All else who aim to conquer, or compel,
Derive their false prerogatives from Hell!
Usurp a spurious pow'r, by falshood built,
Which, practised, must incur most grievous guilt;
And Christ will try them at the close of Time,
And deem them curs'd for such a devilish crime!

Kings are but Creatures, ruling years, or hours,
And draw, from Equals, but deputed pow'rs—
All temporal Magistrates the Mass appoints;
Not graceless Novices that Heav'n anoints.
Tho' every Government from God begins;
He ne'er by Providence can sanction sins.
No Fiends on thrones by His high suffrage set,
Peace to destroy, and ruin Realms with debt—
Not making Peers, more pow'r, or gold, to gain,
Or seek their pleasures through their Subjects' pain.
Not yearly to enlarge their civil List,
And hampering Statutes, by the people hiss'd.
For fresh corruptions to enact new clause,
In penal pacts, or nummulary Laws—
To punish, or imprison, weaker Wight,
Who dares to speak what's reason, act what's right.
Still turning round the pence Inferiors pay
For courtly Fools, who flatter, and betray.
Not filling Treasuries with a wealthy flood,
From Labour drawn, by drops of sweat and blood;
Nor o'er that mass of Riches mirth enjoy,
Which fifty thousand Slaves can scarce supply,
Throughout each Year, with labouring heads and hands,
In Arts, or Trades, or Toils in culturing Lands.
Not ruling nations with tyrannic nods,
Nor claiming glory like their sov'reign God's
But more like His who fills infernal Throne;
And dares to call Earth's kingdoms all his own!

But where's the Despot who will dare attest
He claims a Kingdom, by Heaven's high behest?
Where is the head that holds the holy oil
Which gives a title to the Seas and Soil?
Where are the hands which Orb and Sceptre hold,
Bestow'd by God, with Mind of gracious mould?
Or where those temples that with terror shine
In sparkling Crown, put on by Pow'rs divine?
Who can celestial deputation show,
To reign and rule o'er subject Slaves below;
And proves that deputation stands full plea
To force their Sons to fight by Land or Sea?
Empow'r'd Descendants, on that Throne to place,
To rule, thro' every Age, an endless Race?
And tho' that Seat, rank Fools, or Scoundrels, fill,
Make Millions bow before their brutal Will.

Should Christians thus the sacred Scriptures read,
And weakly crouch to such a servile Creed;
Should deem such Doctrine right, and just, and true,
Then, farewell Freedom! Justice, Truth, adieu!
Fair Freedom then must fly—pure Truth retire—
All Justice perish! Peace and Hope, expire!

But must Man Sense and Reason, both, resign?
Deem Demons—Brutes—or Ideots—divine?
See their own Understanding void of sight,
And think such Doctrines, such rash Dogmas, right?
Will not cool Reason—will not Common-sense,
Grant such Impostures give profound offence?
And may not humblest, meekest, Christian's Mind
Investigate the good of all Mankind?

110

Bring Truth and Justice to their Judgment's test,
And try, by Reason's balance what weighs best?
Their Saviour's doctrines, and clear sentence, trust,
Ordaining what is righteous; what is just;
And while they yield all mortal Men their due,
Maintain integrity in all that's true?
Ought not their simple, their unbiass'd Souls,
Enquire whence Magistrates derive Controuls;
And, with discriminations clear, and nice,
Declare that Virtue's Virtue, Vice is Vice?
With wise distinction, word, and action, trace
That springs from Nature, or that grows from Grace;
Pronouncing selfish Tyrant's Satan's Tools;
Kings crafty Foxes, Hypocrites, or Fools?
Sure they may ask whence Kings derive their dow'r,
From Christ's decree, or from the People's pow'r—
Whether their proud Prerogative was giv'n,
Thro' some pure Seraph, sent express from Heav'n,
Or by some compact, clearly understood
As meant to govern Men for mutual good—
But should an Angel Documents produce
To sanction Villainy, or vile Abuse,
Christians could ne'er surmise it made above,
Where all is Wisdom—Harmony—and Love;
But some base instrument from Fiends below,
To further Discord—Strife—and War—and Woe!

If Kings can show no warrant from the Skies,
And Christians know few faithful, good, or wise,
How can their Conscience innocently act,
Themselves not parties in the mutual pact?
Must Revelation's literal meaning tell,
Whether each word, and act, is ill, or well?
How shall they reconcile the various things
There spoke of Priests, of Prophets, and of Kings?
Must not right Reason and clear Sense decide
Against all Hypocrites, and Sons of Pride?
Must they not Vice and Villainy condemn
With all the Knaves, in Pow'r, that practise them?
Must not their Spirits every Priest despise,
Whose Words are Truth but all their Lives are Lies?
Yea, every Prince, and Potentate, abhor,
Who practise fraud—oppression—wiles—and war?
Must they still stoop to every courtly Tool?
To every titled Fop, or scepter'd Fool?
With such Idolatry their Souls degrade,
Adoring devilish Gods that Man has made?
Implicitly obey each selfish pact,
That Misers, Profligates, and Pimps, enact?
In no one case the basest compact break,
Tho' every item's wicked, false, or weak?
Tho' Justice—Truth—or Heav'n's unerring Laws,
Or God's own Glory justify the Cause?

Shall Frantics, Dupes, or Despots, keep their place,
In every varying circumstance, and case?
Still, every Pow'r, and Privilege, maintain,
Tho' planning measures for mere private gain?
Tho' manufacturing misery, fraud, and strife,
And legalizing all the ills of Life?

Shall they, appointed for the People's good,
Consume their property, and spill their blood?
And no resentment feel—remonstrance meet—
But hail such Savage on his tyrant Seat?
Feel no resistance, no coercion try,
To balk such stratagems, such bonds destroy?
Suffer fresh mischief, still, from Year to Year,
And still submit, obey, and fawn, and fear?
Why then did Courts, which could such Idols kiss,
For misdemeanours from their Thrones dismiss?
Or conscientious christian Priests refuse
To pay Superiors their establish'd dues?
Why did high Courtiers owning kingly claims,
Judge, and expel, the papal Bigot, James?
Or, Christian Priests, whilst giving Reason scope,
Deny the Pow'r, and Doctrines of the Pope?
At his false claims, and privileges, scoff,
And, finally, fling all his fetters off.

Shall Christians, now, with Priests' proud claims comply,
And countenance King's crimes, of devilish dye?
Religion's liberties, and dues, disgrace,
And throw back Freedom in their Maker's face!
The common Sense of faithful Christians flout,
And puff Heav'n-lighted lamps of Reason, out!
Rather than thus be duped by despot Men,
Let Smithfield's gorey region smoke agen.
Forbid it, Heav'n! that christian Brethren, now,
Should to a Tyrant stoop—a Bigot bow!
That Friends, or Governors, like Fiends, should reign,
And Christians ne'er encounter? ne'er complain?
While all despotic Tyrants, copying them,
Push their worst Codes to punish or Condemn;

111

Till, Christian Order, into Chaos hurl'd,
Hell makes a prey of all the apostate World!

Whoe'er deserts the sacred cause of Truth,
From fear, from interest, or from natural ruth,
May that mistaken Creature's Conscience know
He's Conscience's—Man's—God's, most grievous Foe:
And all who will not with each talent strive,
To keep Faith—Truth—and Justice, still alive,
However bless'd, beyond Man's common brood,
With every graceful gift, and gracious good,
Are all with folly ting'd, and fleshly leav'n;
Most dangerous Enemies of Earth and Heav'n!

Mistaken Man, when once a Despot's prey,
All goods, and chattels, soon, are swept away;
And Pride that wounds with words a feeling heart,
Would promptly scarify each outward part.
The Pow'r, uncheck'd, that strikes the Cheeks in strife,
Devoid of danger, would purloin the Life—
That Fraud, or Force, which Coat, and Cloak, will take,
Would spare no covering rag for Conscience's sake—
And grim Oppression, that, thus, grasps the whole,
Would feel no kind Compassion for the Soul!
In vain were Want's petition—Woe's complaint—
When slumbering Conscience quits her strong restraint.
When sacred Truth, implicitly, complies,
And sanctions, with her silence, Cunning's lies;
Or, carelessly confirms, with witless word,
Falshood's assertions, foolish, or absurd;
And, with mere breezes of unmeaning breath;
Signs the dread sentence of her temporal death;
While knavish Villainy with vicious aim,
Will, thence encourag'd, stablish bolder claim,
When dire Injustice pleads one Mile's his due,
And simple Man submits to travel two,
The selfish Scoundrel soon would claim a score;
Yea—make tame Christians trudge the World all o'er!

Heav'n meant no Mortal's tryal so severe—
The unresisting Tool of Tyrants, here—
Suffering each arbitrary Hand to strip,
And bend his back to every waling whip—
No—Paul, himself, could plead for full relief,
Against the Threats of churlish Roman Chief;
And, when imprison'd, like a Hero stout,
Commands the Magistrates to take him out.
The wandering Wretch thus left without resource,
Becomes the constant Dupe of Fraud, or Force;
An engine, mov'd at each weak Despot's will—
A sacrifice to fleece—or scourge—or kill—
His moving, labo'ring, strength, alone, remains,
To toil for churls, while clogg'd with galling chains;
For, Freedom gone, he, like a Galley-Slave,
Tugs oars, thro' Life, then drops into the grave!

Could such a Creature shine without alloy,
Love's perfect Pattern; copied from the Sky;
In path of duty could, like Enoch, plod,
And walk, thro' Life, in faith and love, with God,
He must, like him, and all blest Saints below,
Experience, from the Wicked, pain and woe;
Till, bless'd with Enoch's beatific lot,
His God had taken him, and he was not;
Or, like Elijah, persecuted, still,
By arbitrary Tyrant's wicked will,
Join the blest Twain—walking by Heav'n's word,
Till God, in mercy, might translate a Third.
Could he, like Christ fulfil his Father's Law,
Without a fracture, and without a flaw,
Such pure fulfilment would no pity find
Among the murderous Race of carnal kind.
Malice would most such character deride—
Pow'r still would spurn; and Wealth, and Pomp, and Pride.
Such Mortals must each courtly scoff sustain—
Such Piety must meet Pride's deep disdain—
Bear Spite's foul spittings—Envy's vengeful scorns—
Feel Cruelty's fell thongs, and Hatred's thorns—
While Superstition's troops, when standing by,
Would join blaspheming Bigots' cruel cry.
Justice, itself, blest attribute of Heav'n!
Tho' purg'd, and purified from earthly leav'n;
Traduced, and trodden down, like Mercy, here,
Can only flourish in celestial sphere;
Where both, by genuine Love, eternal, join'd,
Compose the essence of Almighty Mind;
Like Bride and Bridegroom, by the Spirit's band,
In endless Marriage joining hand in hand;
There just Jehovah, and pure Paraclete,
In mystic junction pardoning Jesus meet,
To form Earth's happiest, Heav'n's completest, plan,
Uniting perfect God and perfect Man!

Such was the human Soul, while Adam stood,
When God pronounc'd all Nature “Very good!”
And such the Soul of Woman, after, made,

112

Till Flattery fawn'd, and Falshood Truth betray'd;
When, with Satanic poison, enter'd in
Remorse, and Shame, and each sad curse of Sin!
This cost of Culprit's Heav'n's ingrafted Grace,
To death condemning all Man's guilty Race,
Each suffering, since, inevitable doom
Of cold corruption, laid in loathsome tomb!
But Christ, the Soul of sinful Man to save,
Redeem His Body from the gloomy grave,
And, righteous Judgment's rigid course controul,
To nameless misery stoop'd His spotless Soul!
Paid all the Debt incurr'd by Pride, and Lust!
A just Redeemer, rescuing Man, unjust!
Bent down His back to cruel smiters, bare!
Expos'd His cheeks to Imps who pluckt the hair!
His injur'd shoulders, Rebels' burdens bore!
His stripes heal'd each Believer's sinful sore!
The faults and frailties of His foes bemoan'd!
O'er all their miseries wept—and griev'd—and groan'd!
While from His body, in a purple flood,
Ooz'd agonizing drops of blameless blood!
More precious than the oil, of savoury smell,
That over Aaron's fragrant garments fell!
In pity for His Murderers pray'd, and died,
A Victim to vile Envy, Spite, and Pride!

Man—prostrate fall—and press thy parent, Earth,
Before that Pow'r which gave thy Being birth,
In reverence most profound! all Self resign'd,
All pow'r's and faculties of Frame and Mind!
While boundless and sublime conceptions rise,
Of Him who built, and bless'd, both Earth, and Skies!
Forgive, dear Saviour! while thy Creature dares
Compare Thy pangs to Crispin's pains and cares!
While Man presumes to bare a Sinner's breast,
And trace thy mangled image there impress'd!
Presumes to find some faint resemblance strike!
Presumes to say a Point, and Space are like!
To match a Moment with Eternity,
Or dream a Mortal may compare with Thee!
No Pow'r but Thine could ever hope to quell
A warring World allied with Hosts of Hell!
No other Goodness, and no other Grace,
Could ransom, and reform, a ruin'd Race!
None but thy matchless Wisdom—boundless Might—
Could frame the measure, and enforce the fight!
No other Satisfaction save one Foe,
One daring Rebel from unending Woe!
None but Thy matchless Merit—deathless Love—
E'er purchase and prepare those Realms above,
Where Man, redeem'd by Jesus, may enjoy
Life, without limit—bliss, without alloy!
While no mere Man might Worth or Merit boast,
Nor one pure Spirit in the heavenly Host—
Nor Demons, damn'd, nor Mankind's blood all spilt,
Could cleanse one Sinner from one stain of guilt!
No worth of Worlds; no Seraph's strength, sustain,
The Wrath of Heav'n—its penalties and pain!
Much less lost Man one Merit plead with God,
To claim reward, or 'scape His fatal rod.
The Heirs of Heav'n may, here, true raptures taste,
The first-fruits of their future rich repast;
Yet every sinful Soul, must prove, in part,
Their Saviour's wants and sorrows, shame and smart—
Sharp stripes and piercings, with Heav'n's mercies mixt,
All must experience till their fate be fixt'
None, here, are purg'd and pure from fleshly sins,
Till Death be past, and perfect bliss begins—
But woe to them, provoking Pow'r, immense!
Who give God's little Children foul offence;
'Twere better their base necks a millstone bore,
Plung'd in deep seas amidst wild billows roar!
O Ye, who proudly boast your large domains,
Mines, Manors, Mansions, Fields, Floods, Woods, and Plains!
Shall each possession pine, with murmurs fill'd,
Or sigh and sob o'er peaceful comforts kill'd?
Your boasted boundaries, and your manor'd miles,
Ne'er sound with song? ne'er find one face that smiles?
Your woods in melancholy scarfs appear,
And echo wretchedness throughout the year;
While every dreary, dark, and dismal mine,
With woe, pain, penury, and sickness, pine?
Shall deep despondence frown o'er plain and field?
No gladdening gleam vile huts of vassals yield?
While all your streams with Misery's founts o'erflow,
Rais'd with fresh rills of tears each rood they go;
And tales of pain to parent ocean, tell,
Whence came those flooding show'rs and why they fell!

113

INVOCATION.

Oh! all ye rural Nymphs, and rustic Swains,
Who work, and wander, on your native plains,
Leave not, oh! leave not your sequester'd homes,
To look for more delight in Grandeur's domes!
Seek not, from frail Caprice's casual smiles,
To lighten troubles, and relax your toils;
Nor fancy you shall find in Pomp's domains,
Augmented pleasures, or diminish'd pains!
Expect not Friends where Wit with Flattery's found,
Nor hope true Wealth where Riches most abound!
Look not for Comfort, much less mental Joy,
Where Vanity and Ostentation ply;
Nor ever deem calm blessings can abide
In the wild Mansions of mad Pomp and Pride!
With trembling, tread not near a Despot's throne,
But call your dwellings and your days your own!
Yet hope not Peace, and Happiness, complete,
Ev'n in your tranquil, innocent, retreat;
But in the noblest sublunary site,
Miseries mix more with every dear delight!
Then hope them least beneath despotic sway,
Where Tyrants rule, and Sycophants betray—
Hope them, alone, where they alone are found,
In friendly fellowship, on gracious ground;
Where, constantly, with Christ, Believers dwell,
In cordial corps, or solitary cell;
With daily Duty to their sacred Sire,
For Heav'n's pure perquisites, their hourly hire!

The faithful Tale of one who felt, attend;
Simplicity's true Lover! Freedom's Friend!
Who wish'd to help the halt—to lead the blind—
Who warmly lov'd, and sigh'd to serve, Mankind!
Who could rejoice with joy—could weep with woe—
Could pray, with ardour, for the fiercest Foe—
And only long'd for pow'r, and pray'd for store,
To foster Friends, and help the hapless Poor!
Felt like emotions loftier Mortals feel,
From stimulating lash, or stabbing steel.
From lacerating lancet's smallest smart,
Or poison'd poniard, thrust thro' head and heart.
From pointed pistol, and from levell'd lance,
Or slightly wounding shaft when shot by chance.
When straws were meant to tickle, not to teize,
Or snuff was giv'n to pain, but not to please.
When feathers were applied to spoil repose,
Or gossamers, unmeant, just thrill'd the nose.
When horrid glare, the Heart, like lightning, shrunk,
Or warlike words, the Soul, like thunder, sunk—
When Falshood feign'd, by signs, or sounds, uncouth,
To personate her simple Sister, Truth;
Smil'd, lisp'd, or ambled, deckt in dark disguise,
Stammering pretence, and leer'd with paltry lies,
While antic attitudes, which gave disgust,
Destroy'd the present; dampt all future trust;
Or sweet Sincerity with smoother smile,
Each service soften'd, and repaid each toil;
Each warm expression felt, and tender deed,
Which light Love's lamp, and kindled Friendship's feed!

Ah! gentle Spirits! innocently gay!
Who labour—laugh—sing—dance—the live-long Day,
Whose rising rays behold your joys begun
And evening twilight sees each duty done!
When Eve's calm hours, hymns, pray'rs, and praises, close,
And weariness and prudence wish repose—
Whose Night's afford soft dreams, or softer sleep,
While servile Vassals wake to watch, or weep!
Ah! let not baseless Hope, or bladdery Pride,
With dim delusion tempt your steps aside;
To sacrifice glad Freedom's gracious dow'r,
Or place your peace in reach of despot Pow'r!
Oh! forfeit not your franchise-boon of Birth!
By owning Mortals Masters, here, on Earth!
Learn every virtuous privilege to prize,
The feeborn use of limbs, tongues, ears, and eyes!

Will you your heavenly Sire's best blessing slight?
Be Dupes by day? and Negroes through the night?
For trifles be betray'd? for bubbles bought?
For toys yield up all Liberty but thought?
Corporeal faculties be moved, or stand,
Like wheels and levers in Mechanic's hand?
Exert your intellectual strength, and skill,
The mere Automatons of others' Will!
Your eyes be blind; or, more than seen, perceive?
Your ears be deaf; breasts more than's meant believe?
Thought, introduc'd, and lodg'd within the head,
Lie dormant, there; or, number'd with the dead.
The brain resembling only large hotel,
Where none but foreign families may dwell;
Like sham ambassadorial shadow, sent

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To signify frail Sovereign's false intent.
Perfidious Pimp—or Spy—or abject Scout,
On some base expedition posted out,
To act pert Duns, or Bully's bolder part,
Nor feel one kind emotion move the heart!
Amanuensis, never to digress,
But plant ideas like a printing-press;
Or, graven copper-plate, again to roll
The pristine stamp of proud Employer's Soul.
Still trudging every road, like common hack,
To take Fools' trifles—bring Fops' baggage back.
All native Cogitations' private store,
To celibacy sworn, must breed no more;
But, unproductive, all, in secret cell,
Like insulated Nuns—Monks—Hermits—dwell—
No propagated offspring brought to birth
To speak their wisdom, or their parents' worth.

Ideas, dealt about, like current coin,
By motion, smooth'd, assimilate—and shine;
Thro' circulation still increasing store,
New generations rising, more and more—
But cloister'd, close, in such sequester'd shades,
Each strong impression, clear inscription, fades;
While all their features, fine; complexions, pure,
Neglected rust—nor long their dates endure—
Or all their broods, prohibited, to hide,
Become abortive, or, if born, destroy'd;
Like undrawn swords, in scabbards, cankering, lie,
While useless edge, and point, and polish, fly;
Unfit for Justice—Right, nor Truth, defend—
Intimidate no Foe—protect no Friend—
Or, like the silent Snows, by Winter spread,
In silvery treasures, o'er the mountain's head;
Whose stores, while undisturb'd, each hour decay,
And hue, form, substance, quickly waste away;
But stirr'd, by winds, like words, with action strong,
Each sphere enlarges as it rolls along—
Escapes the common crowd's oblivious fate,
Expands its fame, and amplifies its date—
Or, mix'd, and press'd, in masses, may produce,
Some future solace, or substantial use;
But fix'd, and frozen, in its pristine place,
Yields small advantage to Man's reasoning Race:
When thrown in sport, or spite, by human arm,
Dire mischief Causes, or creates alarm;
Or, with a blow, like a pestilential breath,
Endangers harmless individual's death—
But launch'd from Alpine heights by Heav'n's command,
Like words of Kings, which vex a vicious Land;
Tho', at the first, in force, and bulk, but small,
With widening horrors rolls the rapid ball;
Till, grown a mountain, with augmented pow'rs,
Flocks—families—huts—hamlets—towns, devours!
Thoughts, like Churl's corn, in chamber'd stores entomb'd,
Devour'd by vermin, or, decay, consum'd;
Whose fruits might food, or opulence, afford;
Enrich the Rich, or bless the poor Man's board—
For soon the pregnant vegetative grain
When scatter'd, aptly, o'er the cultur'd plain,
In vernal Spring expands its verdant smiles
To pay, in part, with hopes, the Seedsman's toils;
With golden wealth, in time, to flood the ground,
And spread strength, health, and happiness, around!

Since causes and effects are so combin'd,
That passive Matter's mov'd by active Mind;
And happiness, and misery, much depend
On small beginnings grown to ampler end—
Each cause, and each effect, must first be sought,
In Matter, and in Mind, produc'd by Thought.
Whether in Thought, or not, Mind's essence dwell,
No learn'd, profound Psychologist can tell;
For all right reasoning first depends on facts,
And pondering how the Mind, or Spirit, acts.
Thought, in each act, tho' under Heav'n's controul,
Seems a mere simple motion of the Soul;
Yet must observe subordination still,
And act, subservient, with God's gracious Will—
It falls not in the sphere of finite sense
To trace out how ideas work, or whence;
Ne'er can acutest Sophist clearly scan
Whether they come from God, or spring in Man,
Nor mortal Man, by natural reasoning, know,
How thought's first form'd, or free volitions flow;
Yet, whether Understanding wakes, or winks,
'Tis plain some prompt essential something thinks.

From unbeginning Mind must needs arise
All things that can exist in Earth, or Skies;
And, thro' that self-existing Being, knows
All Matter—Motion—Soul, or Spirit, rose.
Tho' Matter Matter moves, repels, or draws,

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By clear, precisely-well-adjusted, Laws;
Still, all right-reasoning heads, with Newton, own,
All Will, and Pow'r, in Spirit lives, alone.
But ne'er hath Newton, yet, nor Locke, defin'd,
How Mind moves Matter, or how Matter, Mind;
But philosophic Malebranche fairly proves,
That pow'rless Matter pow'rful Spirit moves;
Yet immaterial Mind, by Heav'n's blest dow'r,
Moves passive Matter with ideal pow'r,
'Tis plain, perceptions, too, in Spirit reign,
But not in mere material breast, or brain—
That all Sensations in the Soul exist,
Impress'd by God, as Love and Wisdom list.
'Twas Newton's Soul perceiv'd, and not his head,
Why, round the Sun all Planet orbs are led;
And 'twas his Soul, and not his eye, that saw,
How Spirit each impels, by heavenly Law;
And Locke, by Spirit's light, alone, could know,
Whence all ideas and gradations grow—
But, still, 'twas all his gracious Maker's Might,
And Love, and Goodness, gave his Soul that light!

With pow'rful Agency can Matter act?
With innate strength, alone, repel? attract?
Lay all its dead inertness quite aside,
And be its own Self-governor, and Guide?
'Tis nothing but a simple instrument,
Prepar'd by God, to answer wise intent,
In showing forth His Wisdom, Pow'r, and Love,
To Men below, and Angel-Hosts above!
And what is Nature, but an empty Name?
A Phrase denoting merely Matter's Frame—
Or idle Epithet, still meaning less,
Which may imaginary pow'r express;
That Atheist, Infidel, or Heathen, suits,
To Matter giving God's blest attributes.
But Nature boasts no knowledge, pow'r, or will,
One plan to form, or purpose to fulfil—
No skill to frame, no wishes to withstand
One scheme, design'd by Christ's controuling hand.
And what are all the secondary Pow'rs
On which Mankind's imagination tow'rs?
'Tis God, conceal'd by Mortal's monstrous whim—
All Might and Majesty belongs to Him!
What is Attraction, which can bodies draw
Tow'rd some known centre, by a secret Law?
What Gravitation, which makes Matter tend
To some fix'd point—fall—circle—or ascend?
Or what Cohesion making parts combine,
In constant forms, as feeling self-design?
Cohesion's nothing but an empty sound,
By which no fashion's fram'd, or body's bound.
Cohesion is but God's unbounded Might,
Which makes material substances unite—
Makes Gravitation felt thro' Nature's frame,
And all Attraction shows that Strength the same.
He moulds each mass in seen, or unseen, Suns,
With every Orb that round their centers runs.
'Tis He that operates in the two-fold force,
That urges on, and keeps them in their course—
Impels their speed, yet reins them as they fly,
In measur'd movements, thro' the pathless Sky.
From Him angelic Spirits' pow'rs proceed
And act in ways His sovereign will decreed.
Perchance to whirl each Sun, in central place,
And guide appended Globes in circling race,
Or fill appointed posts in his firm plan,
Betwixt their Maker and His Minion, Man.
Not that His Pow'r, on whom all Pow'rs depend,
All Nature's Father—Guide—Support—and Friend!
Whose Wisdom governs, and whose Goodness made—
Who ne'er can need His highest Creature's aid!
His Presence fills each planetary sphere,
His boundless Pow'r acts always—everywhere!
His Love, alike, pervades the vast Domain,
While Will with Wisdom, Grace, and Goodness, reign!
All rests on Pow'r supreme of Nature's God,
Ev'n agent Minds commission'd by his nod!
Himself the Cause of every other Cause!
Who fram'd, and still enforces, all His Laws!
For Laws, when form'd, ne'er force, let loose, or bind,
Without the pow'r of incorporeal Mind.
Nature, that knows no Law, no Law can sway;
No act begin, accelerate, or delay.
Whether each part's at rest, or masses range,
Without a pow'r of choice, it ne'er can change.
Devoid of Will, its ne'er can chuse its lot,
Nor e'er determine how to act, or not;
Nor can one living Creature freely list
Whether 'twill still exist, or not exist.
All Beings must on Deity depend,
Their necessary Source—Continuance—End!
From Him all Wills proceed—all Pow'rs begun

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And His eternal Will must needs be done!
His Pow'r supports, His Wisdom rules, the Whole—
All Matter—Motion—immaterial Soul!
Ev'n all the separate Pow'rs His Will deputes,
Of unknown Natures—Angels—Men—and Brutes—
While all His perfect Attributes dispense,
Being—Life-bliss—of Matter, Soul, and Sense!

To prove His Goodness, and employ His Grace,
He scatter'd Creatures thro' all pregnant Space—
Free Man, with wonderous faculties endued,
With consciousness of crime, and rectitude;
Connecting bliss, when properly employ'd,
With pow'rs apportion'd, thro' the viewless Void!
To share His Majesty, and show His Might,
Form'd Spirits, pure, of intellectual Light!
Ethereal Essences, to occupy
The various realms throughout the vacant Sky!
Form'd for each office, He, at first, assign'd,
Meet Messengers of immaterial Mind!
Not to support His pow'r—secure His peace—
Nor knowledge—wisdom—happiness—increase—
To aggrandize His Court—or ease His care,
But all His blessed attributes to share—
Heav'n's pure benevolence, and bliss, to prove
By exercising gifts of Grace and Love!

Some, from their due obedience drawn aside
By false Ambition, and rebellious Pride,
From pure ineffable perfection fell,
And, troubling Earth, a Time, were doom'd to Hell;
By Pow'rs perversion Spirit grew perverse,
And glorious Gifts became the greater curse.

Nor Spirits made in purity remain'd,
His Gifts engag'd, or added honours gain'd,
Monopolizing all His Love, alone,
While minist'ring in myriads round His Throne,
To watch His Will—obey His sovereign call—
To wield each whirling World's embellish'd Ball;
Or carry messages, or mandates, new,
With duteous diligence Creation through—
But energetic Goodness—boundless Love—
Not only form'd such Pow'rs for parts above,
But brought forth other Beings into birth,
Compounded Creatures; on productive Earth.
Prompt Entities! with Mind and Matter mix'd—
With local pow'rs of motion, free, yet fix'd—
Fix'd to the circuit of their parent sphere,
Yet free to traverse the full limits there.
Furnish'd with pow'rs of Reason, Sense, and Will,
To judge—to feel—and grasp at Good, or Ill.
Indefinitely free, to fall, or stand,
By breaking, or obeying, His command.

Such were the boons, at Nature's birth, bestow'd
By God, on Man, in his terrene abode.
What other wonders rise, o'er Worlds, that run,
Concentric circles round our neighbouring Sun;
What other Systems other Suns surround,
Profusely scatter'd o'er the vast profound,
About those Bodies optic tubes descry
Thro' all the depths of circumambient Sky;
Or what more wonders, what more mighty Orbs,
Unfathom'd Space's hollow womb absorbs,
God's gracious Will, with plastic pow'r, has wrought,
Exceeds the utmost strength of human thought;
And Revelation has witheld the means
For drawing back th' impenetrable skreens—
Yet will Imagination's daring wings
Fly far beyond the present Scene of things;
Beyond the keenest ken of human eyes,
With all which telescopic pow'r supplies.
Her strength unwearied, soars, in rapid race,
Thro' pregnant regions of unbounded Space,
And thro' that wide Champaign sees World o'er World,
By Pow'r supreme, or arm, Angelic, hurl'd—
And while she thus performs her circling flight,
Calm reason, scattering round reflected light,
On Understanding beams her borrow'd ray,
To help her through those tracts of distant day;
While analogic Judgment traces, clear,
Earth's full resemblance in each fancied sphere;
And deems each Orb, in perfect Wisdom's plan,
Holds reasoning Creatures much resembling Man.

Tho' Space should boast no other Worlds beside,
Where conscious Beings, made like Man, abide;
Here's ample scope for Angels' full employ,
To scatter Kindness, or to gather Joy—
Their constant service, and their thankful theme,
The Creature's good, and praise to God, supreme!
Here, Heav'n, with Words inspir'd, hath clearly shown,
What Reason's utmost efforts ne'er had known,
That Angels, oft, Ambassadors are sent,
Informing Men of Heav'n's declar'd intent;
Whose mediatorial embassies fulfill'd,

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And signified what God's free Grace had will'd;
May frequent intimations more dispense,
Unknown, and unperceived, by Sense.

Such simple arguments may clearly prove
That Mind, and Mind alone can Matter move,
By syllogistic reasoning show, as clear,
That Matter, mov'd, must ever persevere,
Beyond Creation's bound, or Time's extent,
Except the Pow'r, that first impell'd, prevent—
For space, or period, never can devour
One spark of Spirit, or one act of Pow'r.

Mere Matter's found by all Mankind confest
Indifferent both to motion and to rest.
When moving bodies other bodies strike
Each particle of each must move alike.
Resistance, too, some active Pow'r implies,
And must from immaterial Mind arise;
For, mass'd, or separate, in its pristine parts,
No powerless Matter ever stops, or starts.

As Matter, mov'd by Mind's immediate force,
Controuls, or actuates, other Matter's course,
So Spirit may, with influence more refin'd,
With innate pow'r, by impulse, act on Mind;
And Mind, where pow'rs of choice, and action, live,
May mutual pow'r impulsive, gain, or give:
All stronger weaker actuate—stop—restrain,
Affording pleasure, or inflicting pain—
From Brute to Man; from Man, ascending high'r,
Thro' Angels, nameless, up to Seraph's Sire—
Who, from His infinite, eternal, Throne,
Can act unbounded—uncontroul'd—alone!

Man only may on Man his pow'rs employ,
Creating Misery, or enlarging Joy—
Become his own by being Fellow's Foe,
Or, operate downward, on the Brutes below;
But ne'er can act, beyond Heav'n's blest controul,
To please, or pain, the Frame, or fright the Soul.
Since Mind, supernal Mind! o'er all presides,
Begets each impulse, and each impulse guides—
Each purpose spreading thro' expanse of Thought,
Till small conceptions into birth are brought;
While Understanding lights, and leads, the Will,
That active instrument of good, or ill!
Which, prompt in Childhood, proves its pow'r of choice,
Vents its first efforts with a wailing voice;
And growing still more active, terse, and strong,
It tries its little tool, the lisping tongue;
While struggling limbs throw swathe and bandage by,
With tiney Art, will, still, fresh efforts try;
Till clamourous cries, whines, blandishments, may win
Some fleshly objects, as first signs of Sin.
Ascending upward, still, to riper Youth,
With fraud, with falshood, and sometimes, with truth;
Life's obvious ills to fly, or good to gain,
It strives to 'stablish its tyrannic reign.
When up to Manhood, now, progressive, grown,
It prompter still, assumes much prouder tone;
And, independent, obstinately, leads
To words more wilful, or more desperate deeds;
While despot practices more strongly tend
To form foul habits—fix each evil end!

How then should matron Mind, with filial fear,
Judge all the embryo thoughts engender'd there!
To kill each procreant male, and thence expel
All, claiming cursed origin from Hell;
Or strength obtain to strangle, ere their birth,
Proud rebel progenies, allied to Earth;
Yet nurse, and nurture, all the sacred Seed,
While banishing the base Egyptian breed;
Training, or stifling, each ideal Child,
Nor, idly, let a savage Race run wild—
Like Hebrew midwives, with obstetric hand
Preserving every birth of Israel's band,
Not fearing any Pharaoh's wicked Will,
One offspring of that promis'd Seed to kill—
Or, Moses-like, when such opponents strive,
Destroy the Foe to save the Friend alive—
Make mocking Ishmael's from the house depart,
But cherish Isaac's both in head and heart.

From mental matrix all the monsters rise
That injure Earth, and counteract the Skies!
But, tho' they poison all the peace of Man,
Flesh ne'er can frustrate Providence's plan!
When in the brain, and breast, Hell's vipery broods,
From Serpent spawn's matur'd, in multitudes;
And, mixing with the mass of native thought,
By fostering Friendship into birth are brought—
With hateful forms still pester every place,
And, biting deep, destroy Man's wretched Race!
Or, like Snakes' eggs, in strict connection strung,
And lodg'd in dirty heaps of heating dung,

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By general warmth, with innate nurture join'd,
Troops march abroad to terrify Mankind.

Herculean Minds may, oft, with manag'd Will,
Such serpent pests, in infant cradle, kill—
Or may, in kitchens cookt, or pots made pure,
As food refresh, or, as strong cordials, cure;
But should the Heart embrace each appley bribe,
And propagate a deadly Demon tribe—
With twins, Titanian, boast, blaspheme, and rail—
Vex Earth, with giant strength, and Heav'n assail—
Thro' Life, in plans perfidious, daily plod,
Still mortifying Man, while grieving God—
Soon must such Parents feel distracting fear
For, like new Fiends, their fell destruction's near!

The progeny of impish Vice, that springs
From titled Tyrants, or accursed Kings;
Like pow'rful Chiefs penurious people chouse,
By joining field to field, and house to house;
Or, strong, in gather'd gold, the World o'erwhelm,
Still adding town to town, and realm to realm—
Like petty, or like potent, Nimrods, reign,
And hunt the Poor from each impoverish'd plain;
While meagre Want with Misery mopes, and pines,
Stripp'd of its figtree's fruits and ruin'd vines!

Vile thoughts, once vented, and proclaim'd, by Pow'r,
Like storms, destroy! like fires, and floods, devour!
Wealth's cruel whispers—Princes' proud commands,
Can actuate taunting tongues, or hostile hands,
To vex a Vicinage—bewilder Worth—
O'erthrow a Throne, and desolate the Earth!
Ev'n Folly's face, or Envy's vicious eye,
May look, or laugh, a satire—smile, a lie;
Ev'n slightest syllables of basest Boor,
May plague the Pow'rful, or perplex the Poor—
The vulgar lay, or ignorant eloquence,
May vitiate Virtue, or may martyr Sense.
The Poor's, like oaten pipe's imperfect sound,
May grate the hamlet's ears, its hearts may wound—
Wealth's, like the drum's, or trumpet's tones, expand,
And spread wide-circling terrors through the Land—
Like squibs and crackers, those, diffusing fear,
Among the mobs, and small assemblies, near;
While these, like rattling bombs, or cannons roar,
Extend their baneful blasts from shore to shore!

Since Adam ate his apple, heart, and head,
Have dragon broods of disobedience bred;
Innumerous mischiefs heap'd, and miseries hurl'd,
O'er every region round this wicked World!

By looks, and language, lust, and lies, begin,
Begetting endless forms of social Sin;
Which evil acts, and habits, bring to birth,
Till wild confusion fills the frantic Earth!

With wonderous pow'r the Spring's impressive smile
Wakes genial warmth in Air, and Sea, and Soil;
And, scattering round, soft, fascinating, fires,
Kindles, in all that live, intense desires—
So Lust's inflaming looks deep influence dart,
Like fires, electric, thro' the human heart—
Relax each nerve—all virtuous views controul,
And melt each moral wire that warn'd the Soul:
Religious hope, and pious purpose, feel,
And Resolution's tow'ry turrets reel,
Till, maugre Conscience—Pride's—Shame's, feeble calls,
Till, by strong strokes, each buttress'd fabric falls!
On passive Souls such sparks full force impart,
Flash on from eye to eye, from heart to heart;
The circling groups, in contact, find no stop,
But, one by one, the stricken victims drop;
While every rampant Youth, and restless Dame,
Feels the full influence of the subtle flame!

The pow'r of Speech; while flying more diffuse,
Each pigmy whisper grows to giant news—
Few lips, contracted, try, with Christian pout,
To cool hot Lies, or blow Lust's blazes out;
Nor with more pow'rful, or impetuous, breath,
Dash Scandal down, or beat base Doubts to death;
But with strong blasts, from full-distended mouth,
Like trumpets, turning East—West—North, and South,
Rouze all fierce Passions that inflame the breast,
And rob Mankind of morals, peace, and rest!

Lies are all Countries' counterfeited Coin,
And, like most current Money, shrewdly shine.
Appear the same in specie, shape, and hue;
But jingle not, or, sharper than the true.
This may present a Monarch's portrait well
But, whether free from treachery who can tell.
Tho' kingly superscription speaks of State,
For each oft's wanting in specific weight.
All full, and fair, without; but false, within;
Copper, or Platina, Lead, Tutenague, or Tin.

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Oft Calumny and Scandal date their birth
From thoughtless Levity, or maddening Mirth—
At first the feeble breeze but faintly blows,
Credulity's light wind, round whiffling foes;
But weak Surmise, to strong Assertion grown,
Pert Protestation adds a stouter tone—
When multiplying vows, and oaths, at last,
Increase momentum, and enlarge the blast,
Till in the strong tornado, Virtues, tall,
With helpless Innocence, in ruins fall:
So first, in circle small, with whispering play,
The new-fledg'd whirlwinds wing their wanton way,
And in their sportive spiral eddies, draw,
Light stuff, dust, stubble, feathers, chaff, and straw;
But, with increas'd velocity, at length,
Each vast convolving vortex, gathering strength,
O'er wider bounds the whistling wonders blow.
And lay the lofty tree and fabric, low!

But not by Mirth, or Levity, alone,
Are fructifying seeds of Falshood, sown;
Or Scandal scatter'd by Indifference, round,
On trodden tracks, rude rocks, or thorny ground—
But Spite and Envy, prompt, with traitorous toil,
Plough, pulverize, and sow, their proper soil;
And mixing Malice in the native mould,
Bring fruits of Evil forth, an hundred-fold!
Ne'er with foul dung, and spiteful sprinklings, loth,
To give each poisonous plant its grossest growth;
While heading hoes, or whelming spades, destroy
Each wholesome herb, or healing simple by:
Like India's fabled plant their branches spread,
Each stretching far o'er Earth its procreant head;
And, striking deep, with fresh, nefarious, roots,
Another bough, and still another, shoots;
While o'er extensive tracts fell fumes convey
A fatal stench from every venom'd spray!
Depriv'd of pure, and healthy, atmosphere,
No tender plant, or flow'r, can flourish near;
But, with dire, deleterious, blighting, breath,
All droop, and pine, or fade, and fall, in death!
So no unwitting Swain, or simple Maid,
That seeks repose beside such deadly shade,
Can hope true comfort or contented ease,
Within the compass of their blasting breeze—
Will ne'er with peace, and purity, retire,
But mourn with Misery, or with pain expire!

Alas! what friendless wretches feel the wrongs
Of leprous lips, and pestilential tongues!
Whose breath, infectious, flatteringly conveys
The rankest poisons in the richest praise;
Or with its subtile and satyric sounds,
Inflicts, on Worth, deep-festering, fatal, wounds!
The flattering tongue, when exercised on Youth,
O'erturns the small remains of native Truth;
Which, adding to deceptions, first infus'd,
Virtue's abandon'd! Innocence abused!
The slavering venom, blending with the blood,
In stronger tide swells up the feverish flood—
Or, like an opiate, thro' each artery creeps,
Till Resolution slacks, and Reason sleeps;
And while fond Fancy sketches fairy schemes,
The Mind indulges mad, or, dangerous dreams—
The vile pollution spreads thro' every part—
Pride occupies the head, and Lust the heart!
While Passion, still impressing views impure,
Confirms those Ills no time, nor drugs, can cure!
The tongue's envenom'd shafts, tho' shot from far,
Make wounds, which seldom close without a scar.
Like murdering mildew, such consumptive breath,
Stains Beauty's bloom, or stinks fair Fame to death!
Illiberal language wounds, by waspish words,
More than explosions, bayonets, and swords!
Where one by hostile steel, or powder, dies,
Numbers are butcher'd by malignant Lies!
By sudden Passion, or by proud Self-will,
Strokes lightly injure, or completely kill;
But violated Truth makes Virtue, long,
Feel vile effects from false, or flattering Tongue—
Deep, lingering pains, thro' Life, be still deplor'd,
For Character, so stung, is ne'er restor'd—
Truth's cruel tortures not itself can tell!
False tongues thus fire the Earth, themselves inflam'd by Hell!

Beware, ye Wits! your Christian calling see,
Nor tempt Mankind by fruit from Flattery's Tree;
Whose graceful foliage, and whose flow'rets, gay,
Full oft allure instructed feet astray!
Whose fascinating fruit may still entice,
Poor passive Eves to risque their Paradise;
While soft mellifluent scents, and rosey rind,
May subtly subjugate each Adam's Mind!
May, when its branches breathe some witching Song,

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Draw wanton Age, and witless Youth, along;
Bewilder both—and stimulate to taste
Those charms, which cherish every wish unchaste;
Till, paralyzing Lust, at length, expires,
With all its pleasing hopes, and dear desires;
While Conscience closes Life's impure repast
With loathings, and anathemas, at last!
Nor, oh! ye Profligates! high Heav'n provoke
With impious jest, or sacrilegious joke;
For every idol word, pronounc'd in play,
Must stand pure test in Jesu's judgment Day!
But, oh! Blasphemers! Sense, and Reason's shame!
Who proudly sport with Heav'n's most sacred Name!
That Name before which Angels bow the head!
Wise Christians worship—Dev'ls believe—and dread!
And will Ye—worse than Dolts! than Demons worse!
Defy your Maker? and provoke His curse?
Will Ye all Sense and Reason far forego,
To feel the shame of Fiends, and share their woe?
Will Ye presume, in Piety's despite,
And calls of Conscience, rob Him of His right?
Dare You appear before His bar arraign'd,
For breaking Heav'n's behest? Your King's command?
Dare You presume to give Your God offence?
And can You combat with Omnipotence?
Alas! look back! repent of every crime!
Nor more misuse Your talents, and Your time!
No more His Providence, and Pow'r, defy,
Who might, each moment, all your strength destroy!
Let Wit no longer scatter Flattery's flow'rs,
To hide that Serpent which such Souls devours!
Nor Falshood, in the cloak of Cunning furl'd,
Confound all Order in this nether World;
Much less abuse God's gift, by Speech profane,
Confronting Christ—confirming Satan's reign!
Flattery full oft becomes the Creature's rod,
But Oaths proclaim perpetual war with God!
Mankind may suffer from the force of Lies,
But Curses shoot their shafts against the Skies!

Where those the applications Heav'n decreed
To sanction Talk's discriminating meed?
True adaptation of God's gracious plan,
When speech was given to Man—and only Man?
Shall this distinctive gift be render'd vain?
Or what was meant for bliss be turn'd to bane?
Each borrow'd blast, of heav'n-inbosom'd breath,
Return, full-fraught with firebrands, darts, and death?
This proud monopoly! this mental feast!
Unshar'd—untasted—by the noblest Beast!
And, tho' pronounc'd by numerous breeds of Birds,
No purport's known to them, nor pow'rs of Words.

Shall such celestial Talent—glorious Gift!
Blasphemers blast? or Demon set adrift?
Such Pow'r, superior—such exclusive Grace,
Conferr'd alone on Man's immortal Race!
Shall He disgrace this Grace? deprave this Pow'r?
Let Folly frustrate? or let Vice devour?
Let intellectual traffic—Souls exchange—
O'er all the Earth, o'er every Ocean, range,
To barter nought but flattery, oaths, and lies,
Instead of pious words, and precepts wise?
Instead of articles for Christians' use,
What Deists plan, and Infidels produce?
Instead of merchandise, most rich, and rare,
Truth's, Reason's, Wisdom's, and Religion's, ware;
Things in which Children, Dupes, and Ideots, trade,
Where Atheists offer what mere Sophists made?
Such vehicles, and vessels, fully fraught,
With toys which Wits contrived, and Villains wrought?
The flattering compliments that first give rise
To every Folly, Vanity, and Vice—
False Commerce carried on—smoothe Statesmen's Trade;
Which, deeply, Cities—Courts—and Camps—degrade;
Where, dress'd in outward white, Dark Demons lurk
In secret carrying on their wicked work.
And, first, the fond Imagination teach,
To utter specious tropes in suasive speech,
The substance all abominable Lies,
Wrapp'd up in silky, soft, and gilt, disguise—
The Courtier's passport to be call'd polite;
While flattering others, feeling Self-delight.
Where crafty fawning, subtle, Sycophant,
Looks well to Self in all his cunning cant.
The courtly Captain, his fulsome phrase,
Seeks round for smiles that speak some silent praise—
Half-Wits, for Puns—half-Poets, monstrous tropes—
Vile Orators, for nonsense, view like hopes—
Ev'n vulgar Fops for fresh-coin'd curse and oath
Expect applause from blackguard Apes in both.
But whether these be deem'd, in Camps, or Courts,
Polite accomplishments, or pleasing sports,

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Or counted, in the Schools, sure signs of Sense,
Of Genius—Learning—Wit—or Eloquence—
Whate'er weak Mortals may such Converse call,
'Tis, clearly, Folly—Mischief—Madness—all!

Should Ships be freighted from the eastern Capes
With nought but Peacocks, Parrots, Monkeys, Apes;
Wild Beasts, or Cannibals, compose their spoils
From Afric's Coasts, or late discover'd Isles—
Or, from Columbian Land import, alone,
Each deadly Drug, or poisoning Simple, known;
And, with an ignorant, or an impish, Mind,
Disseminate the mass amongst Mankind.
Such Trade would stand all social Love's reverse,
Prove each Community's, and Merchant's curse;
And while the World such Nostrums could supply
All Health must yield, all Life at length must, die!
The Masters must be counted Satan's Tools,
The Traders, Vanity's, and Vice's, Fools;
Much more such Fools unfolding all their sails,
Regardless of fierce gusts, and fickle gales;
With all their valued Stock each Vessel stored,
Friends—Fortune—Family—Themselves—aboard!
Yet wilder still must those weak Minds appear,
Which, swift to speak, but ever slow to hear,
This wonderous faculty of Soul exert,
To their own ruin, and all others' hurt;
While on the passing breeze of every breath
They launch their everlasting Life, or Death!
Then let not Passion—Pride—or Folly, preach,
But faithful Reason, and Religion, teach—
Let Reason exercise full strength, and skill,
The duteous Offices of Life to fill—
Each word well weigh, each sentence well regard,
To win goodwill, and Conscience kind award!
And let Religion use her utmost might,
To govern Passion, Pride, and Appetite;
Conscious that every secret, silent, thought,
And idle word must be to judgment brought;
And, what should waken Man's reflections more
The Judge is alway standing at the door!

Who then will thus pervert the pow'rs of Speech,
While words to Heav'n will rise! to Hell, may reach!
That faculty no subject Creature shares,
The privilege to speak with God by pray'rs;
Or, when rich Faith and Hope Affection raise,
Love pour before His footstool thanks and praise!

Shall Man, the sole proprietor of Words,
Affix no meaning more than mocking Birds?
Or throw that talent, like a toy, away,
In ideot squabble, or in childish play?
Will He presume to wate that wonderous dow'r,
In wild profusion, every waking hour?
To basest purposes that blessing press,
For Self-destruction, or for Friends' distress?
Will He, who wishes to be deem'd a God,
In Fools', or Madmen's footsteps daily plod?
With Flattery's trick Simplicity entice,
To grovel in the grossest sinks of Vice?
With cursed Scandal, or delirious Lie,
A Neighbour's noblest interests destroy?
With oaths and blasphemies blend every theme,
In daily converse, and in nightly dream;
Or laugh o'er tales obscene, and impious jests,
In bold defiance of Heav'n's high behests?

Shall Sense and Reason mutual strength unite,
To prove rash Folly has a filial right?
Acquireless Fancy, and instinctive Taste,
With Wit, intuitive, their talents waste,
To gratify Caprice's whiffling will?
Make Affectation more affected still?
Religion's lovely face with umber blur,
Till ugliest hypocrites appear like Her!

Shall Genius lay her heav'n-strung Lyre aside
For brawling brazen Tube, to trumpet Pride?
Exchange pure pathos for trite fustian strain,
To render Vanity herself more vain?
Forsake the simple for elaborate lays,
To puff off Policy with Honour's praise?
Obtrude ten thousand epithets in Rhyme,
To make mean Ostentation seem sublime?
Deck Vice in splendid trope, and simile,
To make Her, heavenly Virtue! look like Thee?
Put on sweet Charity's celestial stole,
To hide Self-love, and littleness of Soul?
Spite, Hatred, Malice, cautiously conceal
With warm Benevolence's lucid veil?
Stripe Affectation o'er with rainbow-dyes,
And clothe proud Arrogance with Angels' guise?
Or Poetic-bullion smear o'er metals base,
Till burnish'd Cunning wears bright Candour's face?
Transform the Serpent to the faithful Dove,
By making Simulation smile like Love?

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With Wisdom's lustre make Deception shine,
And dress frail Flesh with attributes Divine;
Shrouding with saintly cloke Satanic leav'n,
And cover Guilt with holiness like Heav'n?
'Twere offering mouldering Mummies pure perfumes—
'Twere painting, varnishing, and gilding, Tombs—
'Twere scattering Amaranths on funeral Biers;
Or hanging Diamonds on an Idol's ears—
'Twere worse—'twere worshipping an earthly Clod,
With adoration only due to God!!!

Could Crispin, when such wakening reasons rose
Lull rous'd Religion in supine repose?
Resolve each contradictious argument,
And give convicting Conscience full content?—
Could he have quench'd his Mind's religious light,
And stopt right Reason's true remarks, he might,
In spite of Heav'n—in spite of Christian Men,
He might have brandish'd, bold, the Poet's pen—
Have gain'd his Patronesses proud regard,
Have borne the honour, still, of household Bard;
Transform'd into a Lyre his rustic Reed,
And merited far more than Laureat's meed—
But he must then have modelled Mind anew,
And turn'd his Heart from all things right and true—
Made his tame Conscience truckle, like the tribes
Of Sycophants, that fawn, and bow, for bribes—
Imagination fill'd with fictions wild,
Till all the principles of Truth were spoil'd—
Till true Religion was possess'd no more,
And pure Morality turn'd out of door.
Then might his breast have harbour'd blessed hopes,
Among ten thousand similes, and tropes,
A wonderous Woman-Deity to draw,
Compounding all fond Fancy ever saw!
A Nondescript! more dignified, and great,
Than Her whom peacocks drew in Car of State,
More fair than Her that issued from the Main!
More bright than Her who burst her Father's brain!
A Goddess more majestic—sweet—and wise—
Than all who taught—seduced—and teiz'd,—the Skies!
Each beauteous charm, and attribute bestow'd,
To puff Protectress, in bold birth-day Ode.
Bedeck'd antique, with all bland airs of youth,
Maugre each hint of mortifying Truth—
In spite of Justice—Knowledge—Sense—and Sight—
Held fadeless Charms must still yield fresh delight!
How matchless Conduct counteracted Time—
Blazon'd each new-born year with Song sublime—
How each bright Virtue made His visage blythe,
While Wit, and Wisdom, stole his glass, and scythe!

Had he pursued the scheme his Muse begun
And Her proud praise thro' annual Odes had run,
No querulous complaint had once been heard—
No lash been felt—no foul indictment fear'd:
No Pow'r had then oppress'd—no Malice blam'd—
No Pride insulted—no rude Passion sham'd—
Nor dauntless Falshood forg'd audacious Lies,
His head to puzzle, or his heart surprize!
Protected Crispin had experienc'd, still,
Her first affection, or her great good-will—
No Child been chasten'd, but with warmth caress'd,
And Daphne boasted, still, untroubl'd breast!

Here qualms of Conscience made his heart demur;
He durst not pillage Heav'n to pamper Her;
Nor let his Muse attempt such impious height
But bridled back his Hobby's feathery flight—
He durst not chaunt such sacrilegious lays,
Nor pay proud Mortal pure Immortal's praise.
He durst not venture heavenly Pow'rs to mock,
Fearing the vengeful Vulture, Chain, and Rock;
But laid aside his once-presumptuous Lyre,
And let the Empyrean keep its fire.
No whip, or spur, would Inclination lend,
To speed the praise of metamorphos'd Friend,
While Sense lay smarting with continual strokes,
Of scorn sarcastic and ungenerous jokes;
The bays all stript before profusely spread,
In shining wreaths, around his humble head—
Long by her selfish suffrage borne, but now
All rudely ravish'd from his blushing brow;
While the bright mantle, Shenstone's shoulders bore,
O'er Crispin's, fondly, doubled on before,
Now from his back by frantic fury reft,
Not one poetic rag, or relique, left!

Could honest Poesy, thus proudly stripp'd,
And oft, by Malice, for amusement, whipp'd;
A trembling, bleeding, Culprit-Bard, inspire,
To sing such Tyrant's fame with wonted fire?
A Muse, denuded, and degraded, so,
Still praise with glee—and still as promptly glow?
She must be mopish, or she must be mad,

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Thus robb'd of every favourite robe she had;
Or act the Hypocrite, with smirking face;
The honest Muse's, honest Man's, disgrace!

The Muses all are females—fond of dress—
None can a Female Robber's hands caress—
Woman's delight is love, in every shape;
But all her Soul abhors a savage rape.

Would courtly Ladies like sarcastic scoff,
While Pow'r, imperious, tore their trinkets off?
Insulted, so, e'er more at Court be seen,
And pay like prompt respects to squabbling Queen?
Suppress all spleen when told, in taunting way,
School-miss could compliment as well as They—
Or, in the Ball-room, urge their happiest airs,
Assur'd such Minx's minuets equall'd Their's?

Would Poet-laureat mount his Pegasus,
And search the World for tropes, when treated thus?
Bring loads of Nectar and Ambrosia back,
When Patron stops his Salary, and Sack?
Still chearful chaunt, while waspish Prince explodes
All inspiration in his annual Odes?
It cannot be—his flying Steed must flag,
When treated thus, like penny Postboy's Nag—
His Muse no more at lofty numbers aim,
Nor fan her kindling fire to lambent flame,
But throw quite by the panegyric pen
And let the Monarch die like other Men.

The simplest Songster, of the feather'd throng,
Witholds the tribute of his twittering Song,
When his almighty Master strips his plumes,
And shuts out sunshine with his wint'ry glooms,
Till vernal radiance renovates the Skies,
When wonted kindness kindles genuine joys:
So when some Female, with weak, fickle, Mind,
Hath whistling Warbler to a cage confin'd,
And there, ungracious, all his hopes betrays,
Curtails his pinions, and restrains her praise;
Still adding cruel, persecuting, pains,
He stops, at once, his wild, untutor'd strains—
For unlike Nature's universal Friend,
Her favour ceas'd, his songs for ever end!

CHAPTER 7th.

Poor Crispin, tabernacled, now, agen,
Among his native Mounts, and native Men;
Near his lov'd rocks, and Heliconian springs,
Again strolls calm, and climbs, and sips, and sings!
Makes all his talents duteous tasks discharge,
His Will unshackled, and his limbs at large;
While faculties and strength, without controul,
Felt pow'r to act from full expanse of Soul!
No passive reference, now—no slavish fear—
No stern injunctions—reprimands austere—
No captious force, with folly to comply—
No cramp caprice—no flagellating lie—
No cruel cavil plucks the painful nerve—
No wish absurd, whence sober judgment swerve—
No false assertions fix their barbs of steel,
While subtle Sophistry makes Reason reel;
Nor hints, nor innuendos, frame a fault,
To blind clear Truth, and make right Conscience naught!
No pow'r despotic, with ungracious growth,
On word, and deed, sits judge and jury both;
Nor arbitrary mandate measures time,
Decreeing common rest a real crime:
In each prompt movement urging greater speed—
Nor deems it rash delinquency to read!

Here Heav'n might all its sovereign views fulfil—
The rot might Sheep, or murrain, Cattle, kill!

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Pigs, now, might pine, without impeaching care;
Or Horses fail without a trick unfair,
When Carters quit their rest, to take their flight,
And ride their labouring Nags to death by night.
Should Crops be scanty, now, or Harvests late,
None dares poor Crispin's lack of prudence rate,
No more he stoops before a Tyrant's throne,
But humbly bows to Providence alone!

Her dough, poor Daphne need not, now, prepare,
Mid colds and damps of midnight wintery air;
Nor, now, inspect each loaf, with luckless pain,
Lest Whim should cavil, or weak Pride complain,
Need not o'er scanty milk, or cream, or butter, moan—
Nor grieve o'er barren kine, now, all her own.
Should eggs grow addled—chickens catch the pip,
It spreads no livid paleness o'er her lip.
If truant turkeys leave neglected nest,
It breeds no horrors in her halcyon breast.
Should poults expire, or foxes dams destroy,
No dread of reprehension drowns her eye;
No cruel mockery doubles all her smarts,
Nor her harsh sorrows choak her Children's hearts!
Their tears, lost Liberty no more bewail—
No Legislators, now, but Parents, rail—
No Mistress makes their bosoms burn, or freeze,
Their sports, their diet, or their dress, decrees—
Claims, now, no rule, no sumptuary right,
Or wills it criminal to clothe in white.
Nature was, now, sole arbiter of sleep,
And taught them when to laugh, and when to weep.
True Freedom lighten'd every care and toil—
'Twas, there, no petit-larceny to smile—
Not construed, now, high-treason, there, to cry,
Nor uttering accents of their genuine joy.
No more they fear'd a Tyrant's awful frowns—
No cruel stigma felt as Fools or Clowns—
Nor, simple Souls! a Favourite's fault sustain'd,
While wounding Epithet, as Thieves, arraign'd.
They, now, might look on flow'rs, or long for fruits,
Without the badge of Cannibals, or Brutes—
Experience Paradise again begin,
Not, now, expell'd, or pain'd, except for Sin.
Their Parents, only, might amusement stint—
Enforce a moral, or religious, hint—
Before no other bar compell'd to plead,
For trifling look, light word, or witless deed;
While motive—thought—or wish—to them unknown,
Must Conscience canvas—Jesus judge, alone,
And fix just Lots, alike, when Time's no more,
On all the Prosperous, as on all the Poor.

Here was full exercise for all their parts,
In useful toils, and ornamental arts.
The Children form'd their chosen times to fill,
With works of exigence, or works of skill—
To ply the labours of the spinning-wheel,
Or evolutions of the pointed steel—
To fill the troughs with sustenance for Swine—
To farm the cowhouse, or to feed the Kine—
To press, from spouting teats, the milky spoil,
Or work the clouted cream to solid oil;
And, at more favour'd moments, garments form,
To decorate their frames, while keeping warm.

Industrious Daphne, thro' long waking hours,
To duteous tasks applied her ductile pow'rs;
Her happy Mate to cherish, and to chear,
Both Night and Day, throughout the toilsome Year,
And, by rare Prudence bless the rising Brood,
With useful clothing, clean, and strength'ning food.

Crispin applied his diligence, and care,
Their hopes to animate, and toils to share.
Prepar'd each necessary, well-known, aid,
To try his strength in agricultural trade;
And, to accommodate pedestrian calls,
Assum'd, once more, his hammer and his awls.
Spent Morning's earliest, Evening's latest, hours,
To rear his esculents, and nurse his flow'rs.
Engag'd, again, low, literary skill,
To scatter knowledge round his native hill;
While all his Race, as humble Ushers, wrought,
Strength'ning self-knowledge all the time they taught.

But tho' these honest efforts all were tried,
His happiest wish wise Providence denied!
Still thwarting Poverty barr'd every way;
Stopp'd each attempt, or baffled each essay—
Hung, like a palsied limb, in each pursuit,
Or, like a churl, refus'd expected fruit!
Nature connecting still some cruel curse,
The sure companion of a shallow purse;
While meagre Want, a treacherous Monster! stood,
Devouring labour—blasting livelihood.

No new-launch'd Characters can sail, or swim,
Unless their canvass flutter full and trim;

125

And, to secure success, within the Hold,
A freight, and ballast, both, of goods, and gold.
From port the vacant Vessel never gets,
Or soon without such balance oversets—
Nor e'er can gain Golconda's shining shores,
Except with bullion boatmen poise their oars;
For useful hands ne'er help them on their way,
Till crews and pilots can secure their pay.

This common adage dullest Rustics know;
That, “Money, only, makes the mare to go;”
And Crispin, to his cost, completely found,
That, tho' 'twas common, 'twas most strictly sound.
In Wealth's communities, accounted wise,
A golden Sun confounds the strongest eyes.
When, on a Throne, by Politicians built,
An Idol's plac'd proud Art has grav'd, and gilt,
No spot, no wrinkle, courtly Flatterers find
While Wits and Blockheads gaze till both grow blind:
So when inferior Idols Dupes behold,
Adorn'd with grandeur, and enrich'd with gold,
The dazzling Object so disturbs their sight
They note no difference whether black or white.
O'er-pow'rd with Pomp, would Prejudice declare,
A Dwarf was tall; a Negroe, fresh, and fair—
That coxcomb Sparrows' chirps, in pompous cage,
Might more than Nightingales, in woods, engage—
That caws of Crows and Rooks, round sumptuous tow'rs,
Outvie the Redbreast's trills in woodbine bow'rs;
And chattering Daws be deem'd much nobler Birds,
Than sapient Owls ne'er using silly words.
No Eagle soars sublime till Pimps behold
And tell its pinions glow with plumes of gold—
No Dove is docile—woodland Songster sweet,
Unless hatch'd—hous'd—fed—taught, in Wealth's retreat.
Poor Crispin's Muse ne'er grubb'd in golden Mine,
Whose produce made his purse, or pinion, shine;
But dug for peat, or delv'd in gravel ground,
Where no bright diamonds, but dull flints, were found,
Had he plough'd silver ore, in place of sands,
He'd ne'er been driven back from distant lands—
Had he discover'd pearls, instead of peat,
He'd ne'er been banish'd from that sordid seat.
But he acquir'd no praise, amass'd no pelf,
To please Employer, or enrich Himself.
The best endeavours, urg'd with utmost might,
When unsuccessful ne'er are reckon'd right;
Tho' every step with care, and skill, be trod,
No single slip escapes the scourging rod.
From sordid Souls no gratitude's obtain'd,
Who fancy greater profits might be gain'd,
Nor hankering heart feels thankful for much store,
Which deems its factor might have furnish'd more.
But censure falls on that afflicted Soul
Which comes within such tyrannies controul!
Romantic views, and visionary schemes
Fade like frail flow'rs, and melt like morning dreams!
In sublunary life scarce more appears,
Than plans, pursuits and failures; hopes and fears!
With cruel troubles every station's curst,
And Wisdom's office is to shun the worst.
Man's best distinguish'd from the Fool, or Beast.
When two ills offer, still to chuse the least:
Here, no alternative, no choice, was giv'n,
By strong Necessity on danger driv'n!
From shelter'd moorings forc'd, at once, to flee,
With scanty stowage—on uncertain sea—
Still firm on Faith and Hope Endeavour stood,
He knew his Pilot pow'rful—wise—and good!

Afflictions follow'd, in a trying train—
Deep disappointment, misery, and pain!
These were, alike, the plaintive Poet's lot,
In gothic Mansion, or in cribbing Cot!
Alike when perch'd in Patronesses Seat,
Or lowly lodg'd in primitive Retreat!
Alike when labouring for his daily bread,
Or, idly, at Scintilla's table fed!
Sickness and sorrow seiz'd his feeble flock,
While watch'd and folded on his natal rock!
Distemper stamp'd indelible disgrace
On every tender, interesting, face!
The reddening rose—untarnish'd lily—tore—
Whose opening blooms deckt each bright face before!
Each mangled charm proud scorn, or pity, felt,
Where long admiring love had fondly dwelt!
When Death, to prove his arbitrary pow'r,
Snatch'd from the group fond Crispin's favourite flow'r!
A flower, among large numbers, only left,
Grim Friend! before their birth, of life bereft!
While, worse than death, far different evils rose,
To grieve his Friends, and gratify his Foes!

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Such fame, and favour, as a hamlet yields—
Such sustenance as flows from rented fields—
Such gain as from retail'd instruction grew,
Integrity, and diligence, and labour, knew.
The Wardens' honours, and the Master's meed,
The Vestry, and the Vicinage, decreed.
Each debt, and duty, chearfully, discharg'd,
His practice amplified, and pow'r enlarg'd;
And every trust, and trial, well sustain'd,
New confidence engaged—new friendships gain'd.
But still he scorn'd, from his parochial throne,
To spurn his peers, or make griev'd paupers groan—
To flatter Wealth, or give the Weak offence,
For heightening interest, or to spare his pence.
From cruel Plenty, or impoverish'd Clown
Incurr'd no imprecation—fear'd no frown—
But rather challeng'd rich Churls rashest curse,
Than pinch the Poor to skreen the common purse.
For, tho' possess'd of no superfluous pelf,
To imitate the woes of worn-out Elf;
Yet, still, each thankful voice proclaim'd his praise,
Imploring plenty, health, and length of days!
Tho' blest with little house, and little land,
And little money, he had small command;
Yet Penury's penetration ne'er mistook
Love's soothing tone, and sympathizing look—
And every eye and ear could clearly tell,
When he refus'd their suit he wish'd them well—
Renew'd no grievances—reveng'd no grudge—
Felt, like a Friend, but balanc'd like a Judge.

Should He assume the Christian's noblest Name
While murd'rously encountering Misery's claim?
Could He expect with plenty to be fed,
Who grudg'd Necessity its meagre bread;
Or fancy he should find long Life and Health,
Who prest the Poor by lifting weight from Wealth?
He hope warm robes by Heav'n would be supplied,
Who coverings, coarse, to Nakedness denied?
E'er feel refresh'd before his blazing fire,
Whilst letting Toil without a spark expire?
Could Wealth taste quiet rest, secure, and warm,
While Penury lay expos'd to every storm;
Or close his eyes, on feathery couch, for shame,
While harden'd planks bruis'd Labour's painful Frame?

Ah! what avails the sympathetic Soul,
Where Indigence denies the needful dole!
What benefit can flow from barren pray'r,
Where Poverty no unclaim'd pence can spare!
What will import the unproductive wish,
While Heav'n devises no superfluous dish!
What kind Compassion's insufficient sigh,
If Providence no second coat supply;
Or what mere Pity's pearly drops produce,
For Sorrow's comfort, or for Hunger's use!
Soft Sympathy's pure looks may mourn such lot!
But cannot Bodies clothe, or build a Cot!
May swell the sigh, or wing the wish, aloft,
But yields no fuel—makes no floor more soft!
Her eyes may bubble, and her heart may bleed,
But mere emotions neither fence, nor feed.
The ineffectual tear, and fruitless groan,
Can only make her fellow-feelings known;
May copy misery, and can echo grief,
Yet whelm not woe, nor lend one Want relief!

Had Crispin stores of treasur'd pelf possest,
Large as the plans of his capacious breast,
His bounteous heart had emptied all his bags,
To metamorphose wretchedness and rags!
In that poor Vicinage was room enough
For Vanity's and Pomp's superfluous stuff!
True Charity might there her pounds employ,
In giving and receiving mutual joy!
Philanthropy might there expand her pow'rs,
And spread bright sunbeams o'er her cloudiest hours!
Humanity might boast unmingled bliss,
And taste pure transports in a World like this!
Might all their wants and weaknesses withstand
And light up comforts in a famish'd Land.
There was enough of Want for Wealth's supplies—
Ignorance enough for Learning's exercise—
Folly enough for Wisdom to correct,
And yield Benevolence its full effect:
Sufficient Vice for Virtue to controul;
And Sin enough to prompt each praying Soul!

Tho' there all these were found yet found not more
Than ev'ry Place affords 'mong friendless Poor;
And Riches looking diligently round,
May find such Objects near each Site abound.
But needy Brethren rarely, now, engage
State's least attention in this iron Age!
Lust—Pride—Pomp—Ostentation—need not roam
They find Necessities enough at home.

127

Wealth feels continual want of something fresh,
To feast the Fancy, or to feed the Flesh—
Its eyes for ever wandering full of Lust,
And, 'midst fruition, feel still greater gust;
While sateless Ostentation, Pomp, and Pride,
With numerous Worlds would ne'er feel satisfied!

The Poor experience more content of Mind,
Their hopes all humble, and their calls confin'd;
But every human heart must feel, and flinch,
When cold oppresses; thirst and hunger, pinch.
This was the desperate case where Crispin dwelt;
Yet, tho' so fully seen, so sadly felt,
They set their fears, and sorrows, all aside,
And follow'd Nature as their faithful guide.

Some few enjoy'd their cots and scraps of Soil,
To skreen their households, and endear their toil.
To lift their labouring bands above distress,
But left no crumbs the neighbouring crows to bless.
Yet tho' they claim'd but scant contiguous ground,
Their fears were lessen'd as they look'd around,
While marking countless useful Arts engag'd
The pow'rs of either Sex, when young, or ag'd—
And, tho' they found few cultur'd fields to till,
Still other crafts employ'd their strength and skill.
The fibrous flax employ'd each spinning wheel,
While ductile iron, and indurated steel,
Engag'd the industry of every growth,
Precluding scarcity, and curing Sloth;
But yet with all their labour, skill, and care,
Still Poverty could find no crusts to spare.
The ampler portions of surrounding Lands,
By Providence were plac'd in idler hands;
And, by imperious, churlish, Chiefs employ'd
To gratify their Pomp, and Lust, and Pride.
The rest, rapacious Squires, or Yeomen proud,
Who grasp'd the pence, and spurn'd the groaning crowd;
With supercilious insolence oppress'd,
But neither Need supplied, nor Labour bless'd!

This was no place where Wealth would Worth protect;
Where Genius—Wit—or Parts could hope respect—
Where Honesty could Fortune's favours carve,
Or Industry do ought but strive and starve—
A Site where Sensibility must find
Much more to grieve, than gratify the Mind—
Where Art, or Science, scarcely could discern,
One subject prompt to teach, or proud to learn—
A Garden where few fruits of Knowledge grew,
Nor Skill, nor Taste, one Cultivator knew—
Where Learning, rarely, single scyon rear'd,
And ev'n Apollo's self had sung unheard—
Whence fair Morality was nearly flown,
And rational Religion hardly known;
Whose gleams, reflected from the gospel Sun,
Few hearts awaken'd, few'r affections won!
But little fervid Faith, or Hope, was found—
Few pious Psalms, or Hymns, responded round—
On Sabbaths, Charity scarce seen to chear
Want's trembling cheek, or soak up Sorrow's tear;
For Poverty had spread its general reign,
O'er every procreant Hamlet—Hill—and Plain!

But Crispin's heaviest want was mental meat;
Such as his pamper'd Spirit, now, could eat.
Shenstone long lost, and Lyttleton now gone,
He found few letter'd loaves to feed upon;
None but the larder of lov'd Dudley Ward,
Who then maintain'd His primitive regard.
But Penury rais'd insuperable bar,
Against importing printed food so far;
For sev'nths of Time were claim'd by Heav'n's behest,
Demands of duty call'd for all the rest.
Here varied Fortune press'd most vital pain;
His fall'n finance could no new stock obtain—
He chew'd his own choice morsels o'er and o'er,
But found they yielded nourishment no more;
While fervour striving some fresh store to find,
Increas'd the cravings of his famish'd Mind!

What living Mortal not of limbs bereft,
While one faint spark of active Spirit's left,
By Hope attracted, and impell'd by Fear,
Would wish to fix Time's tabernacle there?
Except some Vision, or some obvious voice
Had charm'd his faculty, and fix'd his choice—
Some Messenger commission'd from the Sky
On whom both Sense and Reason might rely—
Whom Conscience might with confidence receive,
And Christian scrupulosity believe,
Had warn'd him, at his peril still to stay,
To 'scape dire evils of much drearier day;
Lest countless tribulations new, and strange,
Might wound his heart, and make him wail a change.

128

Had he possess'd such floods of wealth as flow
To Nabob's treasury from Want and Woe,
Or such as greater Savages can get
From kidnapp'd Negroe's blisters, blood, and sweat—
Such as from Courtier's Posts and pensions rise,
Or Conqu'rors gather 'midst groans, tears, and cries—
Wealth Peers possess, from Providence's hands,
With larger cultur'd lots of neighb'ring Lands,
He ne'er had sought such companies to quit,
For Wealthier Friends, with Learning, Taste, and Wit;
But gladlier giv'n his native Poor support,
Than share the sunshine of a canting Court.
Had rather spent on Toil superfluous hoards
Than heard his own applause round splendid boards;
Or adding guilty gold, those heaps to swell,
Like Dives, leave, and count the cost in Hell!
With Wealth, he might have tasted, there, those joys
That Mortals rarely reach below the Skies!
Those genuine joys, those raptures, never known
By Sycophants, that throng round earthly Throne!
Disinterested transports! heavenly bliss!
Felt by pure Faith alone in Scenes like this!
Pure happiness! by grandeur ne'er enjoy'd,
'Mong idol hosts of Vanity and Pride!
By Ostentation never understood;
Bliss, giv'n to all, by Heav'n—while doing good!

It was not whim nor merely love of change,
That made Crispinus long again to range.
Not for Himself he dreaded Fortune's frown,
He'd pass'd Life's summit, and was wandering down.
The prospect look'd less dazzling while more clear,
His near horizon narrowing every Year.
Example prov'd, and Self-reflection found
His head grew hourly nearer to the ground;
While strong, or weak, whene'er he waked, or slept,
Still on his downward way he constant kept.
Whether he spent his time in sigh, or song,
His pains, or pleasures, could not, now, be long—
And, whether in his movement swift or slow,
He soon must sink in some small spot below!

His youthful troop was labouring to ascend,
And ill could spare a Father, Guide, and Friend.
Tho' conscious many sojourners must drop,
Before their youthful feet attain'd the top,
Their breasts beat high while clambering up the Hill,
For every step their prospects open'd, still.
The curve extended—objects multiplied—
Which call'd attention from the farther side.
Imagination wing'd each new-wak'd hope,
While vernal Suns illum'd the swelling slope;
Diffusing o'er the whole a brightening beam,
To draw back vision from the dark extreme:
All seem'd attainable—all rich—all gay—
Like painted harlots, plotting to betray!
Fair by Creation—but deprav'd by Sin—
Yet Fancy found enough her wish to win;
All so disguised by meritricious Art,
Each bosom panted to obtain a part.
He warn'd them, daily, of each dangerous snare,
Which youthful inclination longs to share;
For, till Experience proves those cautions right,
Frail Flesh will follow Sense, and Appetite.
He knew no earthly joys were long enjoy'd,
And wish'd to check all falshood, lust, and pride.
Still strove in prayer each offspring might be blest
With peace, and comfort, in some place of rest—
In some sequester'd cove each anchor cast,
Secure from shipwreck, want, and blustering blast;
When all his doubts, and fears, and cares, might cease,
Then, calmly, close his aged eyes in peace!

Such happy, enviable, stablish'd, state,
Is ne'er dispens'd by Fortune, or by Fate;
Nor springs, alone, from prudence, care, or skill,
From personal graces, or the World's Good-Will;
But from that boundless Wisdom, Love, and Pow'r,
Which still bestows, on all, each bounteous dow'r,
And must those gifts with mental Graces bless,
Ere Man's endeavours meet with wish'd success.
But every Soul that seeks those gifts to share,
Must ask of Heav'n, with penitence, by Pray'r;
And seek such counsel, from that faithful Friend,
As Reason's and Religion's calls commend;
For Conscience calls, and Heav'n's injunctions, join'd,
Press those plain Duties upon all Mankind.

Some recent favours, from the former Source,
Reach'd Crispin's cottage, in appropriate course—
Some reflex rays that earthly Luna shed,
Which sooth'd his Soul, and eas'd his pensive head;
Renewing Gratitude, with wonted glow,
And pure Affection's sentimental flow,
Till Hate and Envy turn'd the stream aside,
And Cruelty and Scorn all debts destroy'd.

129

He fondly felt his grateful bosom burn,
To make his Friends, and Patrons, full return—
For each true Christian, who believes his Creeds,
Tho' he appreciates proud Delinquent's deeds;
Yet, finding Self so full of earthly leav'n,
So oft offending 'gainst the God of Heav'n—
While Faith—Hope—Love—within his bosom live,
Hears Christ, and Conscience, whisper, “Friend—forgive.”

How can a Man his Master's pray'r repeat,
Whose ears refuse to hear a Friend intreat;
Or all Heav'n's gracious blessings hope to gain,
Who, unconcern'd, can hear that Friend complain!
Who never feels his flinty heart relent,
When Fellow-Sinners prove their Souls repent!
These were the clear conditions Heav'n display'd,
When God's dear Son the perfect pattern made;
And so ordain'd the stipulated plan
Of mutual Mercy, shewn by Man, to Man!
Such peccant Creatures should no Culprits spurn,
Who, back to Duty, by repentance, turn;
Nor persecute, with spite, tho' oft perverse,
But pardon, still, to 'scape Heav'n's fatal curse:
How can fall'n Man perform a Christian's part,
Who harbours hatred in his vengeful heart?
Frail, sinful, Souls, ought all revenge forego,
When pardon'd Friend appears no more a Foe;
Yea, all revengeful punishment suspend,
Tho' persecuting Foe ne'er proves a Friend—
Much more should Brethren pardon Brethren's crimes,
Repented, still, to thrice ten thousand times:
Should blot each blemish out—forgive disgrace—
And cordially renew the kind embrace:
Not hurried on by Passion, or by Pride,
With finite Knowledge forfeitures decide;
But, with Christ's Grace, believing in God's Word,
Leave in His hands the balance and the sword—
His Vengeance may, awhile, at rest remain,
But His strict Justice bears no sword in vain!

That Being whence all others boast their birth,
Bright Hosts of Heav'n—and Habitants of Earth—
At one vast view, past, present, future, sees,
And knows their fate—but not by fixt decrees—
While by his boundless Pow'r—Love—Wisdom—Will,
He actuates—governs—guides—supports them, still;
Bestowing ample bounty free, to all,
Which crowd the Skies, and range this rounded Ball;
But not to Spirits pure, or Man, is known
Their future lot, but Deity alone.

Crispin's dissatisfaction Fame reveal'd—
He ne'er with care true sentiments conceal'd;
But friendly correspondence frankly led
To facts which Rumour's colloquies had spread,
That he again had tempting offers made
To leave his farm, and literary trade;
And when Heav'n opens advantageous views,
Prudence should ne'er demur, nor Faith refuse.

With him Reserve was no prevailing Vice—
Candour's ne'er troubl'd long with tedious choice—
Ne'er, long, twixt opposite opinions halts,
Conceals its failures, or denies its faults.
Tho' not, at all times, like the Serpent, wise;
It ne'er puts on the Hypocrite's disguise;
But most resembles undesigning Doves,
As Nature prompts, it speaks, and looks, and loves!

Reserve is, often, but a prim pretence
For want of Wit, Worth, Honesty, or Sense.
It may support, sometimes, prudential rules;
But oftener forms a cloak for Knaves or Fools.
Truth may by Puppies, Pimps, or Prudes, be blam'd,
But, as the proverb shows, can ne'er be sham'd—
May prove impertinent, in time, or place;
But ne'er incurs a criminal disgrace.
May mimic specious wit, or spurious taste;
But, when stark naked, never looks unchaste.
May Pride affront, or Affectation hurt,
But pains no Duty—pilfers no Desert.
May Priests, or Politicians, oft offend;
But proves good Pastor's, and good Patriot's, Friend.
May strip the Church, or stigmatize the Court;
Yet still true peace, and piety, support.
May make a Prelate storm—a Statesman wince—
With profligacy brand a spendthrift Prince—
Those fix'd on Thrones with Fools, or Misers, mix,
Yet never plots to play them slippery tricks.
Must trouble Bigots—weak Fanatics wound,
But shocks no genuine Faith, nor Doctrine sound.
Must Superstition's blind devotion blame,
But always leads to Heav'n from whence it came.
'Tis Reason's rule—Religion's best defence—
The track of Science, and the test of Sense—
Blest Revelation's fairest, surest, Friend;

130

The base on which pure Faith and Hope depend—
The dernier point where all Dispute should rest,
And leave in love and peace each happy breast!

Where Crispin's labours past protection shar'd,
Connexions, new, kind Providence prepar'd;
Which, now, appear'd to promise better things
Than fiery Serpent's fangs, and bitter Springs;
Murmurs, and menaces, and deep disgrace,
So oft experienc'd in his former place—
From post to post, thro' pains and perils led;
And, tho' securely bless'd with cloaths and bread,
Yet still continual agitations toss'd,
For Jordan's current had not yet been cross'd.
Seduc'd with placid smiles, and smoothest speech,
Again residing in a Tyrant's reach,
Tho' quails, and manna, Appetites might bless,
He still was wandering in a Wilderness!

He dreamt that nothing, now, endanger'd rest—
Of plenty—pleasure—permanence—possest!
A sumptuous habitation! vestments fair!
His food—fire—chattels—free from cost, and care.
Fancy now grasp'd the Canaanitish grapes—
Held flow'rs in ever-varying hues and shapes—
Rich milky fountains, and mellifluent show'rs,
But quite forgot the giants—forts—and tow'rs!
Ere long the fascinating Vision fled,
That thus allur'd his heart, and lull'd his head;
For, soon, with startling terrors, wide awake,
He found his error—felt his mad mistake!

His Daphne, tho' no prophetess, profess'd,
Like fam'd Cassandra, felt her troubled breast,
Not anxious care, alone, and sorrow, swell,
With omens, direful, and prognostics, fell,
But warning words pronounc'd impending lot
In form and manner memory ne'er forgot—
What woes and pains would press each heavy hour,
When placed again within the Despot's pow'r!
That, when his flock was left, and he, alone,
Would pay his deep devoirs before her throne,
Her gracious compliments, and glowing smiles,
Might calm his cares, and mitigate his toils;
But when his Consort, and his Children, came
Within the influence of the ficke Dame,
Her Soul foresaw a striking change of state—
That strife, and taunts, and frowns, would be his fate—
For tried experience taught, from what was past,
In such a clime no sunshine long would last;
But soon by blustering storms, and biting frost,
Faith's leaves, and Friendship's flow'rs, would all be lost!
All Hope's fair flow'rs, by Fancy shown so bright,
Not fed by Love will fall by Passion's blight;
And all the summer fruits Faith sought to see,
Soon fell from Patronage's fruitless Tree!

Heav'n, in just vengeance for his impious wish,
To leave plain diet for high-season'd dish;
Great store of onions, leeks, and garlic, gave,
But fix'd him, firmly, as a servile Slave!
No cucumbers, or melon's, were denied—
The flesh-pots, and the fish, were well supplied—
But the pure bread from Heav'n no longer greets
The Spirit's palate with celestial sweets;
By daily bounty scatter'd from the Skies,
Of which one Omer ought a Saint suffice—
And all, whose greediness will gather more,
Find rottenness, and stench, corrupt their store!
The heavenly fountain, and fresh manna, fails,
While punishment pursues requests for quails,
Now doom'd again in Egypt's land to groan,
For the same female Pharaoh rul'd the throne.

Again, to bribe him she fresh arts essay'd,
To quit his Family and farming trade;
The vulgar village, and the pensive plain,
To brood beneath her gracious wings again,
And every pow'r and privilege enjoy,
That Potiphar conferr'd on Hebrew boy.
The full command of town, and country, domes—
The mingl'd furniture and motley tomes—
Vast reservoirs of stores, and rooms of state—
Proud magazines of parchments—and of plate—
Candles, and lamps, and various food for fire—
Chequer'd and tinsel'd suits of slaves attire—
Innumerous articles of daily bread
On which high Demigods, and Dupes, were fed;
With all the Beasts that form the stables store,
That stump on two legs, or which fly on four—
With endless items Wits would call uncouth;
Not fit for tuneful Registers of truth—
Such sounds as Tradesmens' catalogues might name,
But quite unfit for Chronicles of Fame—
Too trite; too tiresome; ludicrous, and large,
For ought but Butler's or Housekeeper's charge.

131

Vested with vast authority o'er all
That cram the kitchen, or that haunt the hall—
With many mammock'd fragments that remain'd
Which he and all his fellow-slaves sustained;
That round the royal presence proudly shine,
Inspect the wardrobe, or dispense the wine.
Authority o'er all but private pelf,
Trinkets, and toys; his Mistress, and—Himself:
For pow'r a greater gives, and can recal,
Is, in reality, no pow'r at all.
The mingled mass of treasure—time—and will—
The pow'r to nominate—the pow'r to nill—
To punish—to reward—deny—demur,
With all her adjuncts, center'd, sole, in Her.
Command of bodies, and command of Souls,
Subject to Her executive controuls;
All—all—depending on supreme decree,
Which left no other individual free.

This was a pure, unmix'd, despotic, state—
Small room for council—none for free debate.
No pow'r to stop, to turn, or to restrain,
One wheel of government, or golden grain:
And, maugre all sophistic arguments,
Such are all cunning Tyrants' clear intents.
What He possess'd of influence, or of force,
Was barely borrow'd from the sovereign source;
All faint reflection from the thrifty Throne;
No warmth, no radiance, could He call his own.
Weak, lunar, light, such Primaries dispense.
As guards of Liberty, or guides of Sense—
In fact, such Slaves, as Secondaries, run,
In different orbits, round their central Sun;
And He was only placed, o'er other Loons,
First Minister among inferior Moons.
Oft meaner Moons, in each revolving race,
Were suffer'd to usurp superior place;
Encourag'd, or commanded to appear,
With fuller influence in his proper sphere;
While dull, in different aspects, he, displays,
Each day—each hour—each moment—different phase—
Now horn'd—bisected—gibbous—full—or dark—
As She transmitted each proportion'd spark.
Full oft the Earth's dark shadows crept between—
Then were the beams of brightness seldom seen—
And when this World obscur'd brows, eyes, and lips,
Poor Crispin suffer'd a complete eclipse!

Such changes oft are found among the Great,
Suns, and attendant Satellites of State,
Where Ministers, and Courtiers, form the rings,
Circles, concentric, round the thrones of Kings.
Where, with soft smiles, when mighty Monarch speaks,
Their fluttering pulses play ten thousand freaks;
But if his voice revolts, and features frown,
The hapless Panders hang, or shoot, or drown.

By such precarious tenure Crispin held—
Caprice attracted, or Caprice repell'd:
Nought constant stood but ostentatious Pride,
And mix'd emotions to its Lusts allied;
For stablish'd Prejudice their strength maintain'd,
'Mid pow'rful Passions, which, alternate, reign'd.

Those, tho' perverted, still feel faultless laws,
All things depending on the parent Cause.
A petty type of that stupendous plan
That, to his Maker, ties poor peccant Man;
Where the wide chasm, thro' that unbounded space,
Is occupied by Mercy—Love—and Grace!

In this the vast essential difference lies,
Betwixt the Government of Earth and Skies;
Knaves, Fools, or Frantics, here, may sit supreme;
There, One, all-perfect, holds the Blade, and Beam—
Weighs every Wight in Wisdom's equal scales,
And wards, or wounds, as Love, or Lust, prevails;
But each, with boundless Charity, suspends,
Till, with the term of Life, all Tryal ends!
Meantime, tho' punishments may oft have place,
None can, distinctly, all their pointings trace;
For, tho' on Emperor—Peer—Mechanic—Clown—
He drops, apparent, partial blessings down—
And tho' to ignorant Mortals' misty sights,
He gives the worldly Great all Earth's delights;
In Angel's eyes, the happiest, and the high'st,
Is he whose Faith—Hopes—Comforts—rest on Christ—
In Earth, and Heav'n, the most completely bless'd,
Who copies, clear, His perfect pattern best—

Here God oft gives to simpler Souls, obscure,
An honest heart—firm faith—and spirit pure!
On bootless Toil confers far better dow'r,
Than dangerous Riches, or obnoxious Pow'r—
On pious Pauper, more content bestows
Than impious Prelate—Prince—or Monarch, knows!

Will Wisdom, infinite, and Love, divine,
Respect those most where bounteous gifts combine?

132

Which gave them sprightly Health? and spirits gay?
More charms of Mind, and comelier-moddl'd Clay?
Wealth—Honours—Influence—every treacherous trust,
All prone to tempt the Soul to Pride and Lust!
More than those Creatures, that His kind regard,
From all such traps, and trials, thus debarr'd?
Mortals might then condemn their Maker's deed,
For faults, and follies, which from Pride proceed.
Whose wishes, rash, Themsleves as idols, raise—
Fill their frail censers with sweet fumes of praise—
Spread o'er each faulty part some gilt disguise
Then offer all, to Self—fond Sacrifice!

The great Creator, ever just and true!
Must rectitude and order still pursue;
Ne'er Men, invested with such gifts, reveres,
Who outstrip Him, and trample on their Peers!
He looks on all Mankind with equal eye
Who sway proud sceptres, or in dungeons die!
No golden God is rear'd by His command—
No summon sent thro' every slavish Land,
With martial trumps, and instruments of mirth,
Convening vain inhabitants of Earth,
To bow, with awe, before such haughty Shrine,
And hold dead Metal, or dull Man, divine;
Nor lights fierce fires, to make Men's Lives a prey,
Who dare such Despot's mandates disobey!
He casts no Culprit down in lion's den
Who practises pure pious rights of Men;
Or destines multitudes to burn or bleed,
Whose Conscience execrates each papal Creed!
Such phrensies every hour infest Mankind,
Thro' native pride, and impotence of Mind.
Clerics and Laics both alike disturb,
Till true Religion strains her tighten'd curb.
All honour, pow'r, or property, pursue,
Some greater goods to gain, or, ills, eschew—
While each with wealth—pow'r—pomp—and pride, possest,
Hopes adoration paid by all the rest!

The same propensities impel the Crowd—
Alike imperious, positive, and proud.
Their Inclination only dormant lies
Thro' lack of stimulants to make it rise.
Strike but a spark to kindle Pride, or Lust,
Each graceless heart will glow with equal gust;
Or Passions' breezes, blowing, fan to flame,
Each breast will burn, and blood will boil, the same.

The strong distinctions, that so prompt appear,
Spring from the prevalence of Hope, or Fear;
The hope of Happiness, or fear of Woe,
Which Influence can inflict, or Wealth bestow—
Almighty Money makes the only odds,
Betwixt poor Peasants and Earth's golden Gods!
All Wisdom's attributes belong to Wealth,
Bestow'd by ancestry, or got by Stealth.
The strong necessity, and powerful source,
Of soft persuasion, and resistless force.
To Wealth all Pow'r—Fame—Influence—belong;
That buttress up the Throne, and blind the Throng.
A Vortex, which, in high, or abject, place,
Absorbs, or whirls about, Man's mortal Race!
To Honour hoisted, or to Slavery hurl'd—
Thus Tools and Tyrants constitute the World!
Some in proud shapes of Emperors—Princes—Popes—
Distribute stars and ribbands—titles—ropes—
And still the rising Ranks, with eager eyes,
Gaze, hankering for each paltry prize;
While ignorant Fools, below, look wide agape,
To see such Prodigies in human shape!
Meantime with secret, but consummate, skill,
They hide base Art, and arbitrary Will;
And, while appearing Patrons of the Whole,
Enslave each Body, and ensnare each Soul;
And still fresh wants, or novel whimsies, find,
To plague, or please; to grieve, or glad, Mankind!

Thus they, whom Providence hath plac'd on high,
Neglect their posts, and plot against the Sky!
In Fancy's fairy-land to Gods they grow,
And look for Worship from the World below!
Pile Pomp on Pow'r, to pillar up their Pride,
And deem all pygmies on the Earth beside—
With slime and clay their temp'ral Babels build,
While with confusion all Creation's fill'd!

In every Order, downward, Self still sways—
Claims of precedence, false—each trust betrays—
Spreads courtly colours; aping Apes above—
Lisps frail possessions—grins, egregious Love—
Each male and female—ugly—old—or dull—
All heads, and hearts, with fond Self-preference full,
Endeavour to impose despotic sway,
The lowest thinking thousands low'r than they.

133

Thus Common-Sense each human Creature sees,
In different forms, and different degrees.
The self-same blind propensities abound,
In every Class, above—below—around.
Like pride—congenial passions—carnal bent—
Alone unlike in colour, or extent:
All wishing idol-worship—flattery—fame—
The vizor, only, varying—Self the same.

Midst these concentric orbits Crispin run;
First Satellite, attending his terrestrial Sun;
And, from that middle scite, could clearly scan,
The mixt epitome of Motley Man:
Where, in each Place, when accurately spell'd,
Like plans, pursuits, and Hopes, his Mind beheld.
Great—middling—little, much the same, he saw
Were govern'd, all, by like unvaried Law;
The Rich not more, or less, mean—vicious—vain,
Than the poor Creatures that compos'd their Train.
No notes of difference, nor distinction, strike;
Lords and their Lacqueys acting just alike:
If this discernment any difference found,
'Twas in external suit, or titled sound;
And oft were Servants more than Masters, seen
To shine, in garnish'd garb, shape, air, and mien.
Ev'n in proud Priests, of high or low, degree,
And stiff Attendants, he could scarcely see
The least distinction—but, both low'st and high'st,
Look'd unlike Christians—how much less like Christ!
Archbishops, no Evangelists, or Seers—
Bishops, not meek Apostles, but proud Peers—
And all the Priests that fill'd inferior posts,
How different from the first discipled Hosts!
Prophets, and Priests, of old, were never vain;
Or turn'd sham godliness to shining gain!
Sought no revenues vast, for pride, or lust—
They took their Master's promises, on trust!
Ne'er to provoke His pow'r, and Men to mock,
With hirelings left their own immortal flock!
To Sunday-routs, or feasts, ne'er fled from Church;
Leaving the Souls of Sinners in the lurch!
For choicest business never Sabbaths chose,
Incurring scorn from Faith's inveterate Foes!
Ne'er from their Chapels, and Cathedrals, kept,
To anger Heav'n, while Saints and Angels wept!
Ne'er through each Town, for impious pleasure, stray'd,
While gracious Priests, and Congregations, pray'd!
Infring'd no sacred Rites, or Servants' rest,
While Curates preach'd, or Penitents confess'd!
No pompous Equipage paraded round,
True Christians' Consciences, and hearts, to wound;
Nor hop'd applauses from the thoughtless throngs
While Heav'n's pure praise burst forth from tuneful tongues!
Ne'er proudly stood amidst a pious Crowd,
While, struck with guilt, each humbly bent and bow'd;
Nor rear'd their heads with high primatic pride,
While poor Repentants wept, and groan'd, and sigh'd!
Ne'er practis'd tricks to make their face more fair,
While saints were supplicating Heav'n with pray'r—
Which Crispin mark'd with mix'd contempt and grief,
When view'd, in vain Hibernian Church's Chief.

They spent no portion of Heav'n's holy day,
In noise, and nonsense—garrulously gay!
No vanities profane, or vicious sports,
Engross'd God's glory, or contemn'd his Courts!
They read His Word—obey'd His bless'd Will—
All Duties learnt—and labour'd to fulfil!

They every proud pre-eminence abhorr'd;
And loath'd those sounding syllables—“My Lord!”
Claim'd no appellatives from pow'r, or place,
“Rev'rend—Most Rev'rend—Lordship—or, Your Grace!”
Yet felt Ambition bolder aims inspire,
For nobler Objects—Names, and Honours, high'r—
Not palaces—Demesnes—and Mitres—here,
But Throne—Crowns—Kingdoms—in celestial Sphere!

These modern Prelates plan more carnal scheme;
To steal within one step of pow'r supreme—
And, framing practice by their private Code,
Hope to ride on to Heav'n, an easier road!
They choose, in spite of genuine Truth, to judge,
And hate the narrow path where Pilgrims trudge—
On wicket-gate no kind attention fix,
But wish to travel on with Coach-and-six.
Push all their hopes, and interests, here, with Men,
And spurn, with sport the being born again;
Like Nicodemus wondering what is meant,
With natural knowledge, common truths content;
Nor drudge to be adopted Heaven's Heirs,
While temporal pleasures are already theirs.
Form close connexions with the Rich, and Great,
To feast their fill, in splendour, pomp, and state!

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From fear of Conscience, or of Heav'n's behest,
They leave no Pride, or Passion, long, unbless'd;
Nor e'er, in harshly-mortifying mood,
Refrain from any kind of carnal food.
Ne'er captiously dispute with Brother Paul,
That 'tis not well to taste of wine at all,
But, rather than be counted over-nice,
Will patiently adopt his kind advice;
A little, still, and still, a little, take;
Not for indulgence, but their stomach's-sake!
For, if abstemious Timothy had need,
From tenderness of stomach, so to feed,
They can prefer a much more pow'rful plea,
Having far more infirmities than He.
All superstitious forms, and deeds, disclaim,
Nor seek from self-denial saintly name;
They'd rather wish their frames well cloth'd, and fed,
Than live like Wretches chronicled in red,
Ne'er weakly long a single Soul to win,
By recluse lives, and looks poor, pale, and thin;
But deem it better to indulge desire,
Than purchase fame with perishing by fire.
They, like Apostles, never, rashly, roam,
Preferring plenty, peace, and ease, at home—
Inspir'd examples never try to reach,
Nor think it requisite to pray, or preach;
But, with Armagh, decline all cleric charge;
Or, like wild, wandering Derry, live at large.
They ne'er attend the toll of Sabbath-bell—
Curates, tho' Deacons, act their part as well;
Nay, were some Christians to decide the case
Their Deputies deserve the upper place.

Tho' spending Life in luxury and ease,
They hope their kind Creator still to please;
Not the Creator that can fix their fate,
But He that made them Lords; and may translate—
That Pride which prompts them loftier still to soar,
Loaths every danger of descending low'r;
Yet scarce would call it a pure proof of Love,
By Heav'n translated to higher Sees above;
For all the pleasures, and employments, there,
Are so unlike their long-lov'd habits here,
That while such lusts, and luxuries, can be us'd,
They'd hope kind Heav'n would keep them long excus'd.

But he who blames this base prelatic plan,
Condemns not Order, but the craft of Man—
Deems due subordination always best;
But grieves that God's free Grace is judg'd a jest!
Agrees that godly Peers are precious things,
In Bishop-shapes, as well as christian Kings.
Not Priests, appointed just to prop their state,
Which carnal Popes or impious Kings create.
Confirm'd by vows profane, and perjur'd Oaths,
Which Heav'n detests, and each true Christian loathes:
Not Tools selected from some titled Race,
Devoid of Virtue, and all gifts of Grace;
Nor Blockheads, call'd by nameless Blockhead's nod,
Usurping pow'rs which all belong to God!
But Knowledge, naming Prelates to their Post,
With Grace well-gifted by the Holy Ghost;
Possess'd of Science, and pure Wisdom's dow'r,
Not mummery mocking at that Spirit's pow'r;
But such as Porteus, pious—Horsley, learn'd;
And bounteous Barrington, whose Spirit spurn'd,
Each false pretence—but, with sublimer Soul,
Soar'd high beyond Hypocrisy's controul!

Prelates, proclaim'd by Kings, and calls divine,
Should, like great Lights, more luminously shine.
Not, in a sphere confin'd, such lustre shed,
Beneath a bushel, or beneath a bed;
But labour thro' the Bishop's course to run,
As Paul prescrib'd to Timothy, his Son:
To lead a sober, sage, religious, Life,
The wise and faithful Husband of one Wife—
Not living Bachelors' abandon'd lives,
Nor keeping Concubines as well as Wives.

Their Wives—poor Souls! it vex'd the Bard to find
All titular distinctions left behind!
Who—if they boast no Title by their Birth,
Are levell'd with the lowest hordes on Earth!
For Ma'am, and Mistress, Custom's fix'd, like Fate,
To Chimney-brusher's Bride, and Nightman's Mate!

Ye elevated Chiefs, who rule the Church,
How can you leave your Consorts in the lurch!
Leave them to share, alone, your lineal Name—
Oh! fie! right reverend Benchers—fie! for shame!
Each might as well abide with boorish Sire,
As grasp a Hierarch, and get no high'r!
Tho' dress'd, and deck'd, like Queens each claims a Coach,
Still, this takes not away such rude reproach!
Would it not more with dignity accord,
To call, “My Lady”—when she calls, “My Lord?”

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And would it not be nobler for your Dears
To rank as Peeresses, while you are Peers?
Oh! 'tis a sad subordinating sign
Your views, hopes, projects, are not all divine,
But arbitrary pride, and tends to prove
They're objects of Dominion, more than Love!
Love equalizes all! extirpates Pride!
And leaves no Bridegroom greater than his Bride!

When Heav'n, at first, the Marriage-rite made known,
The Wife was flesh of flesh—and bone of bone—
But when her folly wisht forbidden fruit,
Love felt corruption at the very root;
And He whose Will may punish, or prefer,
Subtracted full equality from Her—
Pluck'd, from her soaring wing, one single plume,
Lest Vanity should vie, or Pride presume—
Just to make Man's prerogative prevail,
Withdrew some scruples from the Woman's scale;
From proud aspiring projects simply, kept her,
Lest Wives might seize the Sword, and claim the Sceptre!
But Nature's Author ne'er could play such pranks,
Thus rating them below their Husbands' ranks.
Each Christian Chief should, strenuously, strive,
Like Saints, to keep equality alive—
Still, more particularly, equal State,
Between their Lordships and each loving Mate;
As humble patterns for the human Race,
They ought to spurn all Titles, Pomp, and Place;
But if they must maintain high Honour, still,
So very adverse to their lowly Will!
Then let them every apt expedient use
To gain their griev'd Companions proper dues;
To bless the feelings of each bosom Friend,
Each noble Noun, and Adjective, extend,
That both, alike, when listening crowds are near,
The same sweet, rapturing, sounds may, ever, hear!
That their pure bosoms may as nobly burn—
As often hear each tuneful note return—
As oft those matchless melodies enjoy,
Which ne'er can ears of tasteful females cloy!
As frequent feel the wish to cry encore,
At those dear cadences their Souls adore!
Let not their tenderer nerves be longer torn,
With empty epithets of common scorn;
For all the Wives of all the Bishops' bench,
Are styl'd no nobler than their Kitchen-wench—
While a low Housekeeper, or Lady's Doll,
A prudish Sycophant, or Sailor's Poll;
The Meanest Daughter of the meanest Trade,
A Beggar's Brat—lewd Jilt—or lecherous Jade,
Who can, by cunning, or gay conduct, get
Some temporal Peer, or paltry Baronet,
With her to Church, or Gretna-Green, to trip
Becomes both Lady, and, her Ladyship!

Till this absurd, obnoxious, Custom's cur'd,
By human Nature not to be endur'd!
It leaves this maxim fix'd on each fair Mind,
That High-priests are most proud of all Mankind!
Prouder than Princes—there each Partner shares
All the extatic Titles that are theirs—
Prouder than Potentates, whose Wives are known
To share all Honours that attend a Throne!

O, Ye, dread Pow'rs! whence all Earth's honour springs!
Kings; Favourites, Friends, and Ministers, of Kings!
Ye that possess your pow'rful Prince's ear!
Ye that still deem a Female's favours dear!
Ye that your Sovereign's gracious Councils guide,
And gild your speech to gratify His pride;
Use all your interest—all your eloquence,
To gain such Sufferers due benevolence!
Implore your Head to exercise His Will,
Lest sharp chagrin unladied Ladies kill!
For tho' they yet retain accustom'd breath,
They must, at length, needs die a lingering death!

Ye Commons, all; both eloquent and mute;
Call forth your faculties this Case to suit.
Exert your talents to their full extent,
All you who reason, and use argument,
Or largely deal in declamation loud,
Try all your strength to win the waking Crowd;
And you, who doze, and dream from day to day,
For once, without a bribe, vociferate—Aye!

Ye cold, indifferent, silent, sleepy, Peers,
Have some compassion on your Cousin's tears!
Rouze reasoning pow'rs, if such your Souls possess,
To still their troubles, and these wrongs redress!

Ye Prelates, proud! in Colleagues' Cause appear,
And try if Truth can reach the Royal ear.
Leave lulling stalls—with rhetoric rouse the House—
Nor longer let lay Lords your Consorts chouse—
One Sermon more, if possible now preach,

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That may your Sovereign's careless Conscience reach—
Thus, pitying, take your injur'd Spouses' parts,
To rouze up King's and Commons' heedless hearts;
While Justice loudly calls the Lordly class,
To see such new arrangement ought to pass.
All, use best efforts both of tongue and pen,
To make Your worshipp'd Master add—Amen!

Blest be the Patriot who propounds a Law
To heal this oversight—this dreadful flaw!
And calls the Commons' senatorial Sense
To set aside this flagrant, gross, offence!
Blest the lay Peers who help the Plaintiff's pray'rs
To make the Prelates' Helpmates rank with Their's;
And blest, thrice blest must that good Monarch be,
Who fully sanctions such a kind Decree!

Ye Peers, who second such a right Request
Tho' Consorts curse, by Bishops you'll be blest—
And for you, once a month, perhaps, may pray,
In Lent—or Session-time—on Sabbath-day!
Tho' Wealth's most wish'd, to Pomp they're ne'er averse—
Would fondly feed their Pride—tho' more their purse.
It cannot amplify their ample store
But might contribute one distinction more.
It could not to their Time or Income, add,
But Honours always make their hearts full glad!
Ribs may be crooked—are, sometimes, a clog—
Still stands the Proverb; “Love Me, love my Dog!”

Their grateful Wives would graciously address,
Perhaps repay you with a warm caress,
While joyful veins would push the purple flood,
For Bishops' Wives, you know, are flesh and blood.
'Twill stand the high'st atchievement of your Lives;
Nor need you fear your own offended Wives—
Their spiteful pride most certainly will pout,
But their caresses you can shift without—
Your Mistresses can feel no mighty grutch,
They have no honour, and they hope none such.
Your purse and your protection's all they claim—
They must not ask Nobility, or Name—
They wish no Titles while your Wealth's enjoy'd,
They have your arms, and boast your hearts beside!

This is a most inexplicable Case,
That both, made Lords, by Men of heavenly Race;
Both holding equal Honour, all their Lives,
Should, yet, so oddly op'rate on their Wives—
One should with titles charm, and t'other chouse,
Yet vote alike in legislative House!
'Tis passing strange a Woman should be wiv'd
By One, with special pow'rs from Heav'n deriv'd,
Whose holy hands, with ev'n the slightest touch,
On Barons, as on Boors, confer so much;
Still on their Wives no blessing can bestow,
More than the blackguard Rogues that rank below;
Whilst lay-Lords' Wives in Wedlock's bands combin'd
Can such a change from Curates' fingers find!!
Nay, ev'n Archbishops, with their warmest kiss,
Ne'er work this wonderous Metamorphosis—
Tho' next their Kings in privilege and pow'r,
Contribute not one Title's darling dow'r;
But must submit to let their Madams stand
Like all mere Mistresses throughout the Land!

If Offsprings come, Chief-Priests communicate
No sound of Title—no fix'd note of State;
Nor Place, or Peerage, to their Heirs convey—
But lay-Lords, both—for ever and for aye!!!

They're like two Churches, in this mighty Town;
In one, the Prelate's pow'r descends quite down
To the deep centre—where each honour'd head
May sleep secure, in consecrated bed,
While, on the ornamented walls, around,
Might noble Name, and flattering phrase, be found;
Then, from that dark deposit, soon might rise
A Being, new—more noble—bright—or wise!
But, on the surface, only, t'other, blest;
Where Prelates, a short space, might roam, or rest;
Yet all the parts, below, be left profane,
And only common substances contain—
Or, hollow'd under, hold, for proper use,
Materials often turn'd to base abuse:
Nor, there, inestimable Titles, grace,
The blank circumference of that hapless place;
Nor from the parts beneath can ever spring
Aught but some common, mean ignoble Thing!

This amply argues temporal Things, alone,
Are raised and cherish'd by an earthly Throne—
How Princes plant, and nourish, branch, and root,
While flatter'd by the flow'rs, and fed with fruit.
How Honours pour, profuse, from regal Urn,
While all the streamlets to the Fount return;
But when they, promptly, seek the pristine Source,
Soon Law, and Custom, stop their proper course;
And soon the transient nourishment that springs,

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For sacred Priests, from Emperors, or Kings,
Lets all the foliage—flow'rs—and fruitage, drop,
When their bless'd Benefactor claims the Crop!

These facts disturb'd the unfashionable Bard,
Who thought Religion's lot extremely hard—
That One, who, only with a loan of Love,
Claim'd Crowns, and Kingdoms, in the World above,
Could neither Pow'r, or Privilege, bestow,
Amongst Mankind in this base World below!
How did his bowels yearn—his heart repine—
When Votaries rallied round Vanessa's shrine,
To see such humble Devotees, devoid
Of all distinction 'mid the troops of Pride
That when blythe Bishops dignified the Throng,
And Grace—or Lordship—troll'd from every tongue,
Their Wives should no high'r privilege possess
Than the pert Dowdeys that put on their Dress—
But, while they mingled with the motley Crowd,
Should hear their simple Surnames roar'd aloud;
Fairer, perhaps, in fortune, fame, form, face,
Than nominal, my Lady, or, your Grace!

His Mistress must experience vast relief,
Class'd with the Consorts of each Church's Chief!
To find their Names not standing higher in State
Than Her's, while hamper'd with untitled Mate.
Much soothe each sigh—and mitigate each groan—
To find herself not so kept low, alone;
Nor stoop to high, unwarrantable, airs,
Whose proper appellation rank'd with Their's.
But this requires more Patience than Man finds,
Connects, in common, with proud female Minds,
Where heavenly Virtues bear but feeble sway,
To make strong Passions, and stiff Pride, obey—
Her ostentatious Vanity controul,
And turn the bias of such tyrant Soul,
When, in a palace, with full pow'rs possest,
While, grand, in gold—silks—pearls—and diamonds, drest!

Who could such inauspicious lot support,
When hearing Coach—Chair—Chariot—call'd, at Court—
E'er tranquil stand, at any public Place.
Beneath such loads of infamous disgrace—
Or join with decent joy the jovial dance
'Mid such low notes of insignificance.
In Routs, at home, unmov'd, plain Madam, hear,
Or sit at ease the single Mistress there!
How could a princely Dome delights impart,
While such expression sunk the aching heart!
How broider'd bed, and proud resplendent rooms,
Where want of Title glowr'd eternal glooms!
How trees—shrubs—well roll'd walks—and smooth-shav'd lawns,
Where mortified Ambition hourly yawns;
Or all the pomps and luxuries of Life,
If, undistinguish'd from a Tradesman's Wife!

What Widow would not pettish speech revoke,
With rash Resolve, in idle passion spoke
Who might wit, wisdom, and proud wealth, employ,
To purchase honours, with connubial joy?
Feel all vile Celibacy's vows abhorr'd,
To link alliance with a courtly Lord?
Would not rescind rash, independent, plan,
And bear, again, mock government of Man;
To find her Fame resound on every side
And hear the honours of a Baron's Bride?
All burdens, pains, and penalties, incur,
To have a Title realiz'd, in Her!

What wonderous raptures would her heart dilate,
To boast of such a beatific State!
More lov'd than melody from Mara's lip
Would lisp the tuneful trill—“Your Ladyship!”
Would make her Mind with greater transport glow,
Than Fischer's flute—Cramer's, with Crosdill's bow!
More full her feelings, and affection strong,
Than Texier's action, join'd with Texier's tongue—
More than sweet sound of Poet's Patroness,
Or Chimney-sweeper's shout, and May-day Dress.
'Twere better be Cit's dull, and plodding, Spouse,
And with low Vintner—Grocer—Hosier, house;
At length in annual Palace once appear,
And be a Lady, but a single Year,
Than live, for ever, thus in splendid Halls,
And hear no Title echoing round the Walls!

Lady!—what extacy attends the sound!
While each lov'd voice reverberates, loud, around.
More fascinating far to Female's ears,
Than all the fancied tones of tuneful Spheres!
Sweeter than symphonies in vernal grove,
Tho' choicest swain should join to chaunt his Love!
Should she her long-neglected charms unfurl,
Beneath fond pressure of a plastic Earl,
How much must Countess raise commotions higher,

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Than flat-key'd Relict of a Country-Squire!
But—were she dubbed the counterpart of Duke,
How bold she'd brave the envious World's rebuke!
Yet Fate, it's fear'd, before the nuptial Night,
Would suffocate her heart, with hop'd delight!
But, such fierce conflict should her frame survive,
And meet Love's consummation, still alive,
More dangerous, far, than batter'd Duke's embrace,
Would sound those monosyllables—“Your Grace!”
Would, like strong Incantation, stop her breath,
And end her glorying in the grasp of Death!
But should each strong, each struggling, bliss be borne,
And her enraptur'd Life survive till Morn,
What full felicity! what genuine joy!
To hear Domestics “Grace”—and “Duchess”—cry;
While flattering Troops, that o'er her threshold throng,
Greet her with “Grace,” and “Duchess,” all day long!
Still happier to perceive, proclaim'd aloud,
The Duchess, and her Grace, in public Crowd;
But most of all to hear each rapturing tone
Resound from throngs of Courtiers, round the Throne!
Such sounds, in Drawing-Room, repeated still,
Not long would Life support the Spirit's thrill!

Such blissful chaunt would charm her bosom more
Than Wilton Carpets, spread on every floor!
Or, when full-fitted to her nuptial Name,
More sweet than snow-white Feather-work in frame—
More than its bright festoons, in perfect bloom,
Pinn'd up, so rich! round all her Dressing-room—
Yea, when fix'd firm, while, with applauses, view'd,
By Cæsar's Bride, and all her female Brood!!!

Such silv'ry sounds would past compare excel
All precious tinkling of the Porter's bell,
When Plenipos, and Ministers of State,
In groups come pressing through her palace-gate!
More than bright patent-lamps, and waxen-lights,
At Concerts—Readings—Routs—or Dinner-Nights!
More soft than accents from Italian's tongue,
Or rustling silks, as Courtiers trail along!
Far nobler notes, that strike her tympanums,
When brother Duke, or sister Duchess, comes!
Mellower than double-bass of courtly Coach,
When wonderous Queen, and Princesses, approach!

With added transport, still, would vision view
The servile Suite enlarg'd—laced liveries, new;
The countless proofs in colours, or on plate;
Glories pourtray'd, or grav'd, in splendid State!
With pompous ostentation, vast, and vain,
Endeavouring to outstrip each Equal's train—
All, eager eyes attention to engage;
Outvie ev'n Princes in proud Equipage!

What painful pleasure must from raptures rise,
To mark Escutcheon shine with dazzling dyes!
To ramble o'er the fair enchanting field,
And rich Achievements of ennobling Shield!
The widow'd angles raz'd, and ducal charms
Conjointly quarter'd with unlozeng'd Arms—
Whilst enigmatic motto, underneath,
On silvery ribband, or on golden wreath,
In language, learn'd, and false, ambiguous, phrase
Apt, striking hints, to construing skill, conveys,
Of pious manners—might—or warring worth,
Transmitted down to Dukes of modern birth,
But wrought by doughty long-departed Sire;
To which, in latter times few Sons aspire—
With wavey mantlings hung, on either side,
In velvet pomp, or gold-embroider'd pride!
But more than mantling speaks, or Poet writes,
Or hieroglyphic Heraldry recites—
More than train'd complimental tongue recounts
The glorious crested Coronet surmounts—
With jewels, bright, and burnish'd gilding, bound,
And gay fragarian foliage wreath'd around—
Honours far higher than all the ample host
Of new-created, humbler, Barons, boast!
Than Viscounts—Earls—and Marquisses—ev'n all
Whose leaves are blended with degrading ball!

This must all other ornaments surpass,
Tho' multiplied by each reflecting glass.
Would claim idolatrous distinction, more
Than lock'd-up libraries' chaotic store.
More than the Bible Cunning recommends,
Not as an object for Herself, but Friends—
More than commodes conceal, or caskets hold,
Of glittering stones, or gowns emboss'd with gold—
More than shelves, tables, trunks, whose burdens, break,
With modern plate, or porcelain antique.
This would contribute happiness immense,
More than perceiv'd by every other Sense.
To dwell on splendour spread o'er ducal Crown,
Blazing at home, and flaming thro' the Town!
Toys, and utensils, all proclaiming State!

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Each badge of servitude! each scrap of plate!
Holsters and bridles—buckles—bits—and beads,
On prancing saddle-horse, and champing steeds;
While coach, and chariot, vis-à-vis, and chair,
On pannel, pole, and perch, like Pomp declare!

But sly Scintilla, now, with all her Art,
Could never hope to gain a Noble's heart!
No youthful Bridegroom, gay, would now, engage,
So sour'd in temper, and so sunk in Age.
Tho' not of Wealth, nor much of Wit, bereft,
No 'ticeing trait of loveliness was left.
Stern, ruthless, Time, no proofs of pity show'd,
But, on her, yearly, laid an added load,
Till all her limbs relax'd—her fabric bow'd—
For wedlock look'd less fit than funereal shrowd!
Each sinew swelled so high, and muscle shrunk,
Show'd a mere shape of bones and bended trunk—
Had mix'd with white her 'minish'd ebon hair,
And furrow'd o'er that face she once thought fair!
A fancy, Women must not boldly blame,
For each vain female fondly thinks the same—
A face, when youthful, her prompt tongue declar'd,
With airs of triumph, to the blushing Bard,
An Artist judg'd was just the very Thing
Whence skill might sketch an emblematic Spring.
But long that gay, self-worshipp'd Spring was gone,
With brighter beauties that through Summer shone—
Ev'n Autumn's charms were now completely lost,
And nought was found but wintery storms, and frost;
Except when Pride, with Passions instant glow,
Transform'd to sanguine fire her face of snow.

Unbless'd with wealth, when young, her Friends thought fit
To praise her beauty, and applaud her Wit—
Exhibited abroad a hopeful bait
To trail a Squire, and hook a clear Estate.
When, searching round the woodland, hill, and plain,
They beat, and quest, and hunt—but not in vain—
She, practising the tricks her Parents taught,
The prey was started, soon, and Reynard caught—
For, tho' the Fox was old, the Chick was young,
And, tho' he'd pillaged folds, robb'd henroosts, long,
Yet, wearied, now, with taking things by stealth,
He wish'd an Heir to give his gather'd Wealth.

Her aggrandizement was her Friends' first aim;
Securing Riches—and some nobler Name,
And, both made sure by craft and civil Laws,
To govern Fashion, and to gain applause—
But all the specious Plot was nearly spoil'd
For Deity bestow'd but one, weak, Child;
Which, tho' a Son, to make their hope secure
Soon, with each wish, it perished premature!

Thus Providence with prescient counsel scann'd,
And counterplotted all their Cunning plann'd;
For, putting forth that providential pow'r,
Which form'd, and fed the bud, and embryo flow'r,
To make still more His Will, and Wisdom, known,
Cut off the idol bloom before 'twas blown.

The mourning Mother had but little car'd
If Heav'n had snatch'd the Sire, the Offspring spared,
For Wealth was pounded by the Marriage pact,
Herself at large with ample pow'rs to act.
Should Charity herself decide the Case,
Where Interest occupies the upper place,
And Ostentation triumphs over all,
The Duties are but weak—the Love but small.

To make surmise and calm opinion, clear,
Let full uncontroverted facts appear—
The different dispositions of their Souls
Were wide as Earth's Antipodes, or Poles;
And all the objects that awak'd desire
Were adverse as the pow'rs of phlegm and fire.
His Mind was diffident, but Her's was bold.
He, taciturnal—She, a frequent Scold.
He, unassuming—She, like Satan, proud.
He lov'd retirement—She, a courtly Crowd.
He, modest—unaffected—studious—plain—
She, splendid—specious—talkative—and vain.
He was domesticated—She was gay—
'Twas Chaucer's January match'd with May.
A thoughtful Owl, from every eye retir'd,
And pompous Peacock ne'er enough admir'd.

Could opposites, like these, in taste, and dress;
Age—manners—aims—pursuits—e'er coalesce?
Could such discordant instruments be found
In harmony, or unison of sound?
Were seconds, or were sevenths, ever known
To mix in fine felicity of tone?
Rondeaus, or dialogues, in parts, agree;
One natural, one in artificial, key?
Where different chaunts in different rhythms run,
And sharps oft ending what in flats begun?

140

Seldom one tone, in treble, or in bass,
Was ornamented with a single grace,
Scarce e'er, in concert, cross'd a double bar
But all ears tingled with unnatural jar—
Ne'er tried a close duette, but sore mistakes
Convuls'd each quavering pipe with open shakes.

On every topic was opinion split—
Morals, and Manners—Eloquence, and Wit.
Each point in Politics produc'd a flame—
Each tenet in Religion just the same.
As certain spirits cool and calm remain,
Which vessels, distant, and distinct contain;
But, mix'd ferment, and instantly, conspire,
To vent their violence in fumes and fire—
Or as disparted clouds their clamour hide,
And, o'er the airy regions, calmly ride;
Till, negative, and positive, in pow'r,
Approaching near, their heavy aspects low'r,
Whence flashes fly, and sullen echoes sound,
Distressing every eye, ear, heart, around.

Such fierce contentions, as a common Friend,
Did poor Crispinus oft, with pain attend,
And, as their sentiments could ne'er agree,
Was, sometimes, nam'd a sorrowing Referee.
Neither would learn, but both aspire to teach—
He aimed at truth—She, at applausive Speech—
While demonstration was His constant scope
She snatcht a simile; or tried a trope.
Kings, and their Creatures were His warmest hate—
But She ador'd a Court, and courtly State.
She lov'd a Drawing-room, and pompous Prig—
He look'd aloof, an independent Whig.
She lov'd Kings, Queens, and all the regal Clan,
He was an upright, plumb Republican.
He wish'd one Servant to attend, alone—
She wish'd as many Slaves as throng a Throne;
Wish'd all Mankind dependent on her breath—
A downright Despot! an Elizabeth!

Religion was, with Her, a specious plea,
But He despis'd both Priests and Piety.
He Revelation's finish'd Code forsook—
She made her Bible a convenient Book;
A very stalking-horse to try for game,
To hunt for flattery, or to hawk for fame.
He deem'd religious rites mere tricks in Trade—
Mere Courtiers' cant, or Hypocrites' Parade.
He wanted Liberty to live at large—
She panted to enforce each priestly Charge.
He long'd to set aside each Hierarch's dow'r
She labour'd to enlarge prelatic pow'r.
He from all forms determin'd to elope—
She long'd to prove a second Lady-pope.
He dreamt that Being would with Body die—
She hop'd unending blessedness to buy—
Hop'd Heav'n by right-lin'd conduct to deserve,
Tho' always wandering in some devious curve.
Thought Charity, tho' sour'd with selfish leav'n,
Might purchase some snug settlement in Heav'n.
Flatter'd herself a few important pence,
And those giv'n grudgingly from heaps immense,
Might some celestial policy procure,
And Stock, and Building, both, from fire ensure—
Would bribe that Being, who had lent the Whole,
Not to expend small Fees to save her Soul,
While squandering all the mighty mass, beside
In Lust, and Vanity—and Pomp—and Pride.
She judg'd large Loans, to Family, and Friends,
Might make, for all offences, full amends—
Small silver doles deceive the Judge divine,
And Angel-Hosts corrupt with copper-coin—
Some small donations to needy Poor,
Might smoothe her path to Paradise's door;
And, with one Penny, Simon Peter win,
To turn his golden Key, and let her in.
She fancied Seas of broth might well suffice,
To swim both Soul, and Body, to the Skies,
Yet was their flood so weak, and shallow, found,
Her bad-steer'd Boat was like to run aground.
She thought her moral claims were much increas'd,
By Sweeps', and Sunday-Schools', fallacious feast;
Whose warey benefits would reimburse
All Providence had pour'd, yet spare her purse—
That ostentatitious boons on these bestow'd,
Would raise loud acclamations all the road—
Cockets, and passports, by such Customs paid,
Remove all dull impediments to Trade;
While crusts and scraps would pay off each arrear,
Secure her place and her whole passage clear.

141

CHAPTER 8th.

If judgment, age, and observation, teach,
And Husbands', Wives' true springs of action reach,
Vanessa's knew her heart's vain-glorious bent;
What all her bustle, all her bounties, meant:
Saw thro' the colouring that the latent Cause
Was popularity, and Self-applause.
One single interrogatory taught
What of Her boasted benefits He thought;
While, as Her specious projects crossed His head,
He mark'd a Man She fondly cloth'd and fed,
And thus, to Crispin, spoke his inmost Mind,
“Think you my Wife's not glad that Fellow's blind?”

Tho' thus he saw deception so distinct,
Concerning Self he weakly err'd—or wink'd.
In pious points His Faith felt deep demurs,
But plac'd implicit confidence in Her's—
Thought all her words, and works, free, just, and fair,
When He appear'd the object of Her care.
Imagin'd pure affection made her meek,
Whene'er her lips impress'd his wither'd cheek;
Her fond profession simple and sincere,
When cooing accent sounded soft—“My Dear!”

Ah! 'twas mere ignis fatuus fire and flame
That scatter'd witchcraft round the dazzling Dame;
Whose treacherous twinklings led his devious feet
To pitfalls that precluded all retreat.

De Moivre show'd him, by symbolic signs,
The size of solids, and the length of lines;
But ne'er by Algebra, or Fluxions, taught
A Wife's breadths—depths—or quantities, of thought.
No numerals, types, or figures, could unfold,
The countless fancies female heads can hold;
Nor conic sections, with a Newton's parts,
Dissect the schemes that occupy their hearts,
The utmost stretch of geometric skill,
Can never measure Maiden's whiffling Will;
Coquette's specific gravitation find,
Nor whirlpool plumb of cunning Consort's Mind!
Who can to Chaos compasses apply,
Or measure mental phantasms, as they fly?
With curves or angles full description frame,
Or what one moment scarce remains the same?
As well might Man weigh parts of empty Space,
Or fix the ratio of Time's abstract race—
Allow not Light, or Darkness, to escape,
Till figures had defin'd both bulk, and shape—
Mark Fire's momentum starting from the storm,
Or sketch the northern Meteor's fleeting form.

Could wedded combination, match'd like this,
Yield one lunation of connubial bliss?
Secure contentment on a weekly lease,
Or one complete nycthemeron pass in peace?
No chemic skill can ever frustrate fate,
And make such substances amalgamate—
No moral motives alter Heav'n's decree,
Or make such adverse principles agree.

She show'd, it's true, one proof of perfect love,
She wish'd him, Soul and Body, safe above;
Yet prov'd, by practice, and by pow'rful fear,
She scarcely wish'd, or hoped, to meet Him there;
Nor much regarded, would He deign to go,
Whether he soar'd above, or sunk below—
How could she while she felt the World absorb
Each wish for Objects on this earthly Orb.

Could Heav'n e'er sanction one unholy wish,
Whose only object was but bread and fish?
Or grant a prayer where each petition strove
For pow'r and pelf to gratify Self-love?
Full frequent when we fondly wish, or pray,
Celestial Wisdom works far different way—
Oft marks vile motives actuate eager thought,
And gives the full reverse of what was sought:
Not like perverse Mankind, in peevish mood,
Witholding, or restraining, gracious good;
But oft will wicked Creatures' wish condemn,
Yet greater blessings grant, tho' hid from them!

Here was a mark how Heav'n her views unmask'd,
Which frustrated her hopes in all she ask'd—
She hoped kind Providence would help her plan,
Secure the Money, and discard the Man;

142

That she might realize her darling dreams,
Unbounded liberty, and splendid schemes!
To grow beyond all rivals rich and great,
By full possession of his fair Estate!
Become prime arbiter of hoarded pelf,
To build proud temples for her prouder Self!
Fine altars furnish with the richest cheer,
That she might snuff the incense offer'd there!
Extend idolatry, without controul;
To fill her vast vacuity of Soul!

Who would have thought asthmatic lungs could bear
One single Autumn England's humid air!
That such ag'd, weak, and wither'd, frame, could last,
Thro' the strong struggles of one Winter's blast!
Eight long Olympiads must in strife revolve
Ere Time, and Contest, should such tie dissolve—
Ere pains—coughs—conflicts, and chagrin, should end,
And Death, that dreadful Fiend! become her Friend!

His heart, tho' harden'd both by tricks and time,
Had form'd a fondness for our Man of Rhyme—
Let not low wit, and supercilious pride,
His fortune's dearth, nor origin, deride—
Nor affectation, or false taste, abuse
His simple Mind, his Manners, nor his Muse;
But gave the Man more friendship—Muse more fame,
Than Modesty could crave, or Merit claim.
He ne'er dissembled when resentment mov'd,
Or cloak'd a kindness which his heart approv'd;
But candidly confess'd unfeign'd regard,
Before all other's for the blushing Bard.

He saw, from such profession, Hope would rise,
And Fancy figure some important prize;
While Reason might grave argument suggest
Why Wealth, like his, must make some large bequest;
Secur'd by Testament, or Codicil,
Which fair Administratrix must fulfil.
But—curs'd procrastination! he—alas!
Permitted pregnant certainty to pass;
And no substantial benefit bestow'd,
To help Crispinus thro' Life's wretched road—
Yet with an honest, open, true, intent,
He, thus, declar'd a simple sentiment:
“Tho' I, devoid of every greedy grutch,
“Or careless Mind, shall not bequeath You much;
“Yet, with my personal property, and lands,
“Shall leave your interest safe in able hands.”

Although his strength attain'd so high an Age,
And long experience made him much a Sage—
Mature in Understanding—sound in Sense—
To prophecy facts prov'd he'd no pretence.
He so far analiz'd his Consort's heart
As clearly, to infer Pride fill'd a part;
That Vanity another part possest,
And Ostentation occupied the rest;
But ne'er investigated how their force
Would check all Charity's, and Virtue's course—
Would all those tender sympathies destroy
Which feel strong transports from another's joy—
Would, in the end, confound all right and wrong,
All that to Friendship, Faith—and Love belong.
Saw not how thirst for Pomp, and lust for Fame,
Would institute their bold unbounded claim!
Each principle of blest impulsion bind,
Which moves the breast to benefit Mankind!
Discover'd not that character of Soul
That wish'd for idol-worship from the Whole!
Trac'd not the mazes of her mystic brain
To mark what monsters such deep cells contain
Contriving constant schemes to furnish food,
For breeding Vultures' ever hungry brood!
Knew not, with all his scientific skill
Such Appetites his Wealth would never fill;
That when such Whirlpools yawn for full supply
Ten thousand little rills are soon drunk dry.
When such enormous Whales feel hunger's call,
Prodigious shoals of lesser fry must fall;
Or when cold Death had closed his aged eyes,
Poor Crispin's hopes would fall a sacrifice!

That long-wish'd Epoch, now, at length, appear'd,
And Providence her dark petitions heard—
Fulfill'd her silent wish, and private pray'rs,
But, with the grant, involv'd some vengeful snares.
Snares, much in Mercy, yet in Justice, dealt,
Which, while Fools flatter'd, poor Dependents felt.

Will faithless Flattery, or unwieldly Wealth,
Increase contentment? or establish Health?
Will impious Honour, or perverted Pow'r,
Yield comforts in a sick, or dying, hour?
Will Pomp, and Pride, that mock'd at Misery's calls;
Supply fresh pleasures when their Votary falls?

143

Or graceless Wit, which, here, makes Mortals gay,
Produce new rapture at the Judgment Day?

Death, stern Ambassador of war, or peace!
Who bids all comfort, or all conflict, cease;
Had undermin'd his might, with sap-work, slow,
And laid the stout gymnastic wrestler low!
Dissolv'd the Gordian knot, the Priest had knit,
Which so long nonpluss'd all her wiles, and wit!
Destroy'd the strength of more than eighty Years,
And banished from her bosom hopes and fears!

As when a mad-brain'd Miss, to School confin'd,
Feels the tight fetters gall her gadding Mind,
Her breast for full emancipation burns,
And all right lessons, with reluctance learns,
Till she can execute without controul
The secret projects of her pregnant Soul—
Impatient waits with longing, eager, heart,
Till from superior pow'r her days depart,
At length the lov'd vacation lets her loose,
To bold amusements—weak, and wild abuse—
And time and treasure, in profusion, fly,
To purchase trifles, and ungenuine joy;
While disappointment plagues; indulgence palls;
Till, to severer tryals, Time recalls!
Thus this blest Relict, now, no mourning Bride,
Might open flood-gates for her Lusts and Pride—
Regardless of controul might rove at large,
Without remonstrance, or one churlish charge—
Might spend her treasure, or employ her time,
Secure from Husband's blame for cost, or crime—
Free to indulge each wild fantastic whim,
Nor, now, need lavish much expence on Him:
The Spirit flown the Corpse would make no claim
On Partner's panegyric, wealth, or fame;
And she ne'er wish'd to waste superfluous pelf
On any Idol but her own dear Self!

Here was no fair occasion for display
Of ostentatious treat, or rich array;
For gratifying Vanity, or Lust;
But merely lay him decent in the Dust.
So far, sincere, could serious Christians join,
Concerning Sight, but not with such Design—
They feel abhorrent at profuse expence
Bestow'd on Bodies destitute of Sense;
Nor would they wish that Vanity should thrive,
By wasting Wealth on human Frames alive;
Yet would not set kind Customs, thus aside,
To prosecute vain schemes for selfish pride.

He was no object, now, for Love's delight—
The Dead are best soon buried out of sight—
Whate'er, when living, love, or worth, might be,
So thought the Hebrew Patriarch—so thought She.
And why, when dead, should undertakers thrive,
O'er one who starv'd his Tailor while alive—
And here Vanesa felt her heart accord
With this lov'd maxim in her married Lord.
No 'scutcheon shines—no waving flag's unfurl'd—
To grace his exit from this upper World,
But a plain Herse, and Coaches two-fold train,
To bear his Body o'er the Hampshire plain—
Six hir'd Attendants, that fall'n Frame to guard—
Three dull Domestics, and the pensive Bard;
To see his Corpse in clay-cold mansion laid,
And yield sham honours to his hovering Shade,
Left, silent, in Wincestria's holy Walls,
Till Time expires, and Heav'n's dread clarion calls!
There, while his household Slaves, without remorse,
Mix'd with mean Crowds, far distant from the Corse,
Crispinus wedg'd his windings thro' the throng,
While the base Hirelings bore their load along—
Close to the gaping pit his footsteps prest,
To ease the yearnings of his burden'd breast!
There, past endearments in succession rose,
And wak'd their kindred train of tender woes!
His throbbing bosom fond emotions fill'd—
His friendly eyes full streams of tears distill'd—
And while those tears prov'd grateful Friendship true,
He sigh'd farewell, and look'd his last adieu!

Poor Crispin's pungent grief and pensive groan,
Sprung from a Cause to pressing Crowds unknown;
He knew his natural Mind's mistaken state,
And fear'd, and trembled, for his future fate!
But not an eye-lid, not a breast, beside,
Breath'd Pity's breeze, or pour'd Affection's tide!
No trembling lip, or troubled look, declar'd
One single Soul beside such sorrow shar'd!
All, unconcern'd, their awful charge dropt down;
When the proud Priest with coldness, like a Clown—
Cried—“Dust to Dust,” with senseless, muttering, sound,
As o'er some Foundling, strange to all around;
Faint whispering what such funeral rites requir'd,
Then, from the solemn scene with haste retir'd;

144

While the dull Sexton, as devoid of Sense
Clos'd-up the door of his dark Residence!

Now, unobserv'd by every passing eye
His perish'd parts, in separate atoms, lie;
And, tho' deriv'd from Norman's noble race,
No monument points out his hiding-place!
No pompous pile, or burnish'd marble bust,
Denotes his dwelling, or depicts his dust!
No flattering strains, on shining tombstone, show
What Arts and Sciences are sunk below!
No tablet on the wall unfolds his Birth!
Not ev'n a simple, swelling, heap of Earth,
Rais'd high'r than other, still, in silence, tells
Some human Body in it's bosom dwells!
Oblivion's viewless veil more darkly spread
Than o'er the mansions of the meanest Dead;
Whose roofs above the beaten path aspire,
With green sods, cover'd, and begirt with briar;
While two unletter'd stones, with aspects grey,
Bid living Mortals walk another way!

He, once, so learn'd—ag'd—affluent—now, forlorn!
Like Convict, vile; or Vagrant basely born!
He, who, in noblest lists, enroll'd his Name,
Among the philosophic Sons of Fame;
Unnotic'd, now, with Miscreants meets his lot,
By Foes, and faithless Friends, alike, forgot!
Expung'd from Memory, like a Beggar's brat,
Who, full five Parliaments, in Senate, sat;
Not as a Traytor to his Country's cause,
To grasp her profits, and pervert her Laws—
Not perjuring Conscience; pawning Eloquence
To reimburse a Borough's foul expence;
Nor giving venal votes, with blushless face,
To gain a Peerage—Pension—or a Place—
Not a State-Satyr, blowing hot and cold,
All oaths and obligations bought and sold!
Or courtly weathercock which points its nose
To snuff each breeze a King or Courtier blows;
While, with a Parasite's unseemly pride,
It turns its tail on all the World beside.
He, Pow'r, and proud Prerogative, withstood—
Gave every veto for his Country's good—
Pursuing, still, his honourable plan,
In all predicaments an honest Man!

But tho' he, thus, his Country's rights maintain'd,
And scientific Title fairly gain'd—
Tho' fed on dainties, and repos'd on down—
Ne'er sought a Sovereign's smile nor fear'd his frown—
But, with stern Soul, still thwarted Despot's pow'r,
And scorn'd Corruption's deeds and Bribery's dow'r—
He now submits to fatal Tyrant's might,
And gross Corruption claims him as it's right—
His dust trod down, beneath Earth's filthy floor,
No foot, now finds his Dormitory-door!
No diligence can trace his darksome bed!
From frozen Friends, and cold Acquaintance,—fled!
From false connubial Faith's remembrance frail!
Which, now, ne'er speaks his praise, or tells his tale!
Spurn'd by that Spouse, from that frail memory 'ras'd,
Where wealth all center'd, and all trust was placed—
By each base heart unsought—false eye unseen—
Quite blotted out, as tho' he ne'er had been!

Here is a lesson—note it all that read!
And fix it, firm—a clause in every Creed—
When Mind's accustom'd, long, to loose remark,
And, midst full floods of Light, declares it's dark,
That Light still lessens as dull Age declines,
Till scarce one single ray of Reason shines!
Dark Intellect's at length, so over-cast,
No gleam of hope illumes the Mind at last!
They who thus think not, wish not, while alive,
Their Souls, nor Bodies e'er will Death survive,
But all existence will, with parting breath,
Become extinct, in shades of endless Death—
Heav'n, in just judgment, for such scarlet crime,
Wipes out from memory every trace of Time!
But, chiefly, impious Unbelievers! learn,
Who mock at Mercy—Heav'n's pure Gospel spurn—
'Tis God's dread warning, to Man's daring Race,
All feel His Justice who refuse His Grace!

He, a rude Sceptic; arrogantly wrong;
Despis'd those threatenings that restrain the Throng—
Those Truths, that Heav'n, in Love, on Man bestow'd,
To lead his Reason thro' Life's mazey road.
His graceless Mind, in twinkling twilight grop'd,
Till little was believ'd, and less was hop'd!
Despis'd the Christian Sun, with desperate scorn,
Whose Orb arose to drive Death's shades, forlorn!
Fond of lew'd Infidels' licentious dreams,
Who, wilfully, exclude its blazing beams,
Or his false Faith, irrationally rear'd,
On Pagan plans, before those beams appear'd,

145

And, while he dar'd degrade that heavenly Light,
Suppos'd his Soul would sit in Nothing's night!

Behold, how Providence pursues his fault,
And sends, in part, the punishment he sought—
Annihilation's hand, so heavy laid,
It leaves him scarce the shadow of a shade—
For, lo! he lies, cut off from human ken,
By Angels mourn'd, while trampled on by Men!

But, tho' he suffers, thus, Man's meanest lot,
By fickle Wife, and faithless Friends, forgot—
From every murderous Memory wip'd away,
His members mingled with the common clay—
Yet, tho' nor heap of earth, nor letter'd stone,
His mansion marks, or makes his manners known
Tho' neither lay laments, or marble weeps,
Still Christ remembers where the Outcast sleeps—
And when His trump shall shake the Heav'ns and Earth
His moulder'd mass must rise in second Birth,
To face that Wife who felt such selfish grudge,
And share, with her, the judgment of that Judge!
An Era when all Heirs of Heav'n will rise
To meet their Master in the clouded Skies;
From every sorrow, pain, and fear, set free,
And gladly hear His Grace's kind decree:
While Hypocrites and Scorners quit their tombs
To hear, with horror, their tremendous dooms!
Then shall each motive of those Minds appear,
Whose bland exterior baffled ignorance here—
Whose Vanity and Pride could squander pelf,
To rear preposterous Monuments for Self!
Whose views, vain-glorious! gorgeous Fabrics build,
Furnish'd with pomp, and with profusion fill'd,
To catch the sight of Citizen and Clown;
Confound the Country, and outstrip the Town!
Where Parasites might puff, and Rustics rave,
Yet, heedlessly, neglect a Husband's grave;
And, still more careless, and more callous, grown,
Midst wrinkles, and grey hairs, forget her Own!
Who, while mementos mark her faded face,
Which Time imprints, and Art can ne'er erase!
While each sad Hour, from all she sees, and feels,
Unnoticed, still some precious portion steals!
While she, more fond, more closely clings to Earth,
Amidst mad joys of jollity and mirth!
Whirls round with rapid speed, and panting breath,
And frisks, and frolics, at the door of Death!
Partakes the giddy rout, or gay carouse,
Nor once reflects on fall'n departed, Spouse—
Indulging every wish, and every whim,
To heighten Self, but none to honour Him!
His gather'd gold, improvidently spends,
To bribe her Flatterers, or corrupt her Friends!
His careful scrapings, at one sweep, exhausts,
In morning treats, or evening holocausts!
Racks every tenant, ransacks all her Mines,
To build her Temples, and adorn her Shrines!
In spite of Christian's horror, Critics' hiss;
Performs her own proud Apotheosis!
On idol Self consuming all that store,
Which Heav'n transferr'd, in trust, for myriads more—
Yea, still more impious, with imperious pride,
Against Heav'n turns with impetuous tide!
With irreligious impudence, presumes
To rob her God, and riot o'er the tombs!
With graceless projects, arrogantly vain!
His long-devoted Temple dares profane!
Break down His altars! banish holy rites!
For festive boards, and Bacchanal delights!
Makes vaunting Vanity those haunts invade,
Where Faith confess'd, and deep Repentance pray'd;
Those walls now echoing back a Mortal's fame,
Which once resounded with Immanuel's Name!
Where Piety, impress'd with love divine,
Bent humbly down o'er holy bread and wine;
Now vain Voluptuaries carve and quaff,
And, thankless—thoughtless—flatter, lie, and laugh!
Where the blest Saviour heard the choral crowd,
Unite lov'd praise with organs pealing loud;
Or Priests, devout, express'd their thankful themes,
Frail Wanton skips, while scrannel fiddle screams!
Where Sensibility o'er Brethren wept,
Whose unmolested frames five centuries slept;
Now from their silent cemeteries torn,
No Friends to plead! no Families to mourn!
Torn from their consecrated resting-place,
Religion's shame! Humanity's disgrace!
Whose dust about Earth's blushing surface flies,
Their place usurp'd by sacrilegious joys!

Canst Thou, vain Dame! if now alive to learn,
Consider scenes, like these, with unconcern?
Canst thou, with comfort, relish festal cheer
Where lately lour'd the black funereal bier?

146

See o'er thy boards fair folds of linen fall,
And not contrast them with the sable pall;
Or, while thy table stands, with plenty spread
Judge how the living, soon, must join the dead!
Canst thou enjoy that meat, without remorse,
Where lately lay the cold, corrupted, corse;
Or drink, with calm delight, thy costly wine,
Yet ne'er conceive such case must soon be Thine!
There, self-elate, in laughing circle, sit,
To taste rude repartee, or wanton wit,
Where weeping-stones, and epitaphs, appear'd;
Dread requiems—dirges—obsequies—were heard?
With raptures relish Flattery's fawning sound
With ghastly groups of death-heads grinning round?
Are desolated cloisters—ravag'd tombs—
Fit Refectories? or vain Drawing-rooms?
Can peopled Catacombs, for Pomp laid waste,
Confirm thy Talents? or proclaim thy Taste?
Are Understanding—Judgment—Feeling—prov'd,
By landmarks of Humanity remov'd?
Religion cherish'd—Piety display'd—
By Choirs dismantled? altars disarray'd?
Divinity best worshipp'd—best ador'd,
Where sins are ne'r renounc'd—or helps implor'd?
How is God's providential care confess'd,
Where grateful thanks and praise are ne'er express'd!
How is the dear Redeemer's love return'd,
Where Grace and Law's despis'd! All Gospel spurn'd!
How is the Spirit's inspiration prov'd,
While, in the Heart, no fresh affection's mov'd;
Or e'er by psalm—hymn—anthem—once declared
His pow'r's experienc'd, or His nature shar'd!

Within those walls a wonder, once, appear'd—
Strange sounds of penitence—and pray'r—were heard!
And short-liv'd praise, and poor, unthrifty, thanks,
Among the high, as well as humble, Ranks.
No worship, once, but what our Bard inspir'd,
When, from the trifling Trains he oft retir'd,
To chaunt within those walls, in holy lays,
Some plaintive thoughts, glad thanks, or grateful praise!
There, at the time, when Nephew Niece had wed,
A megrim, quite uncommon, seiz'd Aunt's head,
Or, peradventure, hinted by the Niece,
Who seem'd, a little, of a different piece;
And Aunt, Chameleon-like, discover'd, clear,
Could catch the colours of new objects near;
Then thought expedient every Soul should pray,
At least, for once, on every Sabbath-day.
This, as Crispinus wish'd, was thus decreed,
And pious Aunt, or Nephew, tried to read
The Church's pray'rs, pathetic! as they knelt,
But faintly spoke, because but faintly felt,
On that once gracious plat of holy ground
With all the servile ranks assembled round—
'Twas done—but done at such a wretched rate!
Such doleful drawl—hum—haw—and hesitate—
Each accent struck so piteously untrue,
It prov'd the Reader's task entirely new;
Or, that they acted such unpleasant part
It found but feeble pow'r within the heart—
While Crispin's Spirit, warm'd with stronger Grace,
Long'd, fervently, to fill the Chaplain's place.
Thus, while this tedious task was dragg'd along,
Monotonously sad! like murder'd Song;
Each Vassal, cramp'd in unaccustom'd shape,
On grudging knees, with mouths all wide agape,
Bent on bare flooring, whisper'd, glad—Amen—
Thrice was this heard, but—never heard agen!

Such strange productions could not long survive,
Such Parents ne'er kept long such births alive,
With breasts replete with acids, not sweet milk—
Ne'er wrapp'd in woollens, warm, but freezing silk—
Fed only once a week, on Sabbath-Day—
Such puny Infant needs must pine away;
While every hour, throughout the Six, beside,
'Twas purg'd with passion, or 'twas puk'd with pride;
Not one wet Nurse among the motley Host—
No wonder the poor Babe gave up the Ghost!

The heedless Husband, and unwitting Wife,
That brought this feebling bantling into life,
Ne'er sobb'd, or sigh'd, or hung their mourning head,
Nor show'd one sign of sorrow when 'twas dead;
But every feature with fresh lustre shone,
Which prov'd their hearts were glad the Child was gone.

No genuine offspring of ethereal Race
Could e'er improve, in such a sinful place;
For all the purer progeny of Heav'n,
Pine with bad bread, so sour'd with earthly leav'n!
Each noble birth, deriv'd from realms above,
Must well be clothed by Faith, and fed by Love!
Each heavenly lamp, when lighted, quickly dies,
Unless pure spirit still the flame supplies!

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Celestial plants not long, in Life, remain;
Except sustain'd by heavenly suns and rain—
No fruit, from sacred Seeds, is ever found
When sown on way-sides—rocks—or thorny ground—
Still Folly's feet, pursuing fancied joy,
With wanton tread each tender germ destroy—
Pride's burning beams, that strike on hearts of stone,
Wither the feeble blades before they're grown—
Each tangling thorn, and suffocating weed,
Foul lusts put forth, and Pride and Passions feed—
Wealth's putrid winds, and sediments of Sloth,
Prevent the produce, and degrade the growth:
The roots, decay'd, soon leaves, and flow'rets, fall,
And blighted heads yield no good fruit at all!

But boast not, Thou, whose blushless Negligence
Hath idly driv'n the noblest Duties thence!
Hath driv'n Devotion from that sacred Place,
To stablish Thieves, and Fiends, and Folly's Race;
Pride, Pomp, and Passion; Luxury, and Lust;
Grace to expunge, and Piety disgust!
Hast sold thy God, who gave Thee all Thou hast,
To purchase Praise—and buy Fame's empty blast!
A blast—how different from that awful sound,
That soon shall shake Earth's vast circumference round,
And call Thee forth, tho' long-dissolv'd in dust,
To give a clear account of every trust!
Nor triumph, now, that Pow'r has dispossess'd
Those long-corrupted carcases, of rest—
Their Souls are gone—and Thine must, shortly, go,
To endless bliss, or everlasting woe!
Attend, meantime, Thy warning-whispering Heart,
Which tries to tell Thee whence, and what, Thou art!
The still, small, voice of God, that speaks within,
Which, fain from Folly, would to Wisdom win!
Would willing turn thy intellectual View
To prospects—objects—thoughts—and reasonings, new!
Would gladly gain Thy Spirit's purer Sense,
To see how soon Fame—Wealth—Life—vanish hence!
To change thy course—Thy puerile crimes deplore,
Ere Age—Disease—and Death—to Judgment turn Thee o'er!

Exult no more, Disturber of the Dead!
Who, like rude Bayliff, robb'st them of their bed!
Who excommunicat'st, without a crime,
And break'st their quiet ere the close of Time!
Those reliques call aloud to Common-Sense;
Wilt Thou not hear them in their own defence?
Dost Thou not mark their scatter'd fragments meet?
Start into form, and stand upon their feet!
Their hollow sockets, furnish'd, once, with eyes,
And fleshless hands, uplifted tow'ards the Skies?
Both night and day thy sacrilege arraign,
While tongueless jaws in Heav'n's prompt ears complain!
Declaring, clearer than the Poet's pen,
Thy impious conduct, in the Minds of Men!
Dost Thou not hear the harsh, hoarse, muttering, tones,
Issue, incessant, from their batter'd bones?
And, loud, Thy culprit-character impeach
More eloquent than all the pow'rs of speech!
And is Thy heart so dead, Thy ear so dull,
They hear'st no lecture from each yawning skull?
Do not their grisly ghosts, with scrannel screams,
Peep from Thy pillow, and disturb Thy dreams?
Or draw Thy curtain, suddenly, aside,
To tell Thee truths Thy folly fain would hide?
Appealing to that Pow'r with whom belongs
The Dead's last verdict and revenge of wrongs!
Canst Thou not hear those voiceless caverns cry,
“Know, Thou deluded Wretch! Thou soon must die!
“And, tho' Thou glory, now, in garnish'd rooms,
“Erected, proudly, o'er our pillag'd tombs—
“Tho' now Thou move so brisk, and smile so bland,
“Death soon will fix, on Thee, his freezing hand!
“Soon dress Thy carcase with cadaverous shroud,
“Tho' now so prank'd in pompous coverings, proud!
“Tho' now in life, and light, thy Frame be found,
“Soon damps and darkness shall each limb surround!
“Tho' now on delicates regal'd, with glee,
“Soon worms, obscene, will sweetly feed on Thee!
“Tho' circling Sycophants fawn on Thee, now,
“Soothe all Thy frailties, ev'n Thy faults avow;
“Yet, maugre these, the hour will quickly come
“When Pimps are dead, and Panegyrists are dumb!
“No more around such refectory sit,
“To hear, and echo back, Thy boasted wit;
“Nor Thou Thy pride and pageantry unite,
“To drink those noxious draughts with new delight!
“No more shall praise Thy pomp, or share Thy pelf,
“But lie in sullen silence—like Thyself!
“No more, false Hypocrites, full-flush'd with health,
“With pride partaking Thy superfluous wealth,
“Thy flattering notice, or Thy niggard fare

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“Shall all Thy vaunts, and vanities, declare;
“Thy foolish foibles, and dark faults disclose,
“And those false Friends become Thy bitterest Foes!
“Yea, righteous Heav'n at no far distant day,
“May sweep Thy boasted labours all away!
“Spunge from each print, and picture form, and face!
“Extinguish all Thy Art-obtruded Race!
“To other Strangers all Thy grandeur go,
“Lands; mansions; manors; mines; new Masters know;
“Who may, on Thee, bestow as blank regard,
“As thou on Us, and Thy neglected Bard!
“May o'er Thy grave, as graceless, dance, and dine,
“With heart as hard, annd views as vain, as Thine!
“Pay no respect to Thee, tho' worshipp'd, thus,
“More than Thou, harden'd Monster! pay'st to Us;
“But, with such want of sympathy, behold
“Thy fractur'd frame thus mattock'd from the mould
“Thy dust dispers'd—broke each dismember'd bone—
“Thy naked skull expos'd, like Ours, unknown—
“And Thou experience like opprobrious lot,
“Thy Fame extinct—Thy features all forgot!
“—Yea, peradventure, Thy predestin'd Heir,
“Whose fashion'd looks fond Love's false likeness wear—
“Salutes, with close caress, Thy wither'd cheeks—
“Like filial friendship, each prompt accent speaks;
“May, with dissimulation, mock Thy Sense—
“And with deep cunning cheat Thy confidence—
“For health, and lengthen'd Life, appear to pray,
“Yet wish Thee, Soul and Body both away!
“May, when Thy eyes are clos'd, Thy heart is cold,
“Possess Thy pow'r, and grasp Thy pomp and gold—
“Not to sequester titles—wealth to waste,
“Profusely weak, in Works of Art and Taste—
“Not with a spendthrift-passion scattering Coin,
“To feast his Friends, and make the side-board shine;
“Nor, with Pomp's fragments, Poverty to feed,
“Or mark out Genius with a generous meed;
“But, more like Miser, worshipping his purse—
“Greedy to gain, and backward to disburse.
“He, tho' Thy darling—Thy adopted Son,
“Who, with his hollow wiles, Thy heart hath won—
“In whom Thy Art, and Cunning, clearly strike,
(“And every living Creature loves its like,)
“Thy Nature bears, and boasts connubial Name,
“Precluding elder Brother's clearer claim;
“Yet He, with similarly-selfish Mind,
“Not of vain-glorious, but of grudging, kind,
“Acting, like Thee, the deep Deceiver's part,
“With sordid, mean, monopolizing, heart,
“May spurn his Aunt, just as she spurn'd her Spouse,
“And, in some cave of Earth Thy carcase house;
“Or o'er the spot some paltry symbol rear,
“To tell the World, Lo! Vanity lies here!”

But, tho' thy mental eye no Sprites discern,
Or, from such fancied forms, contemptuous, turn—
Hear'st, from disjointed jaws, no sentence break,
To soberer Souls they practically speak—
And tho' Thy Spirit spurns their silent plea,
Still fancying Death is distant far from Thee—
Tho' in their mouths no admonition dwells,
Reason reads thus, in all those hollow cells;
“In spite of human pride, and human pow'rs,
“Each haughty head shall soon lie low as Ours!”

Yet, lest Thy harden'd heart no fear should feel,
And Thou despise these plaints—this dumb appeal,
Let Me attempt Thy dreaming Mind to wake,
And prove Thou'rt playing an eternal stake—
By maxims pure each prejudice remove,
Thy ostentation stop—Thy Pride reprove.
Each Lust, and Passion, that have ruled so long,
Thus offering Thee a Sermon in my Song.

But should Thy Time expire in Death's dark night,
Ere this religious labour sees the light;
Yet might my hopes by Providence be blest,
To bring these humble strains to public test.
To others may they prove a warning voice
By changing views, or influencing choice!

Learn then some Truths, distinct from Flatterers' trade,
Which Pride, Self-love, and Vanity, pervade.
Learn, while thou run'st and revel'st o'er their grave,
Thou'rt Sin's bond-Servant—Satan's willing Slave!
Indifferent as their dust of future fate
More mindless of Thy Spirit's present state—
Regardless of true Grace, and dead to God,
As their blanch'd bones, or Earth's incumbent clod!

Deem not the Preacher Thy professed Foe,
Who warns Thy views from vanities below—
Who fain would false Ambition's bent controul,
And turn tow'rds Heav'n Thy energies of Soul!
Each pow'r, and purpose, of immortal Mind,
To objects more sublime—by Heav'n design'd;

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The Spirit's full capacity to fill—
To win affection, and to turn the Will.
To Objects, which, alone, can Soul suffice!
Faith, only, form—Hope, only, realize!
Which pious Love to all on Earth prefers,
And feels assur'd that all will soon be Her's!
Which more in prospect yield of bliss below,
Than all the blessings Time and Sense bestow!

Consult not Sycophants—they ne'er declare
What present hopes, and future prospects, are.
They ne'er with truth, and honesty, relate
Man's true condition—dark, and desperate state.
They, like Thyself, thro' turpitude of Mind,
Are weakly wild, and obstinately blind!
Self-interests render sentiments too nice
To deal sincere, and sanative, advice.
Like false Physicians, aggravate disease,
In hyppish Patients, to increase their fees—
Ne'er cause alarm, but wickedly allure,
Prescribing drugs which neither kill, nor cure!

Would any think that Patient's friends were wise,
Whose lurking malady in madness lies,
Did they propose proud domes', rich-furnish'd range,
High food, and finery, in continual change,
Instead of russet robes, and pow'rful pukes,
With lonesome cell, in Bedlam, or St. Lukes?

Let such no more Thy sober'd judgment chouse,
So near the threshold of Thy narrow House!
Better consult those bones, of life devoid,
To mock Thy Pomp, and mortify Thy Pride;
Or mark those yawning mouths, in silence, broach,
Bold truths of Death's and Judgment's, near approach!
—Go! and Thy undissembling glass attend—
Lo! that will warn Thee like a faithful Friend!
A moment mark prophetic mirror preach—
'Twill tell more truths than Primate's flattering speech;
And, in the end, may prove of happier use
Than all his courtly compliments produce!
'Twill tell Thee, thus, with clearest eloquence,
“All Earth's delights, with Time, departing hence!
“'Twill show Thee, like the Prophet, ‘Flesh is grass!’
“Like fading flow'rs, choice charms, and pleasures, pass!”
'Twill picture forth, beyond bold Fiction's pow'r,
The swift advance of Life's expiring hour!
'Twill state what monitory traits are seen,
Pourtray'd in form, and face, and air, and mien!
See what it says of Thy complexion, pale:
“'Tis time for Vanity to shorten sail!
“Mark the deep wrinkles of Thy furrow'd face,
“No longer tempting Love's, or Lust's, embrace—
“While wasted breast, and fluted neck, foretell
“The World will, shortly, note Thy funeral knell!
“Thy grizzled tresses, and each toothless jaw,
“From frail delights would warn Thee to withdraw
“To silent solitude, and ruminate
“On present prospects, and on future fate!
“Thy posture prone, and hollow, haggard, eye,
“Look down for lodging where Thou soon must lie—
“While feeble frame, and tottering footstep, say,
“Prepare for Death, and final Judgment-day!”

Have these, completely, Thy attention shar'd?
And every proper evidence prepar'd?
Have all Thy various talents—time—and thought—
Dwelt on such solemn Objects as they ought?
Has none been once presumptuously employ'd,
To varnish Vanity, and polish Pride?
Not one turn'd devious from its true design,
For which the wise Dispenser made them Thine;
But all adjusted to Heav'n's perfect plan,
Their Maker's glory, and the good of Man?
Have all Thy exquisite corporeal pow'rs,
With all their workings, aall Thy waking hours,
And all Thy nameless energies of Mind,
To these pure purposes been full confin'd?

Make Thy past conduct pass in retrospect—
Mark all misapplication—all neglect—
Then pass Thy future plans in full review,
And weigh all Worldly-wisdom aims to do.
No more let Passion blind, or Pride beguile,
But heavenly Wisdom hold the scales awhile,
Till Reason puts in each the proper weights,
Which poise the temporal and eternal States.
Leave all that Fools admit, and Fops admire,
And to Thy closet, close, a time, retire—
There let Thy solitary Soul be still,
And scan Thy schemes by Heav'n's unerring Will;
While all Thy pristine force, with fervour, prays,
That God would guide Thee in His Wisdom's ways.
Concentrate all Thy Spirit's amplest pow'rs,
And dedicate to Truth some hallow'd hours—
Those pow'rs all urg'd in ardent exercise,
Excluding all foul refuges of lies;

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While every act, and word, and secret thought,
To Heav'n's true standard, may, by Truth, be brought;
Comparing each with Christ's convicting laws,
And feel what inference duteous Conscience draws.

So far departed from the days of Youth
'Tis time to listen to the voice of Truth!
Thy favour'd Life draws near its fateful end!
To Death's dark shades Thy footsteps fast extend!
Dim, near the horizon, draws Thy setting Sun!
Thy tale's nigh told! Thy sand's all nearly run!
No more by Passion—Pride, or Lusts allur'd—
Nature proclaims—“Thou canst not long be Stew'rd!”

No longer glory in Pomp, Wit, or Wealth—
Land—lengthen'd Life—or undiminish'd Health—
In Honours—Influence—Pow'r—or fancied Fame—
In empty Pageantry—ennobled Name—
In servile Slaves, and Worshippers, at will;
Thy heart will shortly stop—Thy pulse be still!
Consider, then, before they beat their last,
The moment present—the much time that's past—
The current instant is Thy grand concern—
Thou, from what's past, Thy future lot may'st learn;
Unless Thou listen to its warning voice,
And carefully reform each foolish choice!
Time's a swift Courier—brooking no delay,
Tho' Thou, or mightiest Monarch, calls to stay!
Hear Conscience, wak'd by Christ, in mercy sent,
With this short message—“Sinner—now—repent!”
For tho' this instant forfeit Life survive,
Another moment never may arrive!
And, tho' God's golden sceptre Mercy rear,
Stretch'd out, to Thee, thro' Grace, another Year;
Or add a hundred to Thy squander'd store,
The time will come when Time shall come no more!

Tho' in Thy palace, now, supremely plac'd,
Thou challenge Knowledge—Learning—Wit—and Taste—
Things which the vain, and pompous, chiefly, prize—
Mere pleasant playthings to the truly wise!
Could these, throughout all time, to Thee, remain,
With Soul and Body both exempt from pain—
Substantial Peace, and Friends, precluding Fear—
Still all such blessings might be bought too dear.
Could Mortals, with their Mansions, stand ensur'd,
In policies of Heav'n, from fire secur'd.
'Twere wisdom, then, to build embellish'd domes,
And finery fill unalterable homes—
Churl Time will, soon choice Tenements destroy,
Or Death, much sooner, make fond Tenants fly!

Could Knowledge change all Wickedness to Worth
Or Learning banish Ignorance far from Earth,
'Twere duty, then, those talents to obtain,
That Truth and Wisdom thro' the World might reign,
Could cultur'd Taste make natural Conscience nice,
Or Wit root out the various weeds of Vice,
'Twere meritorious then to foster both;
To train their branches, and augment their growth.
Knowledge, and Learning, may, when mix'd with Grace,
Improve the reasonings of the human Race;
But never can, without clear heavenly light,
Scan sacred Truth, or keep the Conscience right:
So may true Taste, or Wit, with due restraints,
Embellish life, and Converse, ev'n in Saints,
But in an impious Chesterfield still tend
To further Vice, and help each lawless end.
True Morals and Religion ne'er were taught
By Fancy's fictions, or distorted thought.
No images grotesque, or shapes uncouth,
Are trappings fit for Piety, or Truth—
No forms unfinish'd—diction undefin'd,
Can force conviction, clear, on moral Mind;
Nor metaphors, confus'd, or megrims odd,
True Holiness ingraft, or honour God!
Much less can blasphemous remarks, or lies,
Promote pure Conduct, make weak Mortals wise—
Or graceless rules e'er graceful conduct draw,
By obvious breach of Heav'n's most holy Law!
With Ostentation, Learning's oft allied—
Great Knowledge forms fresh nutriment for Pride—
Bellows to blow, and fuel feeding Strife;
But both soon cease with proud Possessor's Life!

Could Wealth, in princely amplitude possest,
With blissful satisfaction fill the breast.
Then ought all Rationals increase their store
Till Avarice, full of Self, could crave no more—
Till dull'd Desire no more awak'd the Will,
But every whining Wish had fed its fill.
Alas! in shadows, vain, frail Mortals tread,
Approaching, still, the dwellings of the Dead!
Tho' care, and labour may increase their heap,
Relentless Fate forbids them long to keep!
Riches oft wing themselves, and fly away,

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While Age draws on, and energies decay—
Then Wretchedness looks round, of peace bereft,
Not knowing who shall gain what Guilt has left.

Could Taste exterminate all earthly leaven,
And fit pure Spirit for the Court of Heav'n—
So purify, and polish, all the Soul—
So calm each passion—so all pride controul,
That every effort of the manag'd Mind,
By Christ's complete Philosophy refin'd
Might regularly move, like orbs above,
By Wisdom guided, while impell'd by Love!

Could Wit unravel Revelation's clue—
Each prejudice dethrone—each doubt subdue—
The Sophist foil—the Infidel convince—
Instruct the Peasant, and reclaim the Prince—
Illumine every Mind—pure Truth impart—
And drive cupidity from Head and Heart—
Expel each idol from dark holds, within,
And throne the Saviour safe, instead of Sin—
Then would it well be worth a Christian's while
To gather metaphors, and study style—
Thro' Art and Nature, night and morning, trace
To find pure figures in each hiding place—
Thro' Learning's lakes, and streamlets, trail, and grope,
To hook each epithet, and palm each trope;
Then the rich treat on all Man's broods below,
To lengthen Life, and make it blest below—
With savoury Attic salt, corruption cure,
And make both Soul and Body long endure.
But Wit is chiefly sought for selfish Fame—
A source of Mischief oft, and oft of shame!
And, tho' deriv'd from origin divine,
'Tis mostly shown to make vain Mortals shine—
For flattering Flatterers—puffing pow'rful Friends—
Still gathering strength for egotistic ends.
An ornament that boasts but transient blaze,
To gain Possessor's, not great Giver, praise!
An amulet that may its Owner please
But checks not Death nor charms away Disease—
Nor can at all enforce Faith, Hope, or Love;
Add ghostly Grace below, or bliss above!

Since these acquirements ne'er can Health secure,
Make Heav'n more certain, or Earth's Peace more pure;
But soon dear Body must embrace the Dust—
Fleet Spirit fly from Scenes of Pride and Lust,
To give account how every part was spent,
Of these large Talents Thy Creator lent!
'Tis time to state Thy long-delay'd account,
And mark how Conscience casts the mixt amount;
For Death draws nigh—the Judge will quickly call,
To scrutinize—to state—and sentence all!

What meritorious thought, or word, or deed,
At Christ's tribunal, can Thy Spirit plead,
That need no tinct of turpitude confess,
But lay some claim to heavenly happiness?
Canst thou look back on deed, or word, or thought,
Conceiv'd, pronounc'd, or acted, as it ought?
Exempt from spot, or wrinkle; fault, or flaw;
Exactly tallying with Heav'n's holy Law?
All perfectly complete, and just, and true,
Fit to confront that vengeful Judge's view?

Compare Thy works with Heav'n's unerring Word,
And note if nought be sinful, frail, absurd—
Whether its precepts, pure, in every part,
Have mov'd Thy Mind—have influenc'd Thy Heart.
From Reason's dawning, to the recent day,
Did ne'er conception, word, or action, stray?
But every pow'r, and faculty, of Soul,
In every waking moment keep the Whole?
Hast Thou, thro' all that long-protracted length,
Lov'd God with all Thy Heart—Mind—Soul—and Strength?
Hast Thou so manag'd Pow'r, dispos'd of Pelf,
As proves Thou lov'st Thy Neighbour as Thyself?
Ah! Thy proud Buildings publicly declare
What Thy Religion, Love, and Motives, are.
Thy Lawns, Thy Gardens, and Thy Groves, confess,
Thy splendid Furniture—Thy pompous Dress—
Thy crowded Table, and Thy Costly Treat—
Thy brilliant Side-board—and Thy lordly Suite—
Thy public Feastings, and proud Equipage—
All prove what graceless hopes Thy heart engage!
What sensual objects all Thy Soul absorb,
And bind Thy Spirit to this earthly Orb!
Each Passion stir, and stimulate each Lust,
To grasp at emptiness and grapple dust!
Urge on Thy Might, and agitate Thy Mind,
To pounce at shadows, and pursue the wind!
Inflame Affections—whip and spur Thy Will,
For things that ne'er can satisfy, or fill!
Which fetter judgment—rivet Reason's pow'rs,

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To what Time terminates, or Death devours!
What Understanding's purest light pervert,
To grope in darkness—grovel in the dirt!
Draw down Ambition from substantial views,
To hunt for empty forms, and fading hues!
Solicit Fancy from celestial flights,
To wander o'er the World for frail delights
And crowd Imagination's rooms, immense,
With what relates alone to Time and Sense!
Faith, still deluded with lov'd Nature's Lies,
And Hope, still eying Earth's deceptive Toys;
Where Charity some cheating trifle spends,
While Folly frustrates Ostentation's ends!

These prove Thy Soul too proud—Thy views too vain,
To close with interests of the Christian Train;
Who humbly walk by Faith, and not by Sight,
And wish not what is rare, but what is right!
Not vanities which this vain World can give
But with eternal Truth, and Love, to live!
Convinc'd they've no continuing City here—
No during prospects, or possessions, dear—
But all below, that's meant for Man to use
Their Souls connect by nought but sliding noose;
Which, when their Lord and Saviour wills it so,
Ungrudging, loose the knot, and let them go!
They ask not worldly Favour, Wealth, or Fame
Which God forbids, or gracious Brethren blame.
Know well the World, tho' to the World unknown,
And give all glory to their Lord, alone!

Canst Thou Thy large Domains, on Earth, survey,
And feel as lowly, meek, and mild, as They?
Or, when at God's command, grim Death, shall call
With like tranquility relinquish all?
Canst Thou 'midst Pride and Pow'r to Heav'n appeal,
And sinful frailty, sighs, and sorrow, feel?
'Mid Wealth conceive Thyself supremely poor;
Still supplicate for doles at Mercy's door;
And while Heav'n's helps and bounties most abound,
Find humble gratitude grow more profound.
Canst thou around each Palace, pensive roam,
And find Thyself a Stranger, far from Home?
Canst Thou contemplate all Thy pompous Dress
Yet clearly see Thy carnal Nakedness?
Perceive Thy amply-portion'd, moral Mind,
Absurdly base, and ignorantly blind?
Still simply beg for more illumin'd Light?
For garments giv'n by Christ, more clean and white?
An Habitation built in Heav'n above?
And fuller Pow'rs of Faith, and Hope, and Love?

Thou art too fond of Pomp, too proud of State,
Meekly to kneel, and knock, at Mercy's gate!
Too fix'd in Prejudice—too full of Pride,
To make the Word, and Will, of God, Thy guide!
Too fond of Fashion, proud of Praise and Fame,
To pay due rev'rence to His wond'rous Name!
Nor are such Sins, alone, Thy separate case,
Now grown so gross in Faith, so fall'n from Grace;
But all become the deep, the desperate, crimes,
Of all Thy proud Compeers, these impious Times!

How can mistaken Minds, like Thine, believe,
Who empty honours, each from each receive?
Or practice precepts, holy—just—and good
While neither passion—Pride—or Lust's withstood?
Yet, midst important Pomp, and wanton Waste,
Vast Vanity, and ostentatious Taste;
Projects of Fashion, and pursuits for Fame,
To christian Goodness fain would'st ground Thy claim,
And spread before Mankind a fair pretence
To Piety, and pure Beneficence!
Canst Thou expect to please a Judge divine,
With selfish sacrifices, such as Thine?
Or hope to make some heav'nly lot secure,
By dead devotions—Prayers, and Praise, impure?
Didst Thou rich Domes to His great glory raise,
While Thou prepar'dst the Pomp to reap the praise?
Are Thy proud Tables to His honour spread,
While Thou sitt'st worshipp'd as the sovereign Head?
When to the Poor Thou portion'st scanty store,
Dost Thou, with Them, His Providence adore?
Or when Thou highly treat'st the richer Ranks,
Dost Thou—do They—return the Author thanks?
Or, doth not, rather, each gross heart agree
To gratify itself while flattering Thee?

Alas! no Heart will waft one wish from Earth,
Till Christ produce new bent by second birth;
Nor turn attention to pure bliss above
Till wak'd, and warm'd, by Heav'n's blest breath of Love!
No Soul to sacred happiness aspires,
Till kindled by the Spirit's fervid fires;
Till feeling every vile offence forgiv'n,
The love of Sin subdued, and Satan driv'n!

Can well-wrought iron, or highly-polish'd steel

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From native strength magnetic influence feel,
Till natural Gravity new force controuls
And turns its constant pointings tow'rds the Poles?
So can Man's Mind break no habitual ties,
Till heavenly Virtue turns it tow'rds the Skies.
As well might Matter from Earth's centre start,
As Heav'n attract the stoney human Heart—
As well the Fire might freeze, the Water burn,
As carnal Souls Christ's heavenly lessons learn—
As soon might senseless Trees affection feel
As hearts, deprav'd, experience holy zeal:
As soon the Dead might rise, and Devils rest
As graceless Hearts love God with lasting zest!
Conception's cold—Imagination shy—
Till Faith's clear light illumes the mental eye—
Each Passion's froward—each Affection chill—
Till Hope views Heav'n, and sways the wayward Will—
Each right Wish weak, and childish every Choice,
Till heavenly Love listens the Saviour's Voice!

Ah! how can Pride attend His humbling call!
How Riot hear His voice, so still, so small!
How Ostentation, midst parading rounds,
Or Vanity, attend such sacred sounds!
They only touch the hearkening Christian's ear,
With striking emphases, conceptions clear—
More sweet than Poesy's most melting tone,
And all rich harmonies thro' Nature known—
Filling a purer, and a fuller, part
In every blest Believer's faithful heart
Than all the temporary, trifling, things,
By Courtiers promis'd, or bestow'd by King's!
They warn the Soul of Man's immortal worth;
Help Hope to heave her Anchor off the Earth,
And drop it in a calm, unchanging clime,
Secure from storms and currents, tides and time;
Within the vail of Heav'n securely cast,
Where Faith furls all her sails whilst Love makes fast!

But how can grovelling Spirits long to go,
And leave their Hearts and treasures here below!
Such Souls would deem they purchas'd Heav'n too dear
Leaving all lov'd delights, and honours, here!
They ne'er, thro' choice, would wish so great a change,
For Customs, and Companions, all so strange!
Such novel Rules—Acts—Habits—and Pursuits—
Unfit for Fashion's Broods—who wish to die like Brutes!

The multitudes that there compose the Crowd
Are not the Rich—the Pow'rful—Vain—or Proud!
Not Mobs made up of King, Prince, Peer, and Priest,
But Millions of the meanest—lowest—least!
The friendless—poor—forlorn—compose the Throng,
From every Kindred—Nation—People—Tongue—
Prophets—Apostles—and the Martyr-train,
For Spurning Sin despis'd—condemn'd, and slain!
With myriads more, whose pious Spirits strove
'Gainst Sin and Satan, thro' Faith—Hope—and Love—
Yet claim'd no merit, when clear morals shone,
But sought Salvation thro' God's Love, alone!
All by Christ's blood forgiv'n—prepar'd by Grace,
For Heav'n's most perfect—holy—happy, place!
All other Characters will Christ reject,
Who spurn His gospel, or His laws neglect—
Who, from His face, for ever, wish to fly,
With Spirits unprepar'd for genuine joy!

There all are equal! not one Soul would claim
Superior place, or favour—pow'r, or fame—
Nor would one christian heart, while kept sincere,
Expect pre-eminence, for Merits, here.
Merit's no word, with God, in sense, or sound
In faithful nomenclator never found.
True Christians know God gave them all they have—
That Faith must justify—and Grace must save.
The sole distinction seen, by Heav'n's high King,
From holier Love and purer Virtue spring;
Not from imperial Blood, or princely Birth—
Pride—Pomp—Lusts—Vanities—that vex the Earth—
Yet Wealth—Wit—Pow'r—oft spoil'd by base abuse,
Were all bestow'd by God, for gracious use!

In Heav'n none asks a Place, or Office, high'r
Than simple Songster in the sacred Choir.
Pow'r—Pomp—and Titles, all set far aside;
No more they light up Lust, or pamper Pride—
Servant and Master—Sovereign Lord and Slave—
Confounded, or forgot, all glut the Grave!
Nor with Man's new-form'd Frames will e'er arise
To claim such dead distinctions in the skies.
No symptoms of subordination's known,
But deep prostrations at their Father's Throne!
No bow, or bended knee, or plausive speech,
But to the Lamb who loved—bled—died—for each!
No servile Slave throughout the happy Host,
Yet all obedient to the Holy Ghost!

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No Luxuries, there, to Sin their Souls allure,
But rich perennial fruits, and fountains pure!
No varied Robes to Vanity excite,
But all array'd in simple, spotless white!
On every head a Crown, which, glorious, glows,
That Christians ne'er can earn, but Christ bestows!
Still deem'd, by each, as ornaments unmeet,
And, humble bow'd, before their Saviour's feet!
While all, to God, their grateful voices raise,
Whose Wisdom, Love, and Pow'r, is past all praise!
Singing to Him, enthron'd—the great I AM,
And Christ, sin-slaughter'd, ever-living LAMB!!

Could Thy proud heart experience genuine joy
In such a levelling, and pure, Employ?
Or Thy unhumbled bosom bound with bliss
In such a mean Community as this?
Could'st Thou, companionize the christian Poor?
Salute the Beggar, and embrace the Boor?
With Harlots—Jailors—Publicans, unite,
And feel a social, and sincere, delight?
With those once Rebels, Murd'rers, Cheats—and Thieves;
And each base Culprit, that, in Christ, believes?
With Fishermen, and mean Mechanics join,
And deem a quondam Carpenter divine?

Could'st Thou Thy Sensuality surmount,
To feed on fruits and drink the crystal fount?
The fruits of Truth, and fount of endless Love?
Found, part, below, but only pure, above!
Implicitly, put off Thy vestments proud,
And wear a Livery like the common Crowd?
A Livery from the Saviour's wardrobe brought
Wash'd by His blood? by His obedience bought?
Feel all Thy selfish Faculties rejoic'd,
O'er crown, gratuitous, conferr'd by Christ;
Or, self-abased, from Thy fond temples tear,
Return'd to Him, who, only, ought to wear—
While mix'd in concert with celestial throngs
To sing Messiah's praise in heavenly songs!

Still difficulties, toils—and dangers, stand,
Betwixt this Egypt and that promis'd Land!
Temptations every step—on every side,
From Lusts, and Passions; Prejudice, and Pride—
Habit's strong barriers; Customs, Fashions, rise
Betwixt the Pilgrim and his perfect Joys!
Fulness, and Famine—Transport, and Distress—
Thro' all the wild, waste, howling, Wilderness!
Each moment threaten'd with avenging wrath,
If wandering devious from the destin'd path!
Now right and left, by unclimb'd rocks confin'd;
Deep Seas before—fierce hostile Hosts behind!
Now, quaffing, in cool shades, pure, plenteous, streams!
Now burning in full blaze of solar beams!
Now dancing round an Idol, with delight!
Then frantic with a fiery Serpent's bite!
Awhile to wanton, and anon to weep,
Obliged by Laws no sinful Soul can keep!
Plenty, sometimes, and a temporary Curse—
And, sometimes starving, Need a tender Nurse!
Sometimes corrections, when with quails full-fed;
And sometimes blessings with a want of bread!
Strong hostile Neighbours, watching all the Way,
To hinder—harrass—baffle—or betray;
While frighted Foes, on carnal Prophet call
To execrate, or scheme some fatal fall—
And, when past Jordan's blest baptismal flood,
Oft bound to seal Sincerity with blood!

Strait is the gate, and narrow is the road,
That leads to endless bliss in Heav'n's abode;
Nor can frail Mortals' feet proceed one pace
But mov'd by Mercy—goaded on by Grace!
Fair Faith encourages, while Fear alarms;
Hope chears the way, whilst Love unveils its charms!
So strait's the gate, that not a single sin,
Allow'd, or lov'd, can ever enter in!
Not the weak Dupes who boast their noble Birth,
Vain works of merit, or mere moral worth—
Not Ostentation, with her crowding crew,
Nor vaunting Vanity, can struggle through;
Not worldly Wealth, or Honour's courtly class,
Nor Pomp—Fame—Pride—or false Ambition, pass!

Can Pomp's proud equipage with boasting worn,
Announc'd by Arrogance, and led by Scorn;
Vassals, and Sycophants, in front, and rear,
Huge aggregate of Grandeur! enter there?

Can Fame with wreaths of airy bubbles crown'd—
Rais'd on balloons with full-blown bladders round;
Heralds before, and clamorous crowds behind,
Force their way through with feeble puffs of wind?

Can supercilious Pride, with his vast Suite
Of Passions—Prejudices—Self-conceit—
And bluff Ambition, of Goliah's Race,
Compress themselves enough to pass that Place?

155

Can courtly Honour, with her head erect,
Rich stars and garters, crowns, and 'scutcheons, deckt;
On tilted stilts, with coroneted crest,
Rais'd far beyond Religion's genuine test
With lengthen'd train—stiff necks, and loins, and knees,
E'er hope to enter with lov'd things, like these?

Can graceless Wealth, so dredg'd with golden dirt,
With mortgages, and deeds, and bonds, begirt,
And loads of luggage, should he stoop to try,
Expect to pass this narrow needle's eye?

Can puffing Vanity, with high-plum'd head,
By Emulation follow'd—Fashion led—
Lift up, aloft, her turban, burnish'd bright
So much beyond pure scripture-precept's height—
Fancy, to form, and fit, her tawdry trim,
With whiffling handmaids twain, Caprice, and Whim,
Her garments gay with glittering trinkets hung,
To catch each eye and actuate every tongue—
Will she these trinkets, toys, and tools dismiss
And strive to enter with a loss like this?

Will Ostentation quit all court-parade,
In endless forms, for self-applause, display'd—
Her public charities, and festive troops,
In large assemblies, and gregarious groups—
Her strutting myrmidons, and mobs of State,
With hopes to pass that narrow, guarded, gate;
And there with pray'r and penitence attend
Thro' Faith and Grace for making God her Friend?

Alas! the lofty—bigotted—and blind—
Rich—fam'd—and formal, ne'er free entrance find—

Pride's lofty Spirit haughtily, disdains
To count the costs, or profits, joys, or pains—
But, proud, like Satan, spurn celestial post—
And scorn to stoop like Jesu's humble host,

The boasting Bigot ne'er revokes his vow,
Nor makes his pride, and prejudices, bow;
But, obstinately blind, will, stumbling, stray,
Nor feel to find the gate, nor grope the way.

The purblind Rich, no narrow track behold,
So dazzled with their Wealth's dear Gods of gold!

The titled deem it needless to attempt,
The fam'd must always feel themselves exempt—
And courtly Hyprocrites, pert—puff'd—and proud,
Would meet the curse to miss the common crowd.

None ever ask—or seek—or knock—or strive,
But whom Christ's Spirit makes, and keeps, alive,
The Dead ne'er doubt—the stupid never stir—
Sluggards will sleep, and Debauchees demur;
None but the troubled undertake the task,
With earnestness, to strive, knock, seek, or ask.
None but the ignorant humbly ask their way—
None but the needy, or opprest, will pray—
None but the broken-hearted—contrite—meek—
For peace, or pardon, will, sincerely, seek—
None lowly knock, or Mercy's door assail,
But those that feel their Spirits poor and frail—
That narrow entrance none e'er strive to gain
But those whose wounded bosoms throb with pain;
Or gain admittance thro' that gracious gate
Who loathe not Lust, and dread Pride's desperate State.
None seek Heav'n's Pearl who prize their terrene stuff,
Nor dig for treasure who can claim enough.
None seek for buildings in a brighter Sphere,
So proud of pompous edifices here;
Nor strive to trace the precious Corner-stone,
Who fondly lay foundations of their own.
None ask, as plants in Paradise, to grow,
Who glory more in garden-grounds below.
Ne'er beg to be good grafts in Heaven's Vine.
While satisfied with Nature's acid wine;
Or seek for sap from rich celestial root,
So charmed with barren foliage more than fruit.

Will Creatures, form'd defenceless, e'er confess
They know they're ignorant, weak, or weaponless?
Will such e'er think their Souls a Shepherd need,
To watch, to water, fold, defend, and feed,
Who view, transported, their vile pasture ground,
Where grossest grass, and muddiest brooks abound;
Nor note how Winter soon such treats destroys,
How soon such streamlets, droughty Summer dries,
Who boast their high inclosures built so strong,
They sleep secure from rapine, craft, and wrong;
Tho' wandering wild, 'mid gambols, sport, and play.
They fear no forest—dread no wildering way—
Ne'er apprehend, while danger's out of sight,
Dire Beasts of prey, or deadly Serpent's bite;
But swell'd with Self-conceit, and puffing Pride,
Judge graceless Learning an unerring guide.
Deem natural Freedom, and full Force, innate,
Can form their fortune, and can fix their fate—
Thro' their pure foresight, fortitude, and pow'r,
No Serpent can deceive; no Beast of prey devour!

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Will any ask a skill'd Physician's aid,
Not weak, nor worn? of Death nor Fate, afraid?
Or seek medicaments to heal, or ease,
Who fears no dangers, nor e'er feels disease?
None will suppose the Body sore, or sick,
Whose parts are all alert, and spirits quick;
Nor e'er imagine malady of Soul,
While Fancy reigns, nor Conscience feels controul—
None will e'er find they're feeble—lame—or halt,
Who judge each joint, and muscle, free from fault;
Nor think they labour under loss of sight,
While natural objects look both clear and bright.
None can suspect a paralytic stroke,
Whose limbs are lightsom, and their strength unbroke—
Suppose no plague, or leprosy, their lot,
Who spies no sympton, and perceives no spot—
None putrifying sores, or ulcers, dread
Who deems all's firm, and fair, from heel to head;
Nor fancies fatal bruise or bleeding wound,
Who feels flesh—tendon—nerve—and vessel, sound:
So will no Soul suspect the head, or heart,
Which feels no sorrow, and forebodes no smart;
Or care and labour to obtain full cures,
Who dreads no perils, and no pains endures.
The blind in Spirit never will believe,
Such things exist as Christian Souls conceive;
Or can discover, in the least degree,
The vast advantages of Souls that see.
The deaf, and dumb, can never comprehend
How much on hearing, and on speech, depend;
Nor all the other Senses well discern
What Minds from modulated tones may learn—
Ne'er will one reason in such Souls arise,
For listening to the words of One that's wise;
For worldly Wisdom, ignorantly, deems
All genuine Christian doctrines idle dreams.

How then canst Thou, by Lust, and Passions, led,
While Pride, and Prejudice, rule heart, and head;
And fed with Flattery, from Thy earliest Youth,
In Age taste—relish—seek for, sacred Truth!
Canst Thou, while scales of Custom seal Thy sight,
Perceive one single ray of heavenly light?
While Habit's bit and bridle stay Thy tongue,
Avouch what's right, and vilify what's wrong?
Thy ears by fashionable Folly seal'd
Attend the truths a Saviour's Love reveal'd?
Or, in the midst of Dissipation's din
Hear calm reproof? or feel remorse, within?
Canst Thou comply with such a painful task
As tearing off Thy pharisaic mask?
The caustic plaster—cleansing salve, apply,
To kill Thy Lusts, and clear Thy carnal eye?
Purge off Thy Pride to deaden base desire,
And still to purer holiness aspire?
Thy Soul unload itself of earthly clay,
To run more lightly all Thy heav'nward way?
Of Ostentation strip Thy morbid Mind,
And leave Thy Pomps and Vanities behind?
The love of glory, and gross flattery, quit,
False fame—taste—knowledge—learning—wealth—and wit?
Thro' all the paths of duty daily plod,
Whilst Love—Truth—Purity—grow more like God?
Pluck out right eye? right hand, or foot, cut off,
While Libertines upbraid, and Courtiers scoff?
Spurn all the gay—the profligate—the proud—
That constitute the World's unwitting crowd;
And still Thy heavenly race with patience run,
Like fair Fitzgerald, and fond Huntingdon?
Thy Friends defy? each Fool, and Flatterer, shock?
Still, at the gospel-gate, more earnest knock
As tho' possess'd of nothing, ask and strive,
For daily crumbs, to keep Thy Soul alive?

Canst Thou, amidst Thy parasitic train,
So supercilious—volatile—and vain!
Each Idol spurn, of ev'ry shape, and shade,
By Unbelief—Pride—Lust—and Passion, made?
Perceive and spurn, all Earth's nets, traps, and gins,
And shun all snares of shrewd, and shining Sins?
Fly lures of every signature, and stamp,
Which lull Thy Reason, and rouz'd Conscience cramp?
Scorn hypocritic, base, and impious, Imps,
And lame endeavours where devotion limps;
Thy spurious pray'rs, which, neither morn, or night,
Implore new pow'rs, nor ask for added light?

Could such disguis'd attempts admission gain,
Would'st Thou the painful pilgrimage maintain?
Alas! not long Thy patience would pursue
The narrow path where Fashion sees so few?
That few despis'd—in looks and Spirits poor
Who've daily pass'd the Heav'n-appointed door!
To pace with toil that steep and weary way,

157

So far from all the Great! the Grand! the Gay!
Contemn'd, and stigmatiz'd by Old and Young
Known in the wider Way's enormous Throng!

Could all these obstacles be once o'er-past,
And Thou hadst learnt the genuine Way at last,
How could'st Thou travel in that scanty track
With all Thy Wealth, and buildings on Thy back?
Or tread one step, a rough, or mirey road,
With countless Idols added to the load?
And, tho' this path Thy painful feet had found,
With all Thy fortune, and Thy finery, round,
The pious Wights that thro' the portal went,
Would ne'er console Thee with one compliment;
But stare contempt at all Thy gaudy geer.
Each wond'ring why, and how, thou enter'dst there.
Meantime the wanton Wild blaspheming Band,
That join'd large Juntos, on sinister hand,
Would, as Thou wanderedst wearily along
Make Thee the subject of satyric burlesque Song.
Nor would those poor Companions calm Thy Mind
By humble bends, or flattery refin'd—
Would ne'er ascribe to Thee the praise of Parts,
Of Sense, of Science, Taste, or curious Arts—
Thy Greatness, or Thy Goodness, once express—
Thy skill in diction, or polite address:
Ne'er speak how popular applause increas'd
From courtly table or from clam'rous feast;
Those charitable treats, by mobs miscall'd,
Where Sunday-schools beneath cool coverts bawl'd;
Or Climbing-boys, in brilliant costume seen,
With brush and shovel gambol'd on the green;
They'd take from Thee each particle of Fame,
And give all glory to another Name!

They'd try to strip Thee of Self-love, and Lust
And lay Thy Pride all prostrate in the dust!
All worldly treasures, and all earthly toys,
Which moth and rust corrupt, or Time destroys!
Each thing, each thought, that fascinates, or fouls,
All cast, as idols, to blind bats, and owls!

They'd never greet Thee for Thy great desert—
Or count how clever—wise—and good—Thou wert—
How carnal Knowledge, Learning, Taste, and Wit,
Would win Thy way to Heav'n, or make Thee fit;
But, to be form'd, and fitted, for that Place,
Thy walk must first begin with deep disgrace.
Must all Thy Pride, and Passions, mortify,
And lay Thy boundless Lusts, and Luxuries, by,
Of all Thy deep hypocrisies repent—
Each impious practice, and perverse intent—
Immoral motive, and unthankful thought;
As well as vilest view, and foulest fault,
By Grace renew'd, begin religious Life,
With harlot, Magdalen, or David's Wife.
Should some one wiser Poet pass that Way,
He'd ne'er salute Thee with one flattering Lay—
Ne'er praise Thee for Thy Person—Wealth—or Worth—
Or ought, beside, that appertains to Earth.
Ne'er prostitute to Thee the charms of Song,
Or give Thee honours which to Heav'n belong;
But tell Thee every stanza—every strain—
Like rays of sunshine—dews—and drops of rain—
Derived from Heaven should go to Heav'n again.

There Thou'd'st be taught, each step a Christian treads
He finds fresh conflicts—temptings—doubts, and dreads!
Trials without—and treachery within—
From a false World—from Satan—Self—and Sin!
The World with endless wiles, and witchcrafts, round—
Baseness to baffle—cunning to confound;
With all those various, all those vicious, charms,
Which wake up Lusts, and lull the Soul's alarms!
Replete with whirlpools—pits—and traps and toils—
Vain, or vexatious, when it frowns, or smiles!
Still spreading dangerous, or delusive snare,
In Wealth—in Want—in Transport—in Despair!
Dangers, disguis'd, beneath each apt pretence,
In all it offers to each sanguine Sense!
Its leaves, and flow'rs, but, barely, hopes, and fears!
Its choicest fruits all fed with watering tears!
Its oaths but perjuries—promises but lies—
Its prospects fraught with groans, and sobs, and sighs!

Satan, still press'd with perfidy and spleen,
Contrives temptations, subtle, and unseen!
Plans constant plots, to trouble, or destroy
The present comfort, or the future joy!
Thro' every scene his labours never cease
To spread confusion, or to frustrate peace!
Frowns a terrific Fiend, or, aptly, apes
The simple Child's, or smiling Cherub's, shapes!
Whether the Soul's seraphic fervour blaze,
Celestial zest increase, or zeal decays—
Whether the Spirit full Assurance feels,
Or faith dissolves in Doubt, and Reason reels—

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Whether, without a cloud, Hope clearly shines,
Love soars to Heav'n, or down to Earth declines,
His cunning still endeavours to deceive,
To puzzle, or perplex—misguide, or grieve—
Still falsely bringing some foul cheating charge,
Of Faith—Hope—Love—too little, or too large—
That Faith's a fond enthusiastic theme—
That Hope indulges many an idle dream—
And Love's a loose deception of the Soul,
Eluding Law's, and Conscience's, controul.
He lurks in every choice, and change, of Life;
To introduce false doubts, and fears, and strife—
Still promptly represents the heavenly road,
With unsurmountable obstructions strew'd—
How pains and sorrows swell each tiresome steep,
No wisdom can elude, or strength o'er-leap—
Troubles, or trials, all the woeful way,
With nought, at last, the labour to repay!
He'll give to sanguine Guilt a deeper dye,
And shows revealed Truth a shameless lie;
To crush all comfort with oppressive care,
And sink the Soul in darkness, and despair!
Will fix to every fear an added fang;
Or hook to every hope a doubtful pang—
Load each unwieldy cross with crushing weight,
Or turn to ridicule a future State;
Then, if this fails the Conscience to convince,
Degrades the glory, while he spurns its Prince!
Makes earthly objects blaze with golden gloss,
But promis'd crowns appear deceptive dross—
Presents enrapturing scenes on every side,
As baits for Passions, Appetites, or Pride.
Some deep delusion starts at every turn,
Bewildering Reason, while base wishes burn,
Till the fool'd Spirit future hopes decries,
And christian prospects of the peopled Skies.
With churlish difficulties tries to chill,
Or make earth's magic charms the bosom thrill—
Frames sharp misfortune's terror to inspire,
Or fair enchantments to inflame desire—
Starts threat'ning dangers to amaze the Mind,
Or firing Lust by fancied bliss behind—
Shapes disappointments to enrage with wrath,
Or dainty pastimes to desert the path—
Shows fairer tracks bestrew'd with shining flow'rs
And Beauty, beckoning to sweet-scented bow'rs;
With each fond witchery that frail Souls excite
To sensual pleasure and impure delight.
Persuades rash Reason to restrain her trust,
And live at rest beneath loved rule of Lust.
Tells Conscience she may trifling claims confide,
To better conduct, in the courts of Pride;
While urging Judgment boldly to bestow
His verdict, fix'd, for present bliss below;
Still striving Understanding to decoy
With moonshine happiness, and meteor joy!
Betrays the Fancy fondly to behold
Earth's glorious treasures, gems—and pearls—and gold!
What boundless blessings Wealth can always claim—
From solid—satisfying, fruits of Fame—
With all the boundless honour which belongs
To bowing multitudes, and buzzing throngs!

CHAPTER 9th.

When Man, at first, before his Maker stood,
The World was very fair; and very good;
And countless charms and blessings, still combine,
To prove a Pow'r and Providence divine—
For still, in part, kind Heav'n supports the plan;
From which no Creature swerves, but sinful Man,
And those he educates, in human schools,
To counteract their kind Creator's rules.
For Man, base Rebel! every gift confounds,
A World's confusion! while Himself he wounds—

159

Nor can his Mind regain its pristine state,
Till God, by sovereign Grace, reverse his Fate!

The moral Muse, in part, before unfurl'd
Some striking traits of such a snaring World,
Yet still she feels her grieving bosom glow,
To state the troubles of this World below.

Oh! what a World! replete with tricks and wiles!
Where peccant Man imprudent Man beguiles!
While all things round assume such thick disguise,
They mock his lustful heart with masks and lies!
Deception, daily holds forth sounds, and sights;
To cherish Passions—charm strong Appetites;
While each frail object with a false outside,
Seducing Sense, and Reason, Prompts more Pride!
Deck'd with delights, so dazzling, nice, or new,
Each graceless Soul grows prompter to pursue!
And tho' unprosperous in the chafing chace,
Yet eager Ignorance still renews the race,
Till restless labour robs him of his breath,
Then down he sinks beneath black shades of Death!

Meanwhile, Man's willing Self, seduced by Sense,
Fond of indulgence, gulps each gross pretence,
And Body having long borne sovereign sway,
The Soul's bribed power's implicitly obey—
While Sin, by Habit, working on the Will,
Makes every strong temptation stronger still!
The passive Ear, thro' constant custom, prone,
Leans, fond, and listens, to each flattering tone—
The ready Eye, too, curiously inclines
To view, with taste, each showy toy that shines!
Oft fawns on Beauty till the breast's on fire,
With wanton wish, and dangerous desire;
While each inferior Sense finds bands to bind,
In basest servitude, the morbid Mind!
So long thus carnal Sense hath sway'd the Soul,
That feeble Reason feels the strong controul;
And Understanding so becomes a tool,
That Judgment yields, just like a fickle Fool,
While Will, submitting to their lawless lead,
Still executes their schemes by word or deed.
Fancy so long hath forag'd for delights,
To entertain the beastly Appetites—
So long each sordid Passion's sway'd by Pride,
Affections truckle, to base Lusts allied,
Heav'n's purer objects urge no Heartfelt plea,
To make the Will and mute Affections free;
But empty bubbles, round Earth's paltry Orb,
Prompt Man's pursuits—Mind's noblest pow'rs absorb!

How shall the Soul surmount this joint intrigue?
Or stop the mischiefs of this mighty league?
How these temptations of the World withstand?
And subtle blandishments of Satan's band?
Make Self's deprav'd propensities depart,
With each base habit of the head and heart?
How all her various Adversaries rout,
Poisoners within, and pioneers without?
Strong foes in garrison, ne'er known to fly,
And, tho' oft deeply wounded, never die—
How shall she still her pilgrimage pursue?
Though frequent foil'd, yet still the fight renew?
Still with fresh fortitude regain her ground,
'Mid sighs, and groans, and many a ghastly wound?
Ne'er turn, with terror, one base footstep back,
Nor seek, by sore mistake, some smoother track;
But, boldly looking back, o'er perils past,
Still trust to conquer, and be crown'd at last?
Let her apply to Heav'n's unfailing Source
For Truth and Temperance; Fortitude and Force—
For full assurance Faith shall never fail,
And Hope, fix'd sure when winds and seas assail—
Love to heal gash and bruise, with Gilead's balm—
Humility to keep her spirits calm—
Patience, and Meekness, to encounter Scorn—
Knowledge to lead, and Wisdom to forewarn—
Experience, watching with prophetic eyes;
And Circumspection to prevent surprize—
While, to protect each vulnerable part,
To fence the head, and fortify the heart,
Let her, all adverse weapons to repress,
Put on the breast-plate of Christ's Righteousness—
Her head His helmet of Salvation shield—
Her hand the Spirit's sword, with strength, to wield—
Her loins with Gospel-Truth's bright girdle bound—
On her firm feet the shoes of Peace be found,
To stand, or travel on, from fear secure,
And all the roughness of the road endure;
Still daily worn, throughout her trying ways,
Like all her heav'nly dress, which ne'er decays!
But more to baffle all her murderous Foes,
The shield of Faith, with pray'r, to interpose;
To quench each fiery dart; each doubt repel,
From sinful Self, and all the Fiends of Hell;

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From the false World, its works, and wiles, defend,
Till all Earth's troubles, and temptations, end!

But deem not all those Pow'rs can Peace destroy,
Or jilt true Christians' hearts of Hope, or Joy—
Deem not those deathless Foes in equal force
Each pace, and period, thro' his conscious course—
That greater Might their Mischief ne'er restrains—
That Truth ne'er triumphs—Grace no victory gains—
That God's free Goodness ne'er suspends the fight,
Nor deigns the Soul some tastes of true delight—
Think not strong hurricane or constant storm
Distress the Traveller's Heart, and Heaven deform—
That thorns and thickets, flints, or sands, or mire,
Each hour perplex his path—his footsteps tire—
That, pierc'd with spines, or stones, or sunk in sloughs,
He feels repentance for his pious vows—
That nothing meets the Wanderer, all the Way,
But Misery—Melancholy—Doubt—Dismay—
That Care and Pain confront him every pace;
Fear, Sin, and Sorrow, Danger, and Disgrace:
Tho' he experience Perils—taste Distress—
While wand'ring thro' the World's drear Wilderness;
From painful hunger, and from parching drought,
O'er tiresome tracts, for forty years, about—
'Mid fatal Serpents—under fiery Law;
Whose penalty speaks Death, for every flaw—
Where Tribulation stood with deepest Dread,
To agitate the heart, and rack the head—
Objects of Fear, or objects of Offence,
With nought to chear the Soul—or charm the Sense;
No! Christians, who've just forded Jordan's flood,
Find Jacob's blessing's bought with Jesu's blood—
Loath'd Manna ceases when they leave the strand,
Now fed with long-stored corn in Canaan's Land!
Yet, tho' not, now, to steril coasts confin'd,
They've left innumerable ills behind.
They still experience Peace, with Tumults mix'd,
Till safe on Sion's hill for ever fix'd!

Let long-experienc'd Sojourners declare
What pains and pleasures blest Believers' are.
Let them the full-contrasted facts recal;
What raptures rise—what blasting fears befal!
What shades to shock! what glories to regale!
While wandering up each hill, and down each dale.
What elevating views, or terrors strong,
Soarings, or sinkings, labouring all day long!
Depressions deep; or extacies sublime,
While coil'd with flesh, in Earth's frail, fickle, Clime!
What doubts depress the heart—what hopes dilate—
To try their Spirits in that pilgrim state!

Thick mists, and darkness, often intervene,
To cloud the sight, or close the solemn Scene—
Shut out the blessed beams that shot from far,
From Night's pale lamp, or twinkling polar star.
Obscure the Map, or shining Chart, that show'd
Each point and bearing in Earth's temporal road—
Dismay'd with anxious care—dissolv'd with dread,
Lest Ignorance might, at last, be most misled;
Or Reason, rul'd by Passion, Lust, or Pride,
Still carnally inclin'd, should wander wide—
Should, ultimately, lead their footsteps back,
To join the Troops that throng the fatal track.
But, tho' the Christian scarce perceives a spark,
At sundry times to guide him thro' the dark;
Yet longer intervals of light appear,
More pure—more splendid—constant—warm—and clear,
Than the short gleams that shoot their glaring ray,
With dazzling lustre, o'er the wider Way!
A Light which Lust, and Pride, and Vice, pervert
To private ruin, and to public hurt—
Mere blinding beams, that seem to aid the sight,
And dart rich radiance thro' dark Nature's Night;
But only lead Man's dim, deluded, eyes,
To gaze on Earth, and quite forget the Skies!
Not such a transient, blinding, blaze, as theirs
Illuminates the eyes of Heaven's Heirs;
But Light, discovering, clearly, all around,
The gay deceptions, and the dangerous ground.
Assists the Soul to weigh each object's worth
Which prompts affections, and pursuits, on Earth!
Can with most pertinent precision show
What tends tow'rd Heav'n—what leads to depths below!
By which pure Mind their genuine price may view,
And show what Will should shun, and what pursue
Help Understanding rightly to discern
What Prudence ought espouse—what Wisdom spurn—
How Reason may point out each past mistake,
And keep the tender Conscience wide awake—
Discriminate, with judgment, Foe, from Friend,
And leading clues, thro' every labyrinth, lend,
Amidst Imagination's foulest fog,
Display each spiney brake, and specious bog;

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Nor only light the eyes, the feet inform,
But nerve the Heart, and weak Affections warm;
Diffusing, from pure Grace, a rapturous glow,
Which Worldlings never feel, nor Infidels e'er know!

That few-frequented Track, far-distant view'd,
Seems quite sequester'd—desolate—and rude!
Displays no beauties, to induce desires,
But throng'd with thistles—brakes—and tangling briers!
A baleful Forest! dreary Desart! bare!
Fill'd with wild Beasts—fierce Birds—Asps—poisonous Air!
But, as the trembling Traveller proceeds,
He finds perennial springs, and verdant meads,
Fair flow'rs, of balmy scent, successive blow,
And grateful fruits, and healing herbage, grow!
Instead of blasted Forests, blooming Groves—
Or Beasts, or Birds, of Prey, but Lambs, and Doves—
Instead of dreadful Serpents, threatening death,
And poisonous Winds with pestilential breath,
Celestial breezes breathing fresh perfume,
And guardian Angels guiding tasks assume!
But safety rests not on seraphic Friends,
Their guardian-God on all their steps attends—
And when the Wanderers gain some gracious Height,
Faith, to enlighten and enlarge their sight;
Adjusts her sky-constructed telescope,
And lays it, level, on the head of Hope,
To view with fairer, fuller, evidence,
Scenes that escape the purblind pow'r of Sense;
Whilst Love, impatient to possess her dow'r,
Bounds on before, with more than mortal pow'r;
And, eager to attain her heavenly goal,
Tries to shake off her tiresome earthly stole;
Forgetting wale, and wound, and want, and woe,
And chides those Friends for sauntering on so slow!
Oft, as those kind Compeers advance their view,
Some heavenly vision, some experience, new,
Creates fresh vigour—expedites their pace,
To rival her in Time's terrestrial race.

While thus, these Friends, their lov'd Associate lead,
Increasing strength, and courage, prompt their speed—
Temptations weaken—terrors wear away—
And difficulties lessen every day!
The skies grow clearer, and the path more plain,
While songs of gladness banish grief and pain!
Thus like the harrass'd Israelitish host,
When flying from their Foe's accursed Coast,
With terror look'd tow'rds Egypt's horrid Lands,
While, still pursued, by strong, embattled Bands,
As from that cruel Coast their footsteps fled,
They saw them in the Red Sea, drown'd, and dead:
So, to the Wilderness, these looking back,
O'er every dangerous, every toilsome, track;
Where, wandering long, unnumber'd ills beset
With pain and pleasure mix'd—remember'd yet—
When, fraught with terrors, dreadful Sinai frown'd
With clouds—thick darkness—lightnings—thunderings, round—
While earthquakes—trumpets—vengeful voices, join'd!
But now, with all their horrors left behind!
The Laws there utter'd now no more condemn,
Tho' standing, still, as guides, to govern Them—
No more they threaten death, nor hope destroy,
Or rob one evangelic heart of Joy!
Receiv'd as rules of Life, from Christ's own hand,
To point their steps thro' all the promis'd Land.
Their legal Leader dead, the precious charge
Is given to One who grants the Land at large.
Now, treading safe on Canaan's happy coast,
That heavenly Joshua heads their well-arm'd host.
A dauntless Chieftain! an unerring Guide!
Still combating at each true Christian's side!
Supplied with strength, from Him, they never yield,
But every faithful Hero keeps the Field!
Their strength and courage never can decay,
While fed with heavenly food from day to day!
No Time destroys new regimental dress,
Completely cloth'd in His pure Righteousness!
Nor need they doubt the Soldier's amplest dow'r,
Their Captain's Wealth is boundless, like His Pow'r!
He gives not here, His full affianc'd Rest,
With all the bliss of Heav'n compleatly blest;
But bids to combat all unlicens'd Lust,
Till Canaan's idol Tribes embrace the dust!
Like David, conquering Pride's Philistian strength,
Till, safely lodg'd in Salem's tow'rs, at length,
Eternal transports each pure Spirit fill,
While singing hymns of Heav'n on Sion's Hill!

Not the curs'd Crowds that throng the wider Way;
The proudly Great, and profligately Gay;
Who urge, with ardour, their impure pursuits,
To pluck vile Pleasures' fascinating fruits;

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Fruits, which, like Hells of old, still offer joy,
But, from the eager grasp for ever fly!
Or Sodom-Apples, seized with greedy gust,
Are found all fill'd with dry and filthy dust!
Indulg'd in each wild wish, and dangerous whim,
While, filling Folly's cup above the brim,
They drink full draughts—not natural thirst to slake,
But Lusts to strengthen, from each philter'd lake!
Their prompt Imaginations, mad for change,
Thro' all Life's labyrinths, rude, bewildering, range;
Still hoping, tho' they tread enchanted ground,
More beatific bliss must, yet, be found!
Expect new transports will outstrip the past!
Activity and strength much longer last!
Deem rank indulgence never will abate;
Nor frantic pleasure expedite their fate!
O'er every fence their lawless fancies fly,
With step impetuous, and lust-kindled eye!
While, skipping sprightly round, with song and dance,
New—thoughtless—maddening, multitudes advance!
No obstacle impedes their fearless feet,
But grateful objects all their Senses greet!
No mountains to ascend—no cliffs to climb—
Regardless how the glass is turn'd by Time!
Still sporting on, exempt from fear, and pain,
O'er an invariably declining plain—
Adown the smooth descent, secure they slide—
Consult no compass, and engage no guide!
Inflam'd by Appetite—by Pride impell'd—
Temptation's ne'er withstood, nor Wish witheld—
Fearing no fall—predicting no disgust,
In floods of Luxury—or flights of Lust!
They dread no danger! try no duteous task!
No help implore! no true protection ask!
But seize, with greedy grasp, all offer'd joys,
That Fashion shapes, or Fancy can devise!

The genial fields, at first, choice charms display,
In all the bright beatitudes of May!
The balanc'd Air, maintains a constant calm,
Or fanning Zephyrs breathe an od'rous balm!
High-flavour'd fruits, rare flow'rs, with gladd'ning glow,
'Mid softest verdure, fondly laugh below!
Cool, limpid lakes unruffled mirrors hold,
Reflecting, fair, what beauteous banks unfold!
No sullen clouds athwart the welkin range,
To check their sports, prognosticating change—
Nor skimming meteors, wafted on the wind,
Predict artilleried storms approach behind!
No vapoury blight bedims the azure sky,
To hint some noisome evil hovers nigh;
Nor churlish blasts abound, with chilly breath,
Forboding fell distemper, pain, or death!
No secret pitfals, nor approaching foes,
Their whelming depths, or wounding darts disclose,
Yet every step some crafty snare's conceal'd,
And hidden hosts their deadly weapons wield!
Their beastly Minds no warning word believe—
No awful sign their Senses, prone, perceive—
But, bounding on, with resolute career,
Spurn all reproof, nor dream disaster's near,
Tho' in each vein a native poison's pent,
And leav'ning Lust makes the foul mass ferment!
Tho' Pride, pestiferous! broods in every breast,
Still hatching passions, in its private nest;
While Appetite expands with fume or foam
Thro' deadly yeast, in each heart's, direful home;
Till vapid Pleasure, settling on its lees,
Grows sour with Sloth, or putrid with Disease!
Ev'n Venom's mix'd with sunbeams bright, and clear,
And taints the still, transparent, atmosphere—
Thro' each polluted lake spreads interspers'd—
Ev'n flow'rs, and fruits, and grassy couch, are curs'd!
Much more Corruption's rankling pow'r's increas'd,
By vicious frolic, and voluptuous feast—
By pangs that lust, and jealousy, impart,
And deadly bane that blasts the envious heart!
Pall'd Appetite rejects intemperate joys—
Lust render'd listless—rank refection cloys—
With Disappointment's weight wild Passion strives
Till sharp Chagrin curtails their headlong lives!

Not long the skies rest silent and serene,
But dire events disturb the vasty scene!
Not long the path lies plane, or prospects please,
Or Dissipation sleeps in peace, or ease—
Debauchery riots with uninjur'd health,
Or Avarice wallows in his heaps of wealth—
Unmanly Meanness Pomp and Pride attends—
Religion's mask Hypocrisy befriends—
Crowns domineer, or Courtiers cringe and fawn;
Or People, rights, and privileges, pawn!

That ample Track contains a countless Crew
Of Dupes, undone, and Scoundrels that undo!

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Of servile Villains, and of sordid Slaves—
Of lawless Lechers, rich, yet needy, Knaves—
Cross interests clash throughout the motley Throng,
Each Wretch contriving, or still acting Wrong!

There travel tyrant Kings, that scourge the Earth!
And Princes, prove no nobler boast than Birth!
Idolaters of Pomp—Pimps with full Pow'rs!
Titles which trick! and Wealth which Want devours—
Seduction's brutal Bands—Imposture's Troops—
And mad mistaken Honour's sanguine Groups—
Ambition's Flatterers, and Mammon's Fools;
For glory, or for gold, all Tyrants' Tools!
Heroes, who, frequent, in their furious wrath,
With dreadful desolation sweep their Path!
Like firebrands kindling cruel waste and war,
Which Salem's peaceful progeny abhor!
Not aim'd to settle wrongs, or 'stablish rights,
But to expand their Fame, and prove their Mights!
With brandish'd blades to prune away the Poor,
The mean Mechanic, and the labouring Boor—
More useful far, in Peace, for Life's support,
Than all the Crimps that buzz about a Court!
Heroes, which lead on Armies, like a flood,
To drench and deluge every field with blood—
Steeping their horses' hoofs in human gore,
While few escape, their phrenzies to deplore;
Or, strip their Track like wild, impetuous, wind,
Leaving one vast vacuity behind!

Oft have the Sojourners to Sion felt
What threats, and thunders, Despotism has dealt;
When fell revenge, with furious wrath, decreed,
The faithful Followers of the Lamb should bleed—
Or, in the cursed Mary's martyring days,
When Smithfield's walls beheld the fatal blaze,
Whose dreadful flames the bleeding space illumed,
While Saints pure Frames the cruel fires consum'd;
But while their Bodies fed the funeral Pyre,
Each Soul ascended to its heavenly Sire!
Or when Bartholomew, in guileful Gaul,
Saw each sad Protestant, pure Victim, fall!

Pride, join'd with Profligacy, ne'er connives
At striking truths, and exemplary Lives;
But vents full vengeance on those hapless Elves
Who shew forth shapes so little like Themselves—
All deem'd foul Monsters, or acknowledg'd Foes,
Who impious Passions, Pride, and Lust oppose—
Whose blameless Lives, and virtuous converse, prove
Libels on most that round Earth's Monarchs move!
As savage Negroes feel supreme delight,
In massac'ring each Monster skinn'd with white.

When Tyrants pause, and persecutions cease,
And Christians share a temporary Peace;
While fierce convulsions in such Crowd subside,
Each Soul still swells with Passions, Lusts, and Pride!
Pride, panting, still, for some superior sway—
Lust, prowling, like a savage Beast, for prey—
Dark Passions, propagating feuds, and strife,
Lay waste, or swallow up, the sweets of Life—
Strangle Content, or lay frail Pleasure low,
Like Turkish Tyrant's brac'd, or unbrac'd, bow;
Or Earth's gross vapours, labouring to get loose,
O'erturns what tends to happiness or use!
Hate's—Envy's—Anger's—virulence, or rage,
Convulse each individual's every stage;
Like a corroding canker, Life consume,
Or, like a dagger, antedate their doom!
Care—Fear—Anxiety—or Dread—or Doubt,
Spare no rash Spirit in this Rabble-rout,
But jilt their Hearts of every earthly joy,
Till dark despondence love of Life destroy;
While private Wretchedness and public Wrongs,
By Soul-exacerbations thin the Throngs!
Illegal licence, and oppressive Pow'r,
With murderous deaths vast multitudes devour!
Pride—Pomp—Extortion—sacrifice their Slaves—
Replenish prisons—glut untimely graves—
'Mid meaner Slaves whom Fortune's goods beguile,
Crowds are cut off with trouble, care, and toil!

Among the monstrous train of hell-born ills,
Misfortune mangles—Melancholy kills!
Some pine and perish with undue Desire;
And some on freakish Fancy's racks expire.
Some fall vain Victims in false Honour's cause;
And myriads massacred by sanguine Laws.
Assassination slays in different forms,
By secret killing strokes, or open storms;
And, last of all, with desperation, drear,
Desponding Suicides bring up the rear!

In that vast concourse of discordant parts
No strong attractions knit such selfish hearts—
By no affinities, elective, held,
All mutually repelling, and repell'd.

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As when some substances, of adverse kind,
Tho' cold by Nature, when, by Art combin'd,
The inimical mixture quick conspires
To waste itself by fermentation's fires:
So, when such heterogeneous Mortals meet,
All effervesce, with preternatural heat,
Till each obnoxious combination's burst,
By flames consum'd, or dissonance dispers'd!

Thro' this incongruous Crowd no Friendship's found—
This grows, alone, on consecrated ground!
In such a soil, in such inclement sky,
Mildews, and blights, both leaves, and blooms, destroy!
Pride's caterpillars eat its infant fruits—
Lust's canker-worms corrode its feeble roots—
The fires of Passion, or the frosts of Sloth,
If ever planted, still impede its growth—
Like damps, or droughts, destroy its tender head,
Or tempests tear it from its barren bed:
Religion can, alone, light up its fires—
Love only keeps alive its pure desires;
To cherish Grace, and twine the golden chain,
Uniting Minds, and making one of twain—
While moral Virtues link the mass, immense,
Inspiring courtesy, and confidence—
To shape the parts, and keep the polish pure,
Connecting each, and holding all secure.

Vice, like a Solvent, melts each mutual tie—
Makes friendly Faith, and warm Affection, fly—
An acid menstruum! all corrodes with rust,
Or totally dissolves each social trust.
Uncouples each connection Heaven frames,
Except what serves for selfish ends, or aims.
It may, short space, like lovely Virtue shine,
Covering, with lucid masks, its views, malign—
Assuming smiles which smoothe her heavenly face,
Conceal dissension, and escape disgrace.
Hypocrisy may practise tricks a time,
And hide, with constant care, each impious crime—
Behind Religion's vizor long may lurk,
And, unsuspected, ply her wiley work—
A veil, resembling Piety's, employ,
And, for awhile, deceive each searching eye;
But soon prompt energies of hidden Pride,
With pow'rful efforts push the mask aside—
Soon Lust, which, for a season, secret lies,
Starts into deed, and tears the thin disguise;
Or Passions' wild combustibles, within,
Burst into blaze, and show foul Fiends of Sin.
Strife, and Contention, rouze their angry storms,
Strip off their shrowds, and show their hateful forms;
While Hate's, and Envy's, vile, rebellious, broods,
Each heart inflame, and stir continual feuds,
Which kill with poison, slow, or sudden stings,
Each embryo bliss that in pure bosom springs;
Still, in ten thousand varied traits, destroy
Domestic happiness, and general joy!
Mischief and Misery penetrate the Whole,
Pervade the Body, and pervert the Soul!
All shapes of Pain, and pining Languor, low,
Extinguish Nature's animating glow!
Chills of Indifference—fits of deep Disgust,
Damp all delights of Luxury and Lust.
Tho' apt Amusement, Lust, and Luxury, joins,
Amusement mocks—all vapid Pleasure pines;
And, while the Frame some daily damage feels
Lust becomes mawkish—Luxury loathes its meals!
Experience dissipates fond Fancy's dreams,
And Disappointment mars their cloudy schemes;
Still pulling down their air-built, baseless, tow'rs,
Till Death Life's cold, corrupt, remains, devours!
No joyful Faith, or genuine Hope, appear,
To strew their tranquil consolations there!
Not that blest Faith which lifts each look, sublime,
Beyond all check of change, or stretch of Time;
But only diabolic Imp's belief,
Which darkens gloom and deepens pain and grief;
Depriv'd of Peace, and every ray of Hope,
While sliding, rueful, down the dreadful slope!
Each heightening horror Soul and Body tear,
By Demons dragg'd—but, chief, the Fiend, Despair!
The gloom still gathering every step they go,
With stronger foretastes of the blasts below!
Glaring, aghast! like Sin's infernal Sire,
To chains and darkness driv'n, fiends! worms! and fire!

Dandled in Fashion's lulling lap, at first,
Indulgence, by Fall'n Nature, fondly nurs'd;
That heedless Race to headlong ruin run,
Nor note their danger till their Soul's undone!

In Faith's bright form Credulity beguiles!
And counterfeited Hope, deceptive, smiles!
Dress'd in fair Fancy's endless shapes, and hues,
With pantomimic chase false charms pursues;

165

But near its close no more mock shapes assumes,
Engulph'd, for ever, in Egyptian glooms!

In that tumultuous track of Pride and Spleen,
Love, sweet celestial Seraph! never seen—
Her representative an impious Prude,
Of specious manners, but profane, and lewd,
A mass of folly, impudence, and art,
Nam'd Affectation, personates her part;
Whose mimic skill calls trifling Minds astray,
With whims, and self-deception, all the Way!

Meantime, like Fashion's evanescent forms,
Or figures, frail, that skirt departing storms—
Like morning mists which end in midday show'rs,
Or fall'n leaves fluttering wild, in woods and bow'rs—
Like shadows passing o'er the chequer'd plains,
Or bubbles, rising from the falling rains—
Like vernal flow'rs of various forms, and hues—
Or bright prismatic drops of sparkling dews—
Like snows, dissolving in bright solar beams;
Or fleeting troops that dance in figur'd dreams,
Before Death's awful face the crowds decay,
And melt, each hour, in multitudes, away!
Reduc'd to scatter'd groups, or trembling bands,
Till here, and there, a straggling Mortal stands,
With agonizing hearts, and looks aghast,
Lest every languid pulse should prove the last!
Each insulated Wretch, that thus remains,
Beholds no prospect but fears, woes, and pains—
Curs'd expectation—and perpetual cry—
Much loathing Life—yet dreading more to die!
At Time's last steps no mitigation's known;
All grating torture, and terrific groan!
Still rack'd Reflection, bringing back the past,
Shriveling the Soul like leaves by wintry blast—
While aggravating Conscience takes her turn,
To freeze, with fear, or hot forebodings, burn—
Her stripes forestalling, with fierce, wrathful, rod,
The future fury of an anger'd God!

Thus have I sought, with simple pow'rs, to paint
The prospects of the Sinner, and the Saint.
Before Thy feeble, aged, eyes, display'd,
In striking outlines, with strong light and shade,
That Thou may'st meditate the obvious view,
The good to choose, the evil to eschew!
But Thou, I fear, hast walk'd so far, and wide,
With heedless ardour, in the paths of Pride—
Each prejudice, and habit grown so strong,
And so delighted with fool-Fashion's Throng,
Thy Soul will scorn to hear a Clown advise;
Spurn the rude Poet, and dull rhymes despise!

Perchance my Lecture may not meet the light,
Before Thy evening end in Death's dark Night—
But should my strains e'er meet the public eye,
Some Soul, regardless, long, of greatest joy,
And, rouz'd with dread of Heav'n's impending wrath,
May labour to explore Life's narrow Path—
Yet, should proud Man my admonition spurn,
And, from so mean a Lecturer, scorn to learn,
Or, should pure Providence, in wisest way,
Decree my Song shall never see the day;
My Heart must feel its Liberty enlarg'd,
Reflecting full on friendly debt discharg'd!

Now let my Muse return to Crispin's tale;
New toils recite, and recent woes bewail;
And, from loose fragments of remaining lays,
Show how he spent more harsh dependent, days—
How, in the midst of Spring's rich, sportive, reign,
His heart, most wretched! reach'd the hapless Plain—
Why smiling Spring, to him, prov'd more severe
Than Winter's frosts would, frowning all the Year—
Why Plains felt painful, and fair Skies unkind—
He left dear Daphne, and his Flock, behind!

When drear November, with distemper'd breath,
Wing'd o'er the barren wilds disease and death;
Then, tho' the Champaign starv'd, the Welkin storm'd;
And savage Nature's face look'd all deform'd;
His Mind was tranquil, and his Heart was eas'd,
While beauteous Daphne and fond Offspring pleas'd!
Dear Daphne's charms made Heart and Soul serene,
Much more than views of sweetest vernal scene—
Joys far more genial than from Summer flow'd,
The blameless luxuries of her Love bestow'd!

While thus residing on his native heights
'Mid sharp misfortunes, still more dear delights—
Death having now Vanessa's knot untied,
Her soul felt pregnant with full broods of Pride;
While to exhibit more Wealth, Wit, and Taste,
Resolv'd to realize vast schemes at last.

Aspiring plans had long her bosom burn'd,
And, now, each petty Habitation's spurn'd—

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Determin'd much sublimer Domes to build,
Than those mean Fanes, her Pride, before o'er-fill'd—
With Altars high'r, and Off'rings richer, stor'd;
Where she, great Goddess! might be more ador'd,
By Worshippers well-pick'd, of pompous—proud—
And rich—and rare—from great Augusta's crowd,
While Winter spread his desolating pow'rs
O'er barren hills, and lawns, and leafless bow'rs—
But might, in gothic Mansion, on the Plain,
Through leafy, flowery, fruitful, Seasons, reign;
That there, her sylvan Votaries, all, might view
Her grand achievements, and give glory due!
There she enlarg'd her antiquated Dome,
Which worthless Monks long made their idle Home;
Till Henry, promptly, by long Pride and Lust,
Laid all its honours prostrate in the Dust!
There, to administer more food for Pride,
With ornaments bedeck'd the fair outside,
Where she might show her Wealth—her Taste display—
Expecting praise from all who pass'd that way;
While from her Friends she hop'd more fame to win
Courtiers, or Clowns, when worshipping within.

In these proud Temples was poor Crispin found,
At different Seasons, while the World roll'd round;
And thro' those Seasons was our Son of Song,
Whirl'd round, with Whim, or dragg'd dull days along!
Engag'd in schemes which Imitation catch'd,
Or Fancy in her procreant hotbed hatch'd,
Foreign, or native, obvious, or abstruse;
To furnish flattery, or adopt for use—
Some that seem'd consonant with Common Sense,
Much more that gave his faithful heart offence—
Borne on Imagination's Air-balloon;
Now dragg'd in dirt—now mounting near the Moon,
In counter-currents forc'd to wing his flight;
Now clear—now cloudy—oftener wrong than right.
Embarrass'd, now among encumbering crowds—
Now, fluctuating, far beyond the clouds.
With praise inflated, or collaps'd by wrath,
Ne'er swimming, smoothly, in a medium path;
But wafted wild, on airy billows buoy'd,
The sport of Prejudice, or dupe of Pride!
Tossing, and desultory—never still—
For Whim, or Passion, sway'd the Pilot's Will!
Reason was forc'd to plod in Fancy's school,
Fashion's purveyor, or Caprice's Fool!
Conscience felt sometimes plagu'd, and frequent pain'd,
When witless Custom rul'd, or Ignorance reign'd—
In spite of Piety, and Reason's choice,
A catering drudge for Vanity, and Vice!
Oft'n, for Profaneness, Piety was chid!
And moral maxims forcibly forbid!
Unwilling tool in wicked plan, or plot,
By Cunning sketch'd, or black surmise begot—
A mere machine for Policy, or Pet,
In which unnumbered contradictions met.

Here was a puzzling plan to execute,
That ne'er would Conscience, nor calm Wisdom, suit.
Some thoughtless Theory—some idle Dream—
To Grace repugnant, and pure Christian Scheme.
A System, strange, compell'd him to pursue;
The Customs complex, and the Laws all new.
Far different from the former burdens borne,
In rearing Cattle, and in raising Corn—
Each rude contrivance centering full in Self,
For magnifying Fame, yet sparing Pelf.
Self-interest primum mobile in both—
Here—cool Economy—there—greatest growth.
There, to scrape; scuffle; and accumulate—
Here, to reduce expence to narrowest rate;
Except on Ostentation's Gala-days,
When Fires must burn, and fragrant Candles blaze;
While all the mix'd varieties of Meat,
Flesh—Fish—Fowl—Game, and Fruit, must grace the Treat;
With large libations of most costly Wine,
That Scholars—Commons—Lords—and Dukes—might dine—
Each proud expence tried Taste could then contrive,
To keep Importance, and loved Fame, alive!
'Twas gathering single grains of golden sands,
Then scattering round the heaps with both her hands!
Collecting drops of dew from herby blades,
To pour them forth, profuse, in vast cascades!
At all times, else, most prudent plans devis'd,
Each drop well-measured, and each morsel pois'd!
A System Wealth must form in Self-defence,
To furnish Fame's—Pomp's—Luxury's—consequence;
When frequent Concerts—Readings—Feast, and Rout,
Kept Fortune's amplest funds fast pouring out!

Such was the regular routine in Town,
In hopes to reap superlative Renown,

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From polish'd circles, of high-sounding Name,
Whose pow'rs, alone, could amplify her Fame—
While, in her precincts, on the simpler Plain,
To purchase praise, and rural glory gain,
Far other arts, and mysteries, must be tried,
To draw Idolatry, and pamper Pride.
While Wisdom wish'd to see that Pride subdued,
And Idols, all, ere Death the Soul denude!

Thus different, now, were Crispin's toils and cares;
Yet, all his cornfields, here, were strew'd with tares—
Like every Scene of sublunary Life,
Compos'd of pain and transport, peace and strife—
For all this mingled Mass of earthly things,
Is rul'd by peccant Commons—Peers—and Kings—
While those that constitute its common Troops,
Are form'd of Wits and Dunces, Knaves and Dupes;
Whose adverse views of Fortune, or of Fame,
For ever counteract each other's claim.
All mix'd, and justling, generate mutual jars—
Grumblings, and Litigations—Words, and Wars—
Till, weary of such warfare, pains, and toils,
Mute Christians long to quit their mortal Coils—
From Earth, and all its fallacies, to fly,
And, with untented Spirits, climb the Sky!
Meantime, with elevated eyes of Hope,
Looking thro' Life's wild Scenes, with ampler scope;
Faith finds Christ's providential Pow'r controul,
His Goodness guard, His Wisdom guide the Whole;
Conscious His bounteous Love selects the best,
They feel His influence tranquilize the breast,
Each Passion still, and lull the Soul to rest!

Not only was the Bard obliged to mark
Close Home-economy, from dawn to dark—
Teach others when to rise, and when retire—
Provide all proper food, and watch each fire—
Expence, and spending, mark, of bread and meat—
See coals were not consum'd in place of peat—
Still regulate external objects round—
Contrive and guard the ornamented ground—
Relieve the Gard'ner at his dinner-meal,
Lest near Connexions flow'rs, or fruitage, steal—
In countless other offices concern'd,
House-Steward, ne'er before, had ever learn'd;
Tho' not in name, in number more than Scrub's,
And, in each office, felt more frequent snubs.

He would have fill'd, with pleasure, each employ,
And found fresh labours bring him larger joy,
Had he, when talents, time, and strength, were spent,
Found cares, and pains, and toils, produce content—
But coals were squander'd—wood was burnt in waste—
The table too expensive, each repast;
And well-watch'd Cupboard, caus'd a dismal din,
One moment left unlock'd when Orts were in—
So Crispin, ere he'd clos'd his moderate meal,
Was forced to skulk, and, thief-like, slily, steal,
To watch remaining mammocks borne away,
And cautiously secure, with lock and key;
Lest, when inferior Myrmidons had din'd,
Some parts might be, by pilfering hands, purloin'd—
Each scrap imprison'd till the stated hour
When servile Swine more offals might devour.

'Tis wise, in bounded Wealth to count the cost,
Nor let one fragment of God's gifts be lost.
The blest Redeemer's kind commandment pleads
To justify such pure, prudential deeds—
Yet still His bright example stronger taught,
What Pride and Pomp, would, falsely deem a fault.
For vain distinction sought no second dish,
But fed, with Friends, on barley-bread and fish.

This was a part of Crispin's daily toil,
Providing needfuls, and preventing spoil;
Not, simply, to comply with Christ's command,
But, cheaply, to supply her servile Band.
Another portion of his active hours,
Which exercis'd his Mind's more ample pow'rs,
Was Builders—Labourers—Gardeners, to direct;
To urge full efforts, and preclude neglect—
For swarms were busied round her rural Dome,
Preparing haughty Pride a pompous Home;
And numbers more, to make internals trim,
For vaunting Vanity, and wanton Whim.
Here was full scope for Crispin's utmost arts,
To watch the workers—and inspect the parts—
'Twas Honour's—Conscience's—and Duty's, call,
To stimulate—controul—and order—all—
For, tho' the schemes were sketch'd by abler hands,
And workmen brought, in well-appointed bands,
Yet mere mechanics count it not a crime
To steal materials, or to waste their time;
Or execute some inexpedient plans,
That thwart the Master's views, but suit the Man's;

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Regarding not the kind Employer's cost,
If no advantage to themselves be lost.
And Masters, oft, imperfectly attend;
Oft, present, found not their Employer's Friend,
But plans, and projects, ardently advise,
Where Agent's individual interest lies.

Here rose repeated proofs how cunning Skill
Could work its purpose on capricious Will;
Inspiring Whim with strange bewildering dreams,
To further selfish, curious, novel, schemes;
Opening the purse of Vanity and Pride,
And guiding to its own the golden tide.

Year after year, on that productive spot,
'Twas Architects', and Artists', rapturing lot
To see their past endeavours all disgrac'd,
And what one season rear'd the next eras'd:
This, to demolish—that, re-edify;
Sustaining, nearly as long a siege as Troy,
Till the strange mangled Mansion rose to sight,
In every varied aspect, heteroclite—
Thus where the capabilities of Brown,
Had troops of vegetable tribes dug down,
When skilful Wyatt's tasteful scheme was heard,
Their new-rais'd ranks of happier plants appear'd.

Chief, Crispin's tasks employ'd plebeian Trains,
In corps collected from the neighbouring plains,
To execute the schemes his pregnant Mind,
For usefulness and beauty both, design'd.
Bestow'd and disciplin'd the order'd Bands
To polish and improve the bordering Lands—
To cut, with winding Walks, thick woodlands through,
And lead the Lake across the varied View—
To spread Plantations o'er the haggard heath,
Hiding its drear deformities beneath—
To fill the fresh-form'd Shrubbery's grassless ground,
With colonies of strawberries, reddening round;
Bestowing countless toils, and constant care,
To keep all former plans, and prospects, fair;
Nor wish'd he fuller fame, or high'r reward,
Than gracious countenance and kind regard.

He claim'd no capabilities, like Brown;
Nor wish'd, like Wyatt, architectural crown—
He only strove to win, with studious toil,
His heart's applause, and Patroness's smile!
Then every change had charm'd his raptur'd sight,
And giv'n his Heart unlimited delight!
Then genuine joys had grown in every glade!
High-thrilling transports in each thickening shade!
Made each lov'd lawn with gladdening verdure glow!
Clear lakes, with brightening lustre, shine below!
More freshening foliage spread o'er every spray,
Concealing curves through every winding way;
Twined all their naked boles with woodbines, fair,
That soothe each eye, and scent the odourous Air;
His bosom bless'd in every pure pursuit,
In fostering flow'rs, and cultivating fruit—
Not with a vain pretence, or private view,
To gratify frail Self with something new;
But for true Friend fresh pleasures to afford,
To grace her toilette, and to crown her board!
Then had the simple Minstrel tun'd his voice,
To chaunt her praises, and her Paradise!
Again had urg'd his Muse's utmost art
To sing the fond effusions of his heart!
But, ah! what comfort could affections feel
Amidst his industry, and ardent zeal,
When, while his best endeavours were bestow'd,
He felt the bridling bit, or galling goad!
Felt all his previous energies represt,
By counteracting Spleen, or Pride's behest;
And every trifle innocence enjoy'd,
Rude Hate restrain'd, or dark Revenge destroy'd!
His best endeavours met by mean distrust,
His diligence all damp'd by deep disgust!
Contention strengthening every anxious care,
Till all his hopes were sunk in dark despair!
While 'mid such Scenes, so beauteous and sublime!
His hapless heart, unconscious of a crime,
In melancholy mop'd each passing hour
Beneath hard bondage of oppressive Pow'r;
Denied each dear, and rational, delight,
By groveling Envy, or by grossest Spite!
It might be ask'd whence Envy could proceed,
Or Wealth, and Wit, grudge Ignorance and Need?
How Spite could with such Pow'r and Wisdom dwell?
One cruel Anecdote will, clearly, tell:

In that fair Site, a small sequester'd space,
The tutor'd eye's offence, and Dome's disgrace,
Obscenely squalid, weedy, wild, and waste;
Unfitted for attracting eyes of Taste,
But least the Owner's, when she walk'd that way,
Contiguous to each common Office lay:

169

Thence did his arm each hateful pest expel,
That in their stead much better births might dwell—
His leisure moments laudable employ,
Offering fair hope, large, unpolluted, joy!
With fostering toil rare flowers and fruits to raise,
Faint semblance of his bliss in brighter days!
Led alpine strawberries rambling runners round,
To glow on every barren blank of ground!
Taught feeble Pinks on friendly props to lean,
And light, with lucid smiles, the cultur'd scene;
To stand, in splendid tufts, on scanty strips,
And pour pure odours from their blushing lips.
Carnations rear'd erect their loftier crest,
In variegated vestments richly drest;
Not from her Garden's gay parterres purloin'd,
But gifts of Friends, benevolent, and kind—
Mixing their scent with minor Sisters, sweet,
Improv'd the pleasure of the rude retreat!
Clear, like the Sun amidst the sapphire skies,
Convolvuluses ope'd their golden eyes;
With their bright beauties greet his morning ray,
But closed for ever, with declining Day!
The evening Primrose, dash'd with dazzling light,
Reserv'd its meeker charms to chear the Night;
But full exposed to face a prying World,
Each veil was folded up—ne'er more unfurl'd!
Stocks perfume spread in many a shining knot—
And Roses blush'd about the puny spot,
With other blooms of different form, and hue,
To charm the smell, and variegate the view;
Whose mingled scents, and animating smiles,
Repay'd his tender cares, and constant toils!

Beauty, alas! tho' simple, sweet, and pure,
In calm retreat ne'er lodges long secure;
Ne'er long escapes the Pilferer's peeping search,
But Fame will babble—Lust will quickly lurch—
Nor can a Parent, or enamour'd Swain,
From Pride and Rapine long such prize retain—
Soon Profligate, or Pimp, the Charmer seize;
No more to prompt the Soul, or Senses please!
Did Honour—Virtue—Riches—partners rare!
With candour court and win the willing Fair,
No honest heart would blame the charming choice;
Nor Envy's self prevent applauding voice—
But when base Malice with bold Lust combin'd,
And each vile Passion that perverts the Mind,
Pride's prompt associates! range the rustic scenes,
And ravish thence rich Nature's comeliest Queens;
Not fixt in bosom, blest, with fond embrace,
True Friend's, or kind Companion's, proper place;
But rank'd with dirty drabs, in ragged gown,
And hawk'd about to every Brute in Town:
Thus fared those flow'rets rear'd by Crispin's hand,
On those poor patches of neglected land;
Which might have pass'd in that impoverish'd state
Till fire had fix'd its everlasting fate,
Had he not lent his labour, with delight,
To stablish beauty on that barren Site—
But soon its charms, its fragrance, or its fame,
Drew the attention of despotic Dame;
Who, his fond hopes, and happiness, to foil,
Resolv'd, in vengeful spite, on ample spoil.

Among the many specious, spurious, ways,
Selfish, and false, for propagating praise;
To serve her cunning, and to save her coin,
Yet make it look like Charity divine,
She schemed to cull, from all her beds and bow'rs,
Superfluous sprays of shrubs, and refuse flowers;
But chiefly gathering from the fragrant groups
That form'd the kitchen-garden's scatter'd troops,
From whence her female artists might compose,
Embellish'd bouquets for each vulgar nose,
In common market sold to compass pence,
Disburs'd in dole as pure Beneficence!

This proffer'd fair pretence for Pow'r and Pride,
With moral mask low, envious, hate to hide;
But the fell features of such Spite and Spleen,
Were fully thro' false Virtue's vizor seen!
She pillag'd all the blooms, both sweet, and fair,
That flower'd, and flourish'd, under Crispin's care;
And, lest a fellow-feeling might restrain
A Servant's grudging palm from giving pain,
She, like herself, perform'd the tragic part,
To plunge her dagger deeper in his heart!

Poor Crispin's loss, in solemn items told,
Was something like the injur'd Chiefs of old,
When Israel's cruel King, in antient times,
By Nature tempted to enormous crimes;
Not with Imp's envy, veil'd by base pretence,
To give a Servant, and a Friend, offence,
But let his graceless Lust and Passion guide
The inborn bent of Appetite and Pride.

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Of ample herds and flocks, himself, possest,
A Neighbour's Lamb, companion of his breast,
His sole possession, and his dear delight;
His day's diversion—bosom Friend by night;
Which tender loving-kindness nourish'd up,
With him, each day, to share each cate and cup—
With him still dwelt—partook his choicest chear—
Nurs'd like a Child, a favourite Daughter, dear!
With wanton gambols, frisking, gaily, by,
Had caught the lustful Monarch's leering eye;
And, when wayfaring Friend, with cravings, came,
The Daring Despot, fir'd with selfish flame
Of wild Desire, unworthy of a Throne!
Seiz'd Neighbour's poor Ewe-lamb, and spar'd his own.
So fell poor Crispin's fondly-foster'd blooms,
With all their beauties bland, and pure perfumes!
Not as a prey to pow'rful Appetite,
To furnish food for animal delight—
Not as a sacrifice to fleshly gust,
Or pressing importunities of Lust;
But as the victim of a vicious Mind,
By crafty plans of policy refin'd
Despotic sketch of each polluted Soul
That stoops to Pride's unlimited controul,
And those black Passions that impel the heart
To act a sordid, or satanic part!
But as the Seer, by parable sublime,
Convicted Hebrew King of heinous crime,
So, Conscience, peradventure, soon, or late,
May wound her feelings, or unwind her fate!

The rich Carnations that his care had nurs'd
As Mischief's martyrs fell, her victims, first;
When she, her Friends, with spiteful purpose, led,
To pluck their beauties from their humble bed,
In tyrant triumph on their bosoms borne
To strike the troubled Bard with cruel scorn,

Her's, truly, was the lean uncultur'd soil,
But was not quit-rent paid by care and toil?
Completely paid to Reason, Sense, and Taste,
By forming Eden from a rueful Waste?
Were not carnations—roses—pinks—and stocks,
Better than thistles—nettles—dwale—and docks?
And pleasant odours, where a Lady dwells
More grateful than gross filth, or fetid smells?
Nor could the arbitrary Tyrant trace
Faint right or title to the flowery Race,
For every fragrant, fair, and beauteous, Breed,
Were free donations from a Friend indeed!

Tho' this, a time, could Reason's pow'r controul—
And raise resentment in his suffering Soul,
Still more he suffer'd from the haughty Dame,
When that kind Friend from neighbouring district came
To chear with social chat a happier hour,
While thus a Bond-Slave to such Despot's pow'r;
To draw each sharp-barb'd arrow from his heart,
Fix'd by the Tyrant in that tenderest part;
And spread pure sunshine o'er his troubled breast,
On that sole Day kind Heav'n ordain'd him rest!
When, free from care, he judg'd he might presume,
With such true Friend, to trace the woodland's gloom;
To note the fragrant shrubs, or shining flow'rs,
In variegated groups, or blooming bow'rs—
The velvet verdure, or the brilliant beams,
On polish'd landscapes, or illumin'd streams;
Each fair atchievement of his head, or hand,
Where Diligence preserv'd what Genius plann'd.

Who could conjecture pertinacious Pride,
Had e'er such simple privilege denied?
Who would suppose Hate—Envy—Spleen, and Spite,
Would cheat poor Crispin of such cheap delight?
Would wake the poignant spirit of Chagrin,
With Friend, familiar in those precincts seen,
Where he bestow'd, each day, strength—talents—time,
Could e'er be construed such a serious crime?
Could e'er imagine mad Malevolence,
Caprice, or Pride, would wish to keep them thence?
They only wander'd round the woods, and dells,
To greet their sights, and gratify their smells.
They were not Coxcombs—Savages—or Brutes,
That pillag'd shrubs, and flow'rs, and pilfer'd fruits—
They only read clear labels Heav'n inscribes
On the fair fronts of Nature's tongueless tribes!
Just trac'd the types Heav'n's Pow'r and Wisdom weaves
In all their limbs and features, flow'rs and leaves;
But ne'er to gratify wish—whim—nor rage,
Stole frontispiece, nor tore one title-page.
Just gaz'd upon the paintings God imprints,
But spoil'd no canvas, nor polluted tints—
Explor'd their fair complexions, features, shapes,
But plann'd no plots, nor schemed rude, cruel, rapes—
They only view'd those charms that always lie
Uncover'd, to the ken of every eye—

171

They only took those tempting spoils as prey,
Which ev'ry passing breeze would waft away;
Or, unobserv'd by human smell, or sight,
Expire, and perish, soon, in endless night!
'Twas tasting luxuries free from care, or cost—
Partaking pleasure, soon for ever lost—
'Twas fairly satisfying twofold Sense,
Without another's, or their own, expence—
Without disbursing Wealth, or burdening Wit—
Mere lighting lamps at those already lit,
Which must consume, continuing still to blaze,
Tho' none would profit by their friendly rays.
The Sun would still diffuse its fulgent beams,
Were all eyes clos'd in dull unconscious dreams—
The Air still offer vivifying breath,
Were all the race of men immerg'd in death—
So would such charms unfold, and yield perfumes,
Were Tyrants all inclos'd in cloister'd tombs.

But ought a Clown, with like Companion, rude,
On Scenes, so sacred, daringly, intrude?
Shall vulgar Ignorance dare those haunts invade
For Knowledge—Learning—Wit—and Wisdom—made?
Shall beastly Boors those hallowed paths explore
Which Taste, and Genius, trod but just before?
Shall Ignorant Penury trace the tracks where Wealth
E'er paced for pleasure, or patroled for Health?
Loath'd Rustics' footsteps thus presume to tread
Where Fame and Fashion, Lords and Ladies, led?
Such swinish nostrils seek to snuff the scent,
Solely for noble Births and Noses meant?
Those various beauties Barbarian eyes view,
To courtly Pomp and Splendour, only due;
And whence the polish'd Mistress hop'd for praise,
From graceful Politesse, at every gaze!

Unwitting Wights! how little did they dream
Such peccadillos would supply a Theme
Whence haughty Despotism could hope to draw
Sufficient sanction for a fiery Law;
Which, tho' fierce wrath that moment might reveal,
Necessity, to-morrow, must repeal!
How little could poor Crispin's Mind surmise
That Pride and Passion, then, should spoil his joys!
How could his honest, simple spirit think,
Amid such pure pursuits, his heart should shrink—
Should suffer lancing looks, and stinging taunts,
For sauntering, on a Sunday, round those haunts;
Relax'd, in those lov'd bow'rs, on Sabbaths, blest,
Where Soul and Body labour'd all the rest!
He ne'er suppos'd his presence could degrade
The shining shrubbery, or the sheltering shade,
Where constant care, and close attendance tied
To toil and study every day beside!
Ne'er judg'd a virtuous Friend could e'er pollute
The untouch'd flow'r, or fair untasted fruit—
Could cloud the Light, or hurt the Atmosphere,
By bathing in the beams, or breathing there,
With Friend, of Soul sublime, and bless'd with Worth;
Possess'd by few that boast their nobler Birth!
He ne'er imagin'd such fair Frame, and Mind,
Could leave a mildew, or a blight, behind!
Ne'er fancied Friendship could impair a Place,
Tho' deem'd important by a pompous Race;
Or Clowns, with sight, or smell, contaminate
Ev'n Scenes most grateful to proud Rich and Great;
Could foul, with frowziness, the pure perfumes,
Or tarnish richest tints of brightest blooms.
He ne'er suspected Innocence could spoil
The perfect purity of sand, or soil—
Hard gravel harm, or vitiate verdant sod,
Where Pomp reposed, or Ostentation trod;
Or pure Simplicity degrade the grove,
Where Affectation—Fashion—Foppery, rove.
He ne'er conceiv'd more mischiefs could arise,
To injure Air, or Light in clearest Skies;
Where temperate Peasants' respirations pass'd
Than where rank Luxury breath'd its tainted blast—
That chaste Plebeian's looks o'er waters, clear,
Could mar them more than Lechers', lounging near—
That kind Complacency, with smile serene,
Could more than Pride's dark frowns infect the Scene,
Or eyes of Meekness Prospect's charms impair
More than mum Grandeur's bluff and brazen glare,
That Christians could defile the fairest Seat,
Where Infidels e'er form'd their dull Retreat;
That Health would check the Grove's, or Copse's growth,
More than fumes of foul Disease and sordid Sloth;
Or Thanks and Praise the Lawn or Woodland stain,
Like Flattery's lies and compliments profane!

The Bard, from prompt philanthropy, was prone
To tune his periods in true Pity's tone,
Or touch his tenderer notes to lays of Love,

172

In unison with hearts and harps above—
But when his warm Benevolence was checkt
By frigid coldness, or unkind neglect,
He laid aside the simple oaten flute;
Both plaintive pipe, and pensive Muse, were mute:
But such harse insult, such outrageous wrong,
Stirr'd up the strains of keen satyric Song;
While his meek spirit moved, by pungent smart,
These measures murmur'd from his injur'd heart.

“Is this the Order Heav'n at first decreed,
To stamp Distinctions on our free-born Breed?
Is this the kind Creator's perfect Plan,
Thus to commission Man the curse of Man?
This Providence's right, impartial, Rule,
One made a Despot—one the Tyrant's Tool?
One human Creature thus ordain'd, by Birth,
To claim huge districts of devoted Earth;
Another, equal born, be deem'd unmeet
To touch the surface with unlicens'd feet?
One grasp the products of the procreant Soil,
Exempt from every study—care—and toil—
Another think, and work, each waking hour,
With scarce one scrap of property, or pow'r?
Subject, by need, to Fellow-Sinner's nod?
This, but a mere Machine—and that—a God?

“With heavenly Justice will such scheme accord?
One starve, a Labourer—while one struts, a Lord?
One with each luxury, in profusion, fed;
A Brother cringing for a crust of bread?
In garb of silk and gold, one, costly, cloth'd,
And one half-rob'd in rags, by Brethren loath'd?
One sped in splendid and sublime Abode,
And one in stinking Cottage closely stow'd;
Some with vast Wealth, and Counties at command,
Others without one Coin, or inch of Land.

“God ne'er could sanction such a partial Pact,
Nor will His Word confirm so foul an Act!
'Twas the vile Offspring of the human Mind,
The base, the monstrous, birth, of curs'd Mankind;
That One should rule thus insolent, and rash,
While crowds sustain the labour, and the lash!
Griev'd with intolerable burdens, groan,
With scarce one morsel, or one mite, their own!
Bear jibes—taunts—frowns—from Arrogance and Scorn,
Because, like Beasts, without possessions, born!
Spend all their strength—health—time—to Life's last hours,
To furnish comforts Despotism devours!
Preventing all its wants with thought, and toil,
Then portering off the dregs drunk spendthrifts spoil!
And while they cleanse each suffocating drain
Deem it Sedition should such Clowns complain!

“Had such false Tyrants' Wills full exercise
They'd lodge such Slaves in stables, or in styes!
Clothe them in sackcloth, just to shrowd their shame,
To keep such Brutes subordinate, and tame;
Nor deal one part of Nature's plenteous dow'rs,
From field, or garden, grain, herbs, fruits, or flow'rs,
But, barely, for sustaining Life assign
Offals, deem'd meet for Dogs, or swill, for Swine—
Would suffer none but Sycophants to share
One inspiration of pure, wholesome Air—
One drop of water pure, from springs, or streams,
Or unpolluted spark from Phœbus' beams.

“What pity 'twas,” for thus he turned, with pain,
From keen sarcastic, to ironic strain,
“What pity 'twas no compact could be made
Betwixt the Gods of gold and Tools of trade!
Betwixt the labouring Boors and swineherd Swains,
And rich liege Lords that rule the peopled Plains!
Betwixt Pomp's glorious Dames and Demigods,
And servile Suits that cringe to catch their nods!
That those high Peers and Peeresses might share
All Earth contains, with solar Light, and Air!

“What pity Nature's Author, good and great!
To make his providential gifts complete,
Ne'er legislated some exclusive clause,
Some strong criterion of such boundless Laws,
Conferr'd on those dear Delegates in trust,
To prompt their Passions, and enlarge their Lust,
Subjecting all to Pow'r, for Pride's content,
Both solid Land, and liquid Element;
With all the fields of Air, and floods of Light,
Affording Spleen full exercise for Spite;
To dribble out their scanty doles to all,
That Penury binds around this raving Ball!
To all that hardly earn their meagre mess,
And shabby robes that form their shapeless dress;
Their twinkling farthing light, and transient fire,
With little less which Nature's calls require;
In huts of turf and straw to spend their days

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With endless toil, and nights devoid of ease;
All vested, fully, in Pride's amplest Pow'r,
To offer, or withold each fickle hour.

“What pity 'twas, when first the human Race,
Assum'd their proud, or sunk to abject, Place—
When Peleg, with his tyrant Chieftains, leagu'd,
Against their Fellow-mortals first intrigued—
First on wild forests—hills—woods—plains, appear'd,
And there their self-appointed standards rear'd,
To violate the Wills of virtuous Worth,
Monopolizing all the parts of Earth!
Or when tyrannic Nymrod's impious Mind
Presumed to hunt and persecute Mankind—
Or ere the spurious Ishmael's pompous plan,
The trade of making titles, first began;
Who, spurning Providence's sharp rebukes,
Created, dauntless, more than thirty Dukes—
Prescribing, bold, and consequential, bounds,
To idle epithets, and senseless sounds!
When first the Great began to burst with Pride,
Apprais'd the Poor so low—and, still, deride!
When first gaunt Peasant grip'd another's plough,
And fed their furrows from his dripping brow!
First reap'd the crops of alienated soil
While bladder'd palms were steep'd in blood with toil!
Bent down his aching back, to ply the spade!
And shaped lean shoulders like his bended blade!
Or, stooping lower still, for orts of meat
Bow'd, fawn'd, and cring'd, to kiss Wealth's scornful feet.

“What pity wonderous Peers, and peerless Dames,
Were not empowr'd to shut out counter-claims!
Such Lord-lieutenants, locum-tenens-Queens,
Whose parchment mounds inclose Earth's cultur'd Scenes,
Who'd fain, from agueish Poverty, withold
One heathy turf to tame the cutting cold—
What pity! what afflicting cause of grief!
And, while They worship Hell's exalted Chief,
And He can all created claims controul
Could get no royal grant to rule the Whole!
Then, clear, their full Commissions thus might run—
‘Know, all Men, by these Presents, that bright Sun
‘With both his attributes of Heat and Light,
‘Pour'd down, direct, or lent the Lamp of Night—
‘All feebler orbs that shine, and twinkle, round
‘His brilliant sphere, or speck the blue profound—
‘The fluid Air, ordain'd for general good,
‘With all the produce of Plain—Hill—or Wood,
‘And Watery Amplitude, be fully Their's,
‘With sole reversion to their sovereign Heirs’”
Then might They live, with Despot-pow'r, elate,
Scattering scant fragments, or dispensing Fate!
Smile into Life—annihilate with frowns—
And flash dread Lightnings from their dazzling Crowns!
Willing, as Tyrant's wish, on thundering Throne,
To favour slavering Sychophants, alone!
Those Apes that practise flattering—fawning arts,
The venturous Villain's, Pimp's, and Traytor's parts!
Storm as their Teachers storm—grin as they grin—
Cajole—deceive—lie—swear—thro' thick and thin!
Mark ev'ry motion—weigh each aweful Word—
And feign assent when frantic, or absurd!
Watch every look—dissolve with angry glow'r,
Or madden with one smile's transporting pow'r.
Each fellow Dupe deceive, thro' spleen and spite,
By representing wrong whate'er was right—
Repeat each peevish phrase from churlish Chief,
With aggravating tone for self-relief!
Load every cross, and make each comfort less,
Like Fiends, delighted in their Foes' distress!

Should Slave superior, find fair Worth forgot,
Thro' whim, or weakness, oft such Slavery's lot,
Thro' madd'ning megrims of the blood, and brain,
While Patroness looks down with harsh disdain,
Such favour'd Vassal's insolence abounds,
And business—order—influence, confounds—
While mean employer, with promoting hint,
Approving smile, arch wink, or look asquint,
Still strengthens, and inflames domestic strife,
To mix with misery Culprit's cup of Life!
Yet such poor Spaniels but with bones are fed,
And watch their Keeper's looks with louring dread,
While taught to growl, or grin, or bellow loud,
At other Puppies that compose the Crowd.
But could Commanders manage Light and Air,
Such Curs would scarce receive sufficient share;
For where Caprice and Spleen sway Sovereign pow'r,
No Sycophant's secures one single hour!
Ev'n Pimps and Panders often feel disgrace;
Such Needles point not long tow'rds northern place,
But, round the compass run, inconstant, still,
As Pride and Passion guide the graceless Will!
But woe to that condemn'd, devoted, Wight,

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Compell'd to feel a Female's impish spite;
Whose vile Invention's ever on the stretch
To plague, and persecute such hapless Wretch!
A Pauper might compare his abject state
And bless kind Providence for better fate!
Prisoners, unbeat, some pity might bestow;
Tho', pin'd with want, experience less of woe!
A Galley-slave, who hourly tugs the oar,
Feels less of misery, though of labour more.
A Demon, tho' condemn'd with Hell's high Chief,
From curs'd compeers may find some faint relief,
And might commiserate such a wretched Elf,
A Creature curs'd more harshly than himself!
Himself's a name such Slave ne'er can apply,
Who always labours from Himself to fly!
Himself! unmeaning noun! no more his own!
Mere mute appendage of a Despot's throne!
His heart once judg'd for generous Friendship meet,
Become base football for false Tyrant's feet!
Crispin—at nobler boards, aforetime, fed,
Made subject, now, to meaner Vassal's tread!
A Tool to trouble others—while his Soul
Sustains much stronger feeling for the Whole!
The butt of black inquisitorial pow'r!
To meet fresh miseries every hateful hour!
Corrosive sorrows, and impaling pains,
Enhanc'd by snubs each Fellow-slave sustains.
Destroy'd by atoms! rack'd both day and night,
With poison dropp'd by Aspic's deadly bite—
Some opiate, soft, may soothe a moment's smart,
But leaves the venom rankling in his heart?
No Coup-de-main's emancipating rage
Drives the doom'd Victim from the torturing stage—
To burst his prison-doors—tear Body's bands—
And put the Spirit into holier hands!
Still kept in fetters by a pseudo-Friend,
Without one prospect, clear, of ease, or end!
All anxious care, or crucifying fear,
Poniards and plaisters, daily, year by year!

No Soul should mix among the courtly Train,
So proud! so passionate! revengeful! vain!
Among the higher, or the lower, Class,
Whose breast's not form'd of steel, and front of brass!
Should ne'er be tied to Fashion's fickle Tribes,
Whose heart's not proof against gross jeers and jibes—
Ne'er bend his neck beneath such servile yoke
Whose Spirit's not before completely broke;
Grown heedless of each act, or look, or word,
Howe'er insulting, or howe'er absurd!
Must hope no health—no happiness—no peace—
Throughout his hapless—humbling—yearly-lease;
But live prepar'd for painful, fractious, fray,
Trials, and tribulations, day by day!
But, chiefly, one who female Fury serves
Should, first, cut out, or cauterize, his nerves—
Excluding from his Conscience—breast—and brain,
All sense of injury—shame—reproach—and pain

In such connections, Common-Sense expects
Repeated conflicts—insults—and neglects—
But none, besides experienc'd Sufferers, know
The bitter trials Bond-Slaves undergo!
Such compact form'd, such treaty ratified,
Perdition stamps the Dupe of piquant Pride.
From friendly list soon finds himself eras'd
Who doubts his Despot's Politesse—or Taste!
For all such courtly circles far unfit
Who calls in question Individual's Wit:
The Slave, who Sense, or Wisdom, dares dispute,
Stands dubb'd a Blockhead, or pronounc'd a Brute.
Her Genius—Judgment—Virtue—not avow'd,
He's rank'd among the ignorant, clownish, Crowd.
Who-e'er disputes her Pow'r, infuriate, feels
Stillettos—poisons—burnings—whips, and wheels!
No more should such behold the Sun's bright blaze,
Nor feel, again, his warm, invigorating, rays;
His heart to cherish, or his eyes to chear,
But dwell in cold, and darkness, all the year;
Or see them dealt abroad in dribbling Light.
Just to see Day, distinct from sable Night;
With warmth sufficient, simply, to fulfil
The dictates of her arbitrary Will!
Should ne'er imbibe salubrious breath of Air,
Or Nature's beverage, pure, from fountain, share;
But fetter'd, strong, with grief and grating round,
Contemplate, still, each spirit-piercing wound!

Should stronger turpitude consist in crimes,
Which thwarted Pow'r by penning righteous Rhymes,
No ray should light him o'er the trackless heath,
But blazing lightnings blast his rustic wreath—
No breeze but Wealth's contaminated breath,
Should e'er, one Day, retard the stroke of Death—
No drink, but drips from Fashion's fulsome rooms

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His thirst should gratify in dungeon glooms,
Till tears extinguish'd every spark of Spleen,
Blurr'd all bold truths, and blunted sharp and keen—
Till torment metamorphos'd libell'd lays,
And turn'd each peccant couplet round to praise—
While he whose luke-warm spirit, prone to faults,
Between full freedom and submission halts
Be press'd with weights till Greatness hears his cries
To give some gleanings of the Earth and Skies;
While with incessant sighs, and griefs, and groans,
His deep repentance for each fault atones!
But still each pain and grief to aggravate,
And add fresh curses to the Culprit's fate,
Inflicting all the force of scoff and scorn,
To prove the Bard of humble Parent born,
A crowd of crimes! a base, ignoble, Boor!
And, what's far worse, unpardonably poor!
These form a mass of shame—a gulph of guilt—
Rubbish—on which no merit can be built!
The lack of lustrous Wealth, or badge of Birth,
Precludes all moral, and religious, Worth!
Had he an Adam's Make, an Angel's Mind,
Court Churls could, there, no charms, nor Virtues, find!
Nor must he hope the pure and peaceful right,
Of solar beam, by day, or bed, by night;
But, led by twilight lantern's twinkling pow'rs,
To guard such godlike Creatures' dozing hours,
For crumbs scrap'ed up, and dealt in scanty doles,
Just soldering Bodies, and cementing Souls!
To keep the mere machinery's parts compact,
When call'd, like true automatons, to act—
To move the frame, or head, eyes, hands, and feet,
Or speak, when, what, how, Mistress thinks most meet—
To stand—sit—lie—to walk, to run, to rest,
As such sublime Commanders deem it best!

Should bold Ambition prompt mistaken Swain
To slight soft slumbers on the peaceful Plain—
To quit light cares—fast Friends—and quiet Cot,
And leave laborious, for licentious, lot—
Wak'd by wild Phantasms from delirious dreams,
And led, by Lusts, to try Utopian schemes—
Enroll'd with liveried list; broke in, till tame;
Or, badg'd, like collar'd Cur, feel feudal claim;
He, tho' uplifted more than motley Troop,
Still must his independent Spirit stoop,
Nor perfect Freedom plume her wing agen,
Or think mere Lacquies can be construed Men!

No needy Virtue weaves no web so dense
But Wealth squints thro' at Penury's foul offence—
Nor Erebus can dip so black a dye
But Pride perceives low Life, with half an eye;
Nor Talent so conceal a quondam Trade,
But Spite's exploring look will pierce the shade,
While secret Malice wishes oft to eye,
And winks her Partners to partake the joy!

While, on the plain, poor Crispin's pow'rs were plied,
To trade for Vanity, or tilt with Pride—
To work for whim—with Cunning to contend—
Falshood to counteract, or Truth defend—
Caprice oppose—confront strong Passions' storms,
And fight perfidious Art in endless forms—
These, with supreme Authority's controul,
Suppress'd each sacred purpose of the Soul;
So manacled by courtly Politesse,
Duty repelling Passion's harsh redress—
Debarr'd from firing, and forbid to draw,
By civil—social—and religious Law—
The butt of scorn, for cowardice, at large,
Or sure destruction at the first discharge;
While if his lips one syllable should blab,
His interest must expire with fatal stab.
Yet was he frequently expos'd to fall,
By pointed weapon, or exploded ball;
Or multiplying wounds, and woes, endure,
Hypocrisy's court-plaister ne'er could cure;
Nor unguents heart-aches, or sharp smarts assuage,
But aggravated more their maddening rage!

Nor these, alone, put Patience to the test,
Superior's pet—suspicion—jibe—and jest;
But Vassals, copying their Employer's crimes,
Afflicted, and perplex'd, this Man of Rhymes;
The leading maxim of whose moral Mind,
Was the meek wish for peace with all Mankind!
Much was he forc'd to meet remarks, and frowns,
From daring Coxcombs, and domestic Clowns,
Contriv'd by crooked Policy above,
To bend Endeavour from right line of Love!
There placing ignorant Pride in order, next,
With Envy, by subordination, vext.
Combin'd with black Malignity below,
Alternately each Man's, and Woman's foe;

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In turns by each strong Lust, and Passion, sway'd,
Which Demons damn, and Mortals most degrade.

To counterbalance all this Hate and Strife,
And help him on thro' that loath'd state of Life,
Frail were the comforts that reliev'd his Lot,
In that unpleasant, tho' Arcadian, spot;
Where Pride, and Spleen, and Spite, curs'd every Class
Which form'd that motley, that unsocial Mass;
Encourag'd or connived at by their Chief,
Who judg'd each Member Miscreant, Jade, or Thief—
While to confirm her rule, and fix her reign,
She strove to tear each fond and friendly tie in twain!

No tender Daphne bless'd his bosom there!
No Child to comfort, and no Friend to chear!
And tho' much fresh Acquaintance might be found
No Friendship flourishes on graceless ground,
Nor grateful fruits of Love e'er fully grown
With pure and perfect flavour near a Throne!

His happiest hours, while far from earthly Friend,
Were, what the conscious Christian still attend;
When Wisdom could from Fraud, and Strife, retire,
To hold calm converse with celestial Sire!
While Fashion's Wretches far from reason run,
Their Maker's righteous claims, with care, to shun;
Or, Conscience's indignant calls to drown,
Mix each mad Folly thro' this frantic Town!
To silent shades he'd oft, sequester'd steal,
Ere Eve drew o'er the vales her dusky veil;
When Summer's milder beams and balmy Air,
Call'd forth to calm the heart and peace repair—
To tell his pains to Heavn's pure Advocate,
Who grants all furloughs, and who guides all fate!
To Him with prompt, and simple soul to pray,
For growth in grace, and food, each future day—
Or, when, at intervals, repriev'd from pain,
With chearful accent chaunt some sacred strain,
Humbly presented to that Parent's ear,
Where none, beside, but Angels listen'd near—
Weak, gentle, cadences, of Waters, join'd,
And breezey whispers of soft breathing Wind,
While Nightingales, and Owls, oft strove to raise,
In trills, and shoutings, their Provider's praise!

This was a Concert spiritual, and pure,
Which Saints admire, and Seraphs might endure—
Such as the pitying Saviour's Soul approves,
Which neither Lust, nor Pride, nor Passion, moves,
But such pure Passion, free from Lust, and Pride,
That thoughtless Folly, and lewd Vice, avoid.
Here were no studied strains—no manag'd notes,
From senseless things, or self-delighting, throats;
Nor, from immortal Mind, licentious lay,
For Flattery—self-applause—or sordid pay—
But Spirit, wing'd with flame, to Heav'n still flew,
With praise, delightful, where all praise is due!

When Autumn's frowns, and frigid breath, forbade
To dare disasters, in the gloomy glade,
He sought the skreen of those once holy walls,
Which, now proud feasts profane, and bustling balls—
Where once the Priest perform'd religious rites,
Now noisey scene of impious lust's delights—
Again to glad the roof with sacred Song,
But lately left by Bacchanalian throng—
Again to hail with hymns the sacred space
And purge, with pray'r that oft-polluted place—
Now fill'd with foul idolatrous devoirs
Instead of humble hearts, and echoing Choirs—
With all false compliments and flattering lies,
That Fancy's pow'r performs, or Wit supplies—
To peccant Creatures that full worship shewn,
Which all belongs to God—and God alone!

What rapture did his heart experience, there
From adoration deep, and love sincere!
From praise—thanksgiving—penitence—and pray'rs—
No Epicure conceives, or Sceptic shares!

Ye sensual Souls who wish for bosom bliss,
Could ye once find felicity like this,
To every darling Lust you'd bid adieu,
As dull deceptions—transient, and untrue—
Bid every base indulgence full farewell,
Which plagues you here, while plunges down to Hell!

What comfort can immortal Spirits feel,
While Conscience wounds with whips, and stabs of steel!
What pleasure prove in chaffy, childish trash,
While Heav'n chastises with its waling lash?
What in mad ramblings can calm Reason find,
To fill, or satisfy, Man's famish'd Mind?
What, in mere paltry mess one Wish to move,
Or Understanding, Reason's pow'r to prove?
With Objects, so jejune, impel the Will,
Pure Spirit charm, or Heart's affections fill?
How stir-up genuine intellectual joys,
Like Swine, to swill, or Dogs to gormandize;

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Or bring forth bliss from foul and carnal, Cause
While counteracting Heav'n's kind, holy, Laws?
Can all frail Creature-blessings found below,
That Peace procure—transporting bliss bestow?
Will Nature's Wealth, with all the Works of skill,
E'er satisfy the faithless human Will?
Did e'er each poignant and expensive dish
Prove paramount to Man's unwearied wish?
Could e'er the deep intoxicating draught,
To full frutition wandering Fancy waft;
Or all dull fleshly pleasures e'er dispense
Full satisfaction to Man's mental Sense?
Did reasoning Soul e'er say—“I'm satisfied!”
When transient raptures jaded Joy supplied?
Did Spirit e'er declare—“I've quite enough!”
When Sense had swallow'd all its temporal stuff?
Was ever Eye, or Ear, thro' Nature's rounds,
Sufficed with tasteful Sights or tuneful Sounds?
Was e'er the eager, hankering Heart content
With gaudy Dress, or glittering Ornament?
Was ever Mind, immerg'd in stateliest Dome,
Completely pleas'd with what it found at Home;
Or Cramm'd, till cloy'd, by Providence's dow'r
With Honour—Influence—Fame—Wealth—Pomp—or Pow'r?
Could tyrant King e'er Tracts of Earth acquire
Commensurate with his Heart's enlarg'd Desire!
No! could his greedy Wishes grasp the Whole,
It ne'er could match the measure of his Soul,
Without those pleasures of superior Kind,
Pure joys, congenial to immortal Mind,
Which spring from heav'nly Spirit's pow'r alone,
Thro' Faith—Hope—Love—to Novices unknown—
Beyond all soar of Pride, and proofs of Sense;
Christians, alone, can prove, and Christ dispense!

Who shall the doubtful disputation state
Which long involv'd the World in deep debate;
And, while dark Understanding winds the Will
The doubting mass of Man's divided still.
Who shall some competent solution trace
To fix the Faith of every reasoning Race—
Shall stablish strong unalterable Rules,
To show who's Wise, and who are shameless Fools—
One whom no Rank, or Station, well can grudge,
With frank acknowledgment, to meet as Judge—
Betwixt the rich and pow'rful Courtier-Crowd,
So vain—so envious—insolent—and proud—
And Christians thinly scatter'd thro' Mankind,
So meek and humble both in Heart and Mind—
Betwixt pure Minds, where true Contentment springs,
And restless Hearts of Conquerors, Priests, and Kings!

Philosophers endeavour'd, long, in vain,
Imperfect systems, proudly, to maintain;
But not an individual understood
How to obtain the universal good—
All wander'd widely, each, in different rout,
Some seeking it within, and some without—
From all Mankind the secret's still conceal'd
Till the mysterious truth Heav'n's love reveal'd.
Tho' now reveal'd so clear, in heavenly light,
Mankind still reason oftener wrong that right.
A Brood of proud, perverse, rebellious, Elves,
Consulting silly Things much like Themselves;
Continuing still, a wretched Race, to live,
Without those comforts God, alone, can give;
But look around for pleasure—peace—and rest—
In temporal objects, hoping to be blest!

Let Him the long-disputed doubt decide,
Who all the wide extremes completely tried;
The full indulgence of gross Appetites,
With all that Pomp and Pride can call delights,
All that Man's wild Imagination warms,
That Passion e'er pursues, or Fancy forms;
Compared with Conscience's religious Joys,
Himself a King—by Wisdom counted wise.
He shows the shameful, mortifying fruits,
That fools partake in fanciful pursuits;
Those transient Means to which weak Mortals trust,
Who look for bliss from Pomp, and Pride, and Lust,
While from experience past he strictly tells,
Where permanent delight supremely dwells!
Tells, that on moral and religious ground;
Content and happiness, alone, are found!
In Wisdom's ways what clustering comforts grow,
To chear her Children in this World of Woe!
And rivers flowing, from the fount of Grace,
Dispense Peace—Health, and Pleasure, every pace!

This was the Way our Hero strove to tread,
Which, from the Wilderness, to Salem, led;
To feed on Honey, and fresh Milk, that flow'd,
For strength'ning Combatants thro' Canaan's road.
These was his heart oft strengthen'd to partake,

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To chear his Spirit, for the Saviour's sake;
Sent from the sacred source of bliss, above,
Performing faithful promises of Love;
His Soul to solace, and that Strength sustain,
'Mid labours—griefs—and ponderings—on the Plain!

In Town fresh toils, and troubles, were his fate,
Among the graceless Mobs misnamed the Great—
The real Great can ne'er, of such, consist,
As fill proud Fame's, and Fashion's, motley list—
Who, obviously, subvert the prudent plan
Which Providence ordain'd for moral Man;
And set blest Revelation's rules aside
All counterparts of Pomp, and Lust, and Pride!

On mere externals Greatness ne'er can rest,
But dwells with Duty, in each noble breast;
Not nominally so, from fickle claims,
Of paltry notes, and prostituted names!
Of noise and nonsense; pertness and parade;
Folly's pretence, and Fashion's futile trade!
In public Grandeur, or in private glare,
Which prove to wiser Spirits what they are!
But they who most their Master's path pursue,
Meek, merciful, and temperate; just, and true—
Who make Christ's character their highest aim,
And feel self-love, and social, much the same!

Greatness ne'er can on paltry gifts depend,
On ought that finds a bound, or fears an end!
To Riches—Honours—Influence—ne'er confin'd,
But Meeter Graces of a godlike Mind—
In fleeting Frame, or temp'ral Titles, lies,
Which drop when once the proud Possessor dies.
For what is Wealth—and what are large Domains—
When puny spot of Earth each Corpse contains!
Can it consist in Pomp's imperial Domes,
When Coffins form their noisome, narrow Homes?
Or—can it be compriz'd in princely Mess,
In boasted Beauty, or in gaudy Dress?
For soon a Shrowd that Beauty shall embrace,
Then form a feast for Worms unwelcome race:
Yet such false Greatness graceless Souls absorbs,
And stimulates Mankind's most stately Orbs,
Which whirl, like Comets, with a wild career,
In strange ellipses o'er Earth's frantic sphere!
Now, thro' all parts, dispers'd, eccentric, run—
Now, circling round St. James's central Sun;
Or, blazing, on subordinated Throne,
Form little central Systems, Moons, their own—
But, most like Meteors, frail, a moment fly,
And light, with short-liv'd rays, their nether Sky;
So, soon, their proud combustibles they spend,
Then, like a transient flame, Life's frailties end!

But shall such exit close their final fate,
And Soul and Body both annihilate?
Shall such false Greatness never undergo
New consciousness of shame—or pain—or woe?
O'er talents all misspent ne'er wail, nor weep,
But sink in senseless, everlasting, sleep?
Shall He whose Mercy lent the large amount,
In Justice ne'er enjoin a clear account;
Tho' He commanded those high-favour'd Elves,
To love their Neighbours as they lov'd Themselves?
Yes—He who issued such sublime behest
Will bring those talents to their aweful test,
Unerring test! and, at His righteous Bar,
Prove what their Merits, and Demerits, are!

CHAPTER 10th.

Here let my Muse the duteous tasks describe
This Bardling bore amongst that haughty Tribe;
The toils—cares—pains, and woes, he underwent,
To earn small comfort, and yield less content.
For tho', with anxious toil, he, daily, strove
To foster Friendship, and conciliate Love;
Kindness to get, or confidence to gain;
Yet every virtuous effort prov'd in vain.

179

His Patroness, too, like a wayward Child,
Whom prompt indulgence and endeavour, spoil'd;
Whose light artillery of Wit, and Whim,
And Pride and Petulance aim'd most at Him;
While from sly quiver of her subtle craft,
His wounded Spirit felt full many a shaft.

But grim Suspicion was her greatest Foe,
And bore most heavily on all below;
Which, join'd with Jealousy became her curse,
Set like twin Sentries, to protect her purse,
With every article procur'd by coin,
Fire, food, and clothing, with all shew and shine;
Pimping, with all mean Pow'rs of Wit, and Art,
Lest some low Culprit should purloin a part.

Crispinus was compell'd, with blushing face,
To see her publish, daily, self-disgrace—
To hear her Mind's deluding, maddening, dreams,
Or act a part in plotting, cruel, schemes—
Contemptible, but cunning—basely sly—
Crimes to detect, or characters destroy.

She play'd, besides, unnumber'd paltry tricks,
In the quaint Science of Economics—
Quaint, in her Codes—which, in true Wisdom's found
Are prudent—proper—solid—safe—and sound.

Wisdom ne'er makes true Policy her Tool
To stablish harsh, unreasonable rule—
Ne'er feeds her Families with starving treat
That Pimps, and Flatterers may profusely eat.
Ne'er wraps, with paltry rags, the parts unseen,
That proud exteriors may outstrip the Queen.
Nor e'er forbad sufficient fires to blaze
To furnish glaring flames on gaudier days.

Such were the plans pursued in restless rounds,
Accumulating pence, to squander pounds.
Inferior Vassals pinch'd, or, sparing, fed,
On musty butter, and on mouldy bread;
Compell'd to squeeze a part from Salary small,
To silence noisey Nature's clamorous call:
For they whose fobs are not full-gorg'd with guineas,
Must live like gudgeons—loaches—sprats—and minnies,
Compar'd with pikes, and dolphins; sharks, and whales;
Which murder millions with their teeth, and tails—
Or swallow hundreds at a single gulp,
As Men would mack'rels' roes or peaches' pulp—
Nor matter liberties—or limbs—or lives,
More than when hungry Bears besiege bee-hives—
But irritated bees, tho' small, sometimes
Make despot Bears repent their cruel crimes,
And loudly bellow, pinch'd with pungent smarts,
By fixing poison'd stings in tenderest parts.

This was the general, tho' injurious, plan,
Which, thro' her mean domestic measures, ran,
Except when Fashion sent her cards, and scouts,
For Dinners—Readings—Concerts—Balls—and Routs.
Then Pride would whisper Prudence to relax,
That Vanity might levy larger tax—
For haughty Ostentation rul'd the roasts,
When Luxury rais'd her quick-recruited Hosts;
Nor fear'd Profusion, or the hurt of Health,
When entertaining Taste—and Wit—and Wealth;
But Fancy put in force her fullest pow'rs,
To catch vain Honours those convivial hours—
On all occasions fishing still for Fame,
And laying snares to seize the smallest Game;
Or spread Applause's fire, from feeblest sparks,
Struck by a Tradesman's tongue, or Office-Clerk's.

Full fifty wax-lights round her Temple shin'd,
When 'mid gay worshippers, the Goddess din'd;
And twice ten more, at Routs, full radiance shed—
When Mara warbled—and when Texier read.
About the glittering gates, and dazzling door,
Six brilliant lamps held high their blazing store,
Unqualified, thro' sordid scents, to shine
Near nostrils of assemblies so divine!
Within the walls, pure patent burners, bright,
Like lesser Suns, display'd superior light,
Which, free from nauseous vapours, beams dispense,
Lest Goddesses and Gods might find offence.
Subordinate to both bright lights, and lamps,
Fierce coak-fires burnt, to dissipate the damps,
Each mass so monstrous, so intense the glow,
They rais'd sad thoughts about fierce fires below;
And while foul fumes appress'd their panting breath,
All nearly died with dread from fear of Death!
These constellations tallow-lights enlarg'd,
But far from Presence-chambers all discharg'd;
For such celestial Beings breathing there,
Such sights and smells could not be borne so near—
Deem'd like the common broods of Man, too base,
To fill, or live in, ought but servile place;
With Slaves, like their's, fit, only, to be found
In rooms, remote, or stinking under ground.

180

Such, soon, alas! must be, alike, the lot
Of those that haunt the Hall, or crowd the Cot!
This, tho' believ'd by habitants of both,
To entertain that truth alike are loth.
But Death, dire Monster! merciless, and rude,
In each retirement will, ere long, obtrude,
To put out all their lights, with breath abrupt,
And leave their Frames, in caverns, to corrupt!
Meanwhile, should Pomp, as punishment for crimes,
Be doom'd, in future day, to read these Rhymes;
Or blundering Dupe, unwittingly, rehearse,
In courtly ears, such saws, and vulgar Verse;
They'll find no fragrant wax, or softening oil,
To greet their Senses, or their Souls beguile;
But lights, offensive, starting every turn,
Discovering rules cold Conscience loaths to learn:
Like tallow candles tainting every strain;
Tho' grease begone still mawkish snuffs remain.

On calls, like these, so blissful! so sublime!
Economy itself became a crime;
And Prudence hardly for her cause complain'd
While these blest paroxysms thus blithely reign'd
Ev'n Sunday-schools, and Chimney-sweeper-show,
And more low Clients must fair claims forego,
Till costly Concert, and superfluous Feast,
With childish Rout, and cheerless Reading ceas'd,

Alas! what foolish Wit, what frantic waste,
In trite Amusements fly, and foppish Taste!
Each idle Rout's expence in sport, and spoil,
Might rescue some sad Wretch from durance vile—
Relieve some Family from sore distress—
Some Widow cherish, or some Orphan bless—
And bring, from Heav'n, much brighter blessings down,
Than flattering compliments from all the Town!
Returning interest, for such gracious gold,
In Heav'n's unfailing funds an hundred fold;
And Conscience, oft, confer more rapturing meed,
When Memory marks, again, each godlike deed!

But how can Memory 'mid such proud Expence,
Yield satisfaction, e'en, for Common-Sense;
Or Conscience frequent Consolation find,
Among the filth such Follies leave behind!
Will Memory furnish, at each fresh review,
Some pious speech, or moral maxim, new?
Will fond Reflexion, still transported, run
O'er kind, disinterested, actions done?
Or Conscience, when she counts the wanton Cost,
Not mourn o'er Time, Wealth, Talents, worse than lost!

The cost of Texier's short dramatic treat
Might yield some Starveling, monthly Winter's meat;
While his weak efforts can alone relieve
A few Dupe's fancies one dull wintery Eve;
Yet more, for that Night's nonsense monies clear,
Than labouring Hind can earn thro' half the Year;
Without a waste of Strength, or wear of Tools,
In gratifying groups of gaping Fools!

How would their bosoms beat—their eyes o'erflow—
While he rehears'd imaginary woe.
Each rapt with extacy, weeps, faints, or dies,
To hear an apish Proteus trolling Lies.
With time—attention—guineas—eager, part,
To feel mere mimicry o'erwhelm the heart;
Yet never seek for scenes of real grief,
Nor give one groat to yield a Wretch relief!

If Pity such transporting pleasure yields,
Let them explore the thinly-peopled Fields;
Or search the City's or the Borough's, bounds,
For Misery's melancholy sights, and sounds;
In Garrets—Hovels—Cellars', filthy Cells,
With Want, and Woe—Pain—Sorrow—Sickness—dwells—
There might their sympathizing Spirits, find
Complete amusement for each pitying Mind—
Or Huts, and Hamlets, plenty more supply,
Of pining Subjects for such pensive joy.

If mournful Meditation loves to live,
On strongest traits of natural Narrative—
If silent Sympathy would wish to know
Where it may ponder every pain and woe—
A Father—Friend—and Brother, may be found
Who felt each poignant pain from woe and wound!
A Prince—of perfect innocence—and yet
In whom all punishments and miseries met!
Let them the Gospel's gracious truths attend,
The Saviour's blameless Life, and bleeding End!
There, with propriety, their eyes might pour,
As conscious Criminals, incessant show'r!
And while their lids effus'd the copious flood,
Their bosoms ought to burst with streams of blood!
Not looking on with cold, unfeeling, phlegm,
But mourn like those who know He bled for Them!
No! They, unconscious of their deadly debt,

181

That Saviour—yes, their sovereign God forget!
With dissipation, wild, indulge each whim
And sacrifice to Sense instead of Him!
Unconscious of their weakness, crimes, and curse,
Judge their own Virtues rise the full reverse—
And, when Friends' foibles—frailties—faults—are shown,
Condemn them—but remember not their own!
They fondly sigh, or swoon, o'er fictious pains,
Or fancied sorrows, told in plaintive strains,
Yet while They weep o'er sinful, silly, Elves,
Deserving death, and misery, like Themselves,
That history with indifference read, or hear
Without one plaintive tone, or pitying tear;
Tho' for their countless crimes, and impious pride,
He sigh'd—and groan'd—and wept—and bled—and died!

When congregated Ton attends the Choirs
Of voices—catguts—tubes—and tinkling wires—
When Mara squalls, and Rubinelli squeaks;
Cramer's and Crosdill's fingers play strange freaks;
With numerous others, of inferior name,
Who get some solid pudding tho' poor fame;
The tweedling Troop will earn in twice two Hours,
More than in Weeks Mechanics' equal pow'rs—
More than in Months by Husbandmen are made,
Or annual profits of a petty Trade;
Beside such cates, and wines, consum'd in waste
As Artists, Hinds, or Tradesmen rarely taste.

On these occasions, all the proud Compeers
Paid for the feast that fed their hungry ears;
Our Hostess only paid for show, and shine,
More than dumb idols rang'd around her shrine;
Except some tasteful incidental cost,
Which Art contrived should ne'er be fully lost;
For kind allusions courtly Wit would raise
In Flattery's incense, or fresh sprigs of praise;
While smiling tributes, from two hundred eyes,
O'erpaid all trouble with tumultuous joys—
But if her ear could catch some courtly sound,
From Dilettanti tongues, thus whispering round,
“What perfect elegance! What matchless taste!
“How fine the furniture! How aptly plac'd!
“How richly group'd the lights! How clear they shine!
“It's quite enchanting! magical! divine!”
Such tuneful accents, thrilling thro' her Soul,
With purest raptures recompenc'd the Whole—
Gave more delight, thus dropping from their tongue
Than all sweet Texier said, or Mara sung!

Some small disbursements hung on Rabble-routs,
More than fine Readings, or full fiddling-bouts—
To grace the triumph, and augment the State,
Each opening portal held a Magistrate,
To stop clandestine Guests, who might intrude,
And check the choice yet motley Multitude—
Quell clownish riot, silence noisey laugh,
With look demure, and talismanic staff,
Whose hieroglyphics pictur'd pow'r and law,
To keep the liveried Charioteers in awe;
While with stern mien, and magisterial tone,
Restrain wild tumults, which were never known—
Plac'd in full Office, to prevent offence,
And crown the whole with airs of consequence.

To give more grandeur to the high intent,
Just at the summit of proud stairs' ascent,
With dainty dress, and much superior mien,
Above the party-colour'd crew, was seen
A Mercenary, hack'd thro' various places,
Well-knowing fashionable names, and faces—
Well-skill'd to take off Lady's muff, or cloak;
And tell how titles were distinctly spoke;
Lest loss of Honours, not pronounc'd aright,
Might rob the Rich of titular delight;
And help that order of domestic Elves,
Who purchase gaudy outside garb themselves;
Banded with household Slaves, above—below,
To help the bustle, and enhance the show.
A motley troop, all intermix'd, attends,
Of liveried Vassals, levied from her Friends;
Who swell the pageant, and the pomp enlarge,
With small addition to the moderate charge,
While nappy porter pays the humble Host,
A gold, or silver, piece, each higher post.

Near the bleak door 'twas Crispin's doom to stand,
Encompass'd, deeply, by the rainbow'd Band,
All influx and all efflux to controul;
And parts inspect, while watching o'er the Whole—
To keep each party in its proper place
Lest Girls confront my Lady—or her Grace—
Lest liveried Clowns might crowd Peers' noble path,
And rouse their Lordships' honourable wrath—
Or cross rich Commons' ambling modish airs,
Athwart the Hall, or up and down the Stairs—

182

To mind each Name be bawl'd, distinct and clear;
With all their titled adjuncts—held so dear!
Their tones articulated full, and loud,
Each accent echoing thro' the clamorous Crowd.
For what would kingly courtesies avail,
Could Clowns each lordly adjective curtail?
Or what the privilege of noble birth,
Were Slaves e'er suffer'd to withold its worth.
There Crispin was compell'd to fry and freeze
With hot buzaglo, and East's icey breeze;
The dread alternative each way he turn'd,
One half wind blasting while the other burn'd
The quivered winds, that shot their arrows round,
His tender bosom struck with many a wound;
And colds, and coughs, and hoarsenesses, entail'd,
Till tepid Spring, with balmy breath, prevail'd;
Whose genial pow'r, his faded frame imprest,
And push'd fresh spirit thro' his throbbing breast.

Humanity might hope in these extremes,
Benevolence would shoot some shining beams,
By sympathy to make that bosom bound,
Which, in such service, lost its vocal sound.
But he, alas! no tenderness could boast
From Pride which doom'd him to the dangerous post!
No kind enquiry sooth'd the sufferer's pains,
Or pour'd soft influence thro' his feverish veins,
Nor could all Fancy's pow'rs one look apply,
One cordial anodyne from Pity's eye!

But not alone his heavy-laden heart
Felt fierce Inclemency's corroding smart—
Not barely lungs keen persecution bore,
But mangled intellect was tortur'd more;
Subjected to confront the courtly fleer
Of supercilious Statesmen, stalking there—
The strong contempt the countenances cast,
On all Dependents, as they proudly past.
Nor was their wanton insolence the worst
That poor afflicted Crispin's feelings curs'd—
This might be borne—Plebeians must abide
Their bluff Superiors' overbearing pride,
And all the little, foolish, flippant, pranks,
Of pert associates, from inferior ranks—
Must bear each burden such small Despots bind,
To bend the Body and to bow the Mind,
When all their pow'rs are bought, by paltry bribes,
To serve as Vassals to those haughty Tribes;
But he by sad necessity was fix'd
Where ignorant Impudence with Mockery mix'd—
Expos'd to hear each silly, painful, sound,
Of all the liveried regiments muster'd round—
To all that hard effrontery of face
Whose skulk's deep scandal, and each smile's disgrace—
To mystic puns, each Myrmidon displays,
And jokes quite current in Dan Cromwel's days;
Vile jokes the joy of all such servile Hosts,
Mean puns, like those in all the Morning Posts.
Expos'd to puerile greetings—groveling speech—
St. Giles, or Billingsgate, can scarcely reach—
With such low cunning, and contentious wit,
For gambling-house, or brothel, barely, fit.
Ambiguous hints, impenetrably dark—
Gross innuendo, and obscene remark—
Each phrase so faulty—sombrous, or impure;
Sense could not scan, or Decency endure!
This was repugnant to pure Common-Sense,
And gave his Understanding strong offence;
But still more painful, more offensive, far,
Were taunts intemperate, and injurious jar—
Compounded curses, and audacious oaths—
Which Conscience combats, and Religion loaths—
Blaspheming that blest Pow'r, all Pow'rs above!
Whose curbs are Kindness, and whose Laws are Love!
Offering rewards, and promises, to win,
But threats and thunderings to deter from Sin.
Who, tho' His presence fills all Time and Space,
He marks the meanest of the human Race,
Whose greatest guilt makes no Perfection less,
Nor best obedience helps His Happiness;
His Nature subject to no change at all,
Tho' Saints apostalize, and Seraphs fall!
But vengeance waits on Angel, and on Man,
Whose black rebellion strives to spoil His plan—
All who despise His Love—His Laws profane,
And boldly dare to take His Name in vain!

When Luxury's costly Banquet was decreed,
And Titles—Ribbands—Stars—must richly feed—
When foreign Counts, and diplomatique Corps,
Must grace the gates, and dignify the doors;
And dainty Dames, with prodigal array
Wardrobes, and Caskets, wealthiest stores display
Their lengthen'd skirts, broad'ning like silken brooms,
Each carpet swept, when rustling round the rooms—

183

The richest odours fill'd their fragrant hair—
All faces look'd alike both fresh and fair;
And thus, while fond Gallants each Fair ador'd,
They perfume spread, and blush'd about the board.

Garrets, and Bookrooms, now, each bolt unlock,
Emancipating long-imprison'd stock—
Mutton and Veal completely tender grown,
And Poultry, long ago from perches flown—
Turkeys, oft cramm'd, but now had long kept Lent—
And Hares, tho' not pursued, improv'd in scent—
Pheasants, for weeks, of woods and brakes bereft,
Look'd grassy-green, with full effluvia left;
And Partridges, tho' thus from fields confin'd;
The Dog's nose must be dull which could not wind.

As chief Purveyor of the kitchen store
The cheapest market Crispin must explore—
Must stretch his legs, with long pedestrian toils,
About Sev'n Dials, and by broad St. Giles—
Must round St. Paul's remoter precincts roam,
To buy cheap bargains, dearer than at Home.
For not the ravin, only, but the rout
By Madam's Prudence must be pointed out,
He ne'er could hope to judge, with proper pow'r,
Whence Meats might come, which Deities devour.
No Chick would charm the taste, or please the eye,
Nor Guinea-fowl, but Brentford must supply—
Green Geese, young Ducklings, and the plump Poulard,
If not from Miles's were both tough, and hard;
Which Crispin found from Lead'nhall oft took flight,
Or neighb'ring Westminster, the former Night.
From Peto's barrell'd Oysters must be had—
All, in the vicinage were vilely bad.
No Fish was nice not purchased from afar,
From distant Billingsgate, or Temple Bar.
In Thames Street, Fruits, and Cheese, were cheapest bought—
And Groceries in the City must be sought;
Nor would one dainty thing, with gust, go down,
If oft procur'd from any place in Town.
Suspicion whisper'd Interest was at stake;
And Jealousy still kept her Mind awake,
Lest some sinister project should be play'd,
Betwixt base Steward and the Rogues of Trade—
Such plots to counteract, or circumvent,
And check the chousing Plan of Five per Cent.

'Twere wise and wholesome so to counteract
A venal Vassal's most immoral pact;
His vicious heart's cupidity controul,
And stop his perquisites to save his Soul.
But such was ne'er her Christian-like design
To save his Soul, but to secure her Coin.
So prompt, and selfish, was each secret plan
Which thro' her conduct, regularly, ran,
That Tradesmen from such practice were forbid,
And, when found guilty, oft severely chid;
Tho' if such pence had help'd the Servants' purse
Her Wealth had not been found one fig the worse;
Their laws, like Medes' and Persians', stablish bribes,
Betwixt the trading and the servile Tribes;
That if such vails no Vassals' cares requite
Employer profits not one single doit;
For, if the Servant must forego his claim,
The Tradesmen's items still will stand the same.

Fashion and Wealth, to help their shine, and show,
Contrive to keep each Scoundrels' stipends low,
And, with the same disbursements, as before,
Manage to hire one Mercenary more;
Each Wight oblig'd, but much against his Will,
From such resources fair finance to fill—
But Crispin ne'er partook such proffer'd pelf,
Till first encourag'd by her crafty Self;
And, frequent, after placed the poor amount,
With conscientious care, to her account;
Tho' he'd but little cause to boast the gains
Conferr'd on all his cares—and toils—and pains!
Had righteous Beings, of blest heavenly Race,
In her proud household, fill'd inferior place,
And pure Archangel had supreme controul,
Still dreams and doubts had harrow'd up her Soul,
Lest ev'n such sinless Spirits should purloin
Her Bread—Meat—Books—her Candles—Coals—or Coin.

Crispin's next care was, warily, to look
For some clean—clever—economic—Cook.
St. George's—James's—Marybone—must range—
Along Cheapside, and all about the 'Change,
To find a Man of prudence, and of parts,
Well-skill'd in all the culinary Arts—
A Man of management—of taste—of sense,
To dress large Dinners at the least expence—
To spread abundant plenty round the board,

184

Yet spare prolific Larder's endless hoard;
That every Guest much gewgaws might, behold,
But still be tender of the Giver's gold,
Domestic troops were then employ'd, complete,
Exerting tongues—ears—eyes—arms—hands—and feet—
All exercising utmost strength and skill,
At high behests respective parts to fill;
Full intellectual, and corporeal, pow'rs,
With heavy drudg'ry thro' a dozen hours,
Just to indulge a dozen Appetites,
For one short hour, dull animal delights;
While tried Artificer, who fram'd the feast,
With sport, and spoil, the cost, and crime, increas'd—
Whose wanton task, demanding little toils,
With waste preparing roasts, and bakes, and boils,
In eight hours earn'd, with comfort, near the fire,
As much as labouring Hind by three Weeks' hire,
Who cultivates the fields for various use,
To furnish Luxury for such base abuse;
Expos'd, in want, to suns—rains—frosts, and snows,
When Summer burns, or wintery Boreas blows.

Stuck, like a Strand, or Fleet Street Form of Wax,
Whose Joints, or muscles never once relax;
Or a tall Soldier, on dramatic boards,
Amidst the clattering sounds of tragic swords,
Oblig'd to face about at armed host,
Nor budge one pace from his predestin'd post—
Not suffer'd to assist in fierce affray,
Nor share the forage of the sharp-fought day;
And, whether fancy frisk, or bosom boil,
The formal figure must not frown, or smile;
Constrain'd to keep both form and phiz erect,
Or feel keen flogging for each gross neglect:
So was the Bard oblig'd to hoist his head,
Hard by one sideboard, when the Mighty fed,
While finer Butler, tho' inferior Brother,
In fuller office occupied the other.
Thus Crispin fill'd his inefficient place,
Not deem'd a post of honour, but disgrace;
To him who oft had sat, in former years,
Feasting with Peeresses and friendly Peers.
Like Statue, perch'd, or Criminal impal'd,
While Demigods, and Goddesses regal'd—
Or, as a dumb Automaton, to stand,
And move, by mandate, foot—or head—or hand—
For every deviation doom'd to smart
And learn fresh lessons to complete his part.

It ne'er had furnish'd cause for such complaints—
To wash the feet of Pilgrims—Seers—or Saints—
Nor weary, or unwelcome, task, to wait,
Had all been gracious, there, nicknam'd the Great—
No test of temper so to make amends,
To honourable—honest—faithful—Friends—
Nor held it much unmeet, if summon'd forth
To wait on Genius—Learning—Wit—or Worth—
But to be Tool to every Child of Chance,
To flippant Pride, and ignorant Arrogance—
Subject to Fop's and Blockhead's beck, or nod,
Who needed tutors, and deserv'd a rod—
At every Hypocrite's, or Scoundrel's, call,
That curse a Country, or disgrace a Stall—
But most a Despot's, once in amplest pow'r
Whose machinations drew a kingly dow'r,
While crimes, official, Conscience never reach'd,
Till now, before his Country's bar impeach'd.
This was an office Common-sense must scout;
Make modesty refuse, and Meekness flout—
A base Associate loathsome, and absurd;
Sunk the vain Hostess—low'r'd the Servile Herd.

Nor this, alone, hurt Crispin's honest heart,
While acting, here, his prostituting part;
His Mind more struck with wonder and surprize,
To see such Wretch caress'd before his eyes.

Now all with haughty, self-sufficient, airs,
And shameless unconcern, assume their chairs;
Then, eagerly, divide the dainty feast,
Devouring all, like savage bird, or beast.
No grateful Guest, nor, ev'n, domestic Dame,
E'er prais'd that Cause from which the plenty came!
He marvell'd most when Bishop join'd the Band,
Close chair'd beside Scintilla's dexter hand;
To mark, ev'en He, whose words and acts should shine,
To stamp his rights to adjectives divine;
Who should such pure, exalted, pattern show
To Suffragans, and Seculars, below.
Should worship Him, with rev'rence most profound,
Who rais'd Him to Preferment's topmost round—
That he should so forget that gracious Pow'r
Who fill'd his purse with Faith's most plenteous dow'r;
Much more the honour of his Lord maintain
Than meanest Servants in that Master's train!

185

Poor Crispin's nerves experienc'd shameful shock,
When, like an Image, or mere Barber's-block,
His frame was fix'd, in every limb, and joint,
And dar'd not deviate from the zenith point;
But, like a powder'd Puppet, stand stock still,
Till put in motion by Show-Woman's will—
Or, more, as mute East Indian Figure stands,
Ready to move at Governor's commands;
Prompt to obey Proprietor's desires,
Its eyes, and limbs, all turn'd with springs and wires,
Each trembling part long-quivering in its place,
As dreading castigation, or disgrace.
But, chiefly, when Scintilla's high behest
Decreed that head and limbs must all be dress'd
Supremely nice—superlatively neat—
When, midst the grand; the nominally, Great,
Surrounded with the fullest show and shine,
That Culprit and proud Consort deign'd to dine.
A Creature, who, were all the charges mov'd,
By damning proofs and depositions prov'd,
Deserv'd to sit in Dungeon's darkest Cell,
Where none but Robbers—Murderers—Demons—dwell—
With scanty pittances, unfrequent, fed,
Of Pain's worst water—Sorrow's bitterest bread!
For tho' the lenity of England's Laws
Allows no Sentence in Delinquent's Cause
Before the facts and arguments are heard,
Yet, in this Case, such glaring guilt appear'd
Which ought to shut him out from honour'd Board,
Till crimes were clear'd and character restor'd.
But where such Pride, and Ostentation, sway,
They put out Reason's pure, prudential, ray;
While Vanity, still scorning Common-sense,
Bounds boldly o'er just Judgment's feeble fence,
And, blundering blindly on, in rapid Race,
Forgets propriety of time, and place.

Could human Nature at such claims connive
With smallest spark of Spirit left alive?
Could Understanding truckle, mute, and tame,
Nor puff that spark, and raise a fervid flame?
See Tyranny all Virtue's Laws invert
And Justice, Faith, and Honour, feel unhurt?
Could Sensibility still hold her breath
While Despot pinch'd poor Innocence to death?
Could Judgment in her seat supinely sit,
And solemnly conclude such conduct fit?
Should Reason trim her lamp of heavenly light,
To show such shameless, rash, example right;
Or Honesty—Truth—Honour—hold their peace,
Nor dare thro' dread of wrath in silence cease.
No! Truth would interpose her upright plea,
Unaw'd by Wealth—or Pow'r—or Pedigree!
And right Ambition rouz'd that Son of Song,
To see, and say, such abject act was wrong.

This was not Pride's unwarrantable whim,
Tho' that, by actual Pride was charg'd on Him,
But the pure impulse of an honest Mind,
Not by caprice, or prejudice made blind—
'Twas genuine Justice hous'd within his heart
By that bless'd Pow'r which built his outward part,
And, in his Age, as well as early Youth,
Lodg'd there the love of Equity and Truth.
His inmost Soul base Characters abhorr'd,
In fellow-Clown—your Honour—or my Lord;
Loathing, in all, each mean immoral Thing
Still impious Conduct more in Prince, or King.
Yes—he was such a rigid, Stoic-Elf,
He loath'd each low propensity in Self.
He knew his Heart, like all the ruin'd Race,
Was weak—deceitful—vile—devoid of Grace,
He knew his Nature—selfish—vain—and proud—
Felt each foul impulse—but no fault allow'd.
This Understanding saw, by heavenly light,
And, when beheld, abhorr'd the dev'lish sight.
For still he found the Spirit's feelings burn,
By Heav'n inspir'd, all turpitude to spurn—
And whether Whim, or Passion, Lust, or Pride;
Each Vice, each day, endeavouring to avoid.
Still labouring to expel that pristine Breed,
And in its place to plant celestial Seed.

Why should a Man who felt true Honour's flame
Stand, like a Stock Oaf to grace a guilty Name?
Why should a Man, celestial Freedom's Friend,
To any Despot bow, or Tyrant bend?
Or why the sacred Rights of Souls infringe
To fawn on Cruelty?—to Cunning cringe?
Why stoop to Wealth, when view'd the Villain's Lot,
To Wealth, by Force, by Fraud, by Rapine, got?
Why dread Accusers, like a coward Elf,
Thro' fear of Poverty, or hope of Pelf?
Why gifts of lov'd Humanity forego,
For dull Dependence, and penurious Show?

186

An honest Heart—sound Mind—Health—Parts—complete,
In fetters lie, and lick a Tyrant's feet!
Still deprecating Pain, and shock'd at Need,
While Want and Woe made mangled Bosom bleed!
A Man, of full-tried Fortitude, dismay'd,
Lest Knaves might find Offence, or Brutes upbraid!
Should shudder at Reproach, or feel false shame,
Lest Passion should impeach, or Blockheads blame!
Still dreading Danger—still afraid of Fate—
So us'd to Hardships; and in Life so late!
A Man, so tried, thro' lengthen'd lapse of Time
By Neighbours ne'er accus'd of actual Crime!
Ne'er call'd to answer at his Country's Bar,
For sly Injustice, or uncivil Jar;
Much less for public Fraud, or butchering Strife
A foul Delinquent pleading for his Life!
Ought Crispin then on wicked Culprit wait?
The Scourge, and Scandal of vast Eastern-State!
In Vassal-style, with calm composure, stand,
Before the Troubler of his native Land?
His prostituted Frame, in Fashion, stretch
To please the leering looks of such a Wretch?
Looks that proclaim'd, aloud, to simple Sense,
The Soul's confusion, and the Heart's offence!
Telling, in obvious terms, to every Eye,
Without the gifted pow'r of Prophecy,
The plain depicturings of some grievous guilt,
Of Rapine wrought, or Blood unjustly spilt—
The rankling wounds of wretchedness within,
From scourge of Conscience and rank sores of Sin!
Those hollow cheeks, and haggard eyes, declar'd
That Peace was banish'd—e'en dull Hope despair'd!
Like the vile Visage of the Miscreant, Clive,
Who felt infernal torments whilst alive;
Glaring, around, astonish'd! shock'd! aghast!
As dreading human bann, and Heaven's blast!
For Conscience prints, on Man's external part,
The strong contortions of the riven Heart—
Reflecting, full, each trait of mental stripes,
In colours, and characteristic types.
The quivering lips wax pale—the eye-balls roll,
When torturing agonies convulse the Soul—
For tho' no sentence, then, touch'd Limb, or Life,
Each feature figur'd intellectual Strife—
And tho' no penal mulct cashier'd his Cash,
Reflection shook her knotted, ninefold lash.

Would Innocence at accusation shake,
Fame—Fortune—Liberty—or Life—at stake?
Feel Hell's infernal Vipers bite the Breast,
And glare as tho' grim Legions, then, possess'd?
No—She sits tranquil on internal Throne,
All knavish Vice, and Villainy, unknown!
She always looks with simple smile, serene;
With placid brow—soft eye—and quiet mien—
Extends Her views beyond mere mortal ken;
Sees Heav'n in smiles, and, fears not frowns of Men—
By Faith and Hope, with Love, beholding Christ—
And, thus, o'er Death, and Judgment, looks rejoic'd!
But conscious Guilt distorts the fluttering Frame,
Thro' shocking fears of punishment and shame!
While Memory's eye with retrospection aches
The visage lengthens and the fabric shakes!
Imagination, glum, with magic glance,
Sees trooping Spectres glide and Demons dance!
Beholds, in prospect, Heav'n's avenging rod,
Grasp'd in the right-hand of an angry God;
Seated, supreme, on Time's extremest bourn,
Who needs no witness—suffers no adjourn—
Whom bribes ne'er blind; nor Kings, nor Councils sway—
Whose herald, Death, allows no long delay;
But soon will summon to that Judgment-seat,
Whose Doom will make all Miscreant's woes complete!

Such Scenes appear'd to seize his piercing Eye;
To drink Life's juice, and drown convivial joy.
Seem'd strongly to impress each vital pow'r;
Make all the meats unsavoury—wines all sour.
No kindness look'd—no compliment exprest,
All sunk, absorb'd, within his billowy breast;
For Fiendlike glances, rolling frantic, round,
Prov'd his proud Heart no Peace, or Comfort, found;
But, maugre flattering Guests, with Madam's grin,
His Front still glow'r'd and show'd the guilt within.

This made the Bard look back to humble Birth
As Heav'n's first blessing on this bedlam Earth;
Felicitating, fond, his lowly lot,
His quiet Conscience, and his tranquil Cot!
With consolation ken'd pleas'd retrospect,
O'er all the scenes of calm, tho' cold, neglect!

187

In Life's low Vale sequester'd long secure;
Hedg'd round with Ignorance—kept by Penury, pure!
Exempt from fleeting Honour—fretting Care—
And all the guilty pangs of Pomp, and Glare—
Content with Piety, and virtuous Love,
The pure preparatives for bliss above!
For, now, tho' Time, and Talents, all, were plied,
Mid impious Trains, and ostentatious Pride,
His jealous bosom bade him not rejoice,
Among such Mobs of Vanity and Vice—
Made him all ill-got Wealth, and Pow'r despise,
Which ne'er yield perfect Peace nor genuine joys;
But still embarrass, and embrute, the Mind,
Till Folly's frantic, and Ambition, blind—
While all such Dupes of Riches—Pow'r—and State,
Rush headlong on to meet their desperate Fate!

With such a trembling, tortur'd Wretch in view,
Still pity strengthen'd while abhorrence grew;
Aware that Wealth the wish for Wealth extends,
To gratify ten thousand graceless ends—
Beneath whose weight each bending Virtue bows,
In spite of patriot views, and pious vows—
That Pow'r depends on Pow'r's dread exercise,
While in its dangerous jaws weak Justice dies—
How Counteraction heightens its career,
Till Cruelty completes the course of Fear—
How spurious Honours buttress holds of Pride,
Till Passion sets Humanity aside—
How weakness from Applause new nerve acquires,
And Villainy's advance prompts dark desires—
As show'rs and sunshine nourish native seeds,
And, more than Corn, encourage noxious Weeds.

He knew like Seeds are sown in such like Lands,
And stronger grow till Grace their growth withstands—
Like tangling Tares, spontaneously, would spread,
And raise base Rabbles o'er bless'd Order's head—
Make specious Virtue a convenient prop,
Till Pride o'ercomes Heav'n's pure, and pious, Crop—
While Men to Men become both swords, and rods,
Since Satan taught them, “Ye shall be as Gods!”

As Pow'r and Wealth with Wealth and Pow'r increase,
Lust, Pride, and Passion, war with social Peace;
And, as Mankind all, mutually, aspires,
The World's convuls'd with conflicts, feuds, and fires;
While all ambitious Mortals madly dream,
Each Will should legislate some Law supreme.
Man—Woman—Child—would choose, without controul,
And Lust—Pride—Passion wish to rule the Whole.
Lust, with continual impulse, prompts the breast
To grasp each pleasing object not possess'd—
To make all Property, and Pow'r its own,
Wealth—Beauty—Fame—a Government—a Throne!
Pride ever estimates its own desert,
Above true standard—to all Other's hurt;
While Passion proffers weapons to the Will,
Each purpose to enforce, each plan fulfil!

Thus Tyrant's Pow'r still strives with Tyrant's Pow'r,
And Despot's Wealth would Despot's Wealth devour;
Each Individual seeking sinful prey,
All scheme—cajole—supplant—oppress—betray!
The Great endeavouring to devour the Small,
While, in mad conflicts, countless millions fall!
All fashion'd in frail Nature's crooking schools,
Become base Tyrants, or abandon'd Tools;
Villains, or Victims; Plotters, Dupes, or Pimps,
And, aiming to be Gods, grow downright Imps!

In this confus'd and hostile State of Earth
Which Satan's machinations brought to birth,
And, to this hour, hath diligently nurst,
By which Mankind still, constantly, is curst;
The Christian character's, alone, exempt,
While Pride and Lusts allure, and Demons tempt—
For, tho' in His debas'd and brutish, Heart,
Corrupted Nature occupies a part—
Tho' World, and Devils, are expell'd the Dome
Still hateful Tenants claim it for their Home;
For, finding Satan, like Themselves, so poor,
They crave rich Christ to drive him from their door.
No Christian can be rich, or peace obtain,
Except that Sovereign o'er the Spirit reign.
Compar'd with His, Earth's Wealth's mere dung and dross!
The loss of His—incalculable loss!
Could all Earth's Wealth—Pomp—Honour—Fame—or Pow'r—
Deprive the Soul of such celestial dow'r,
No compensation could that World supply,
To yield Life peace—Death hope—or Judgment, joy!
Better to risque, like Crispin, precious health,
At wintery portal, of imperious Wealth—
Better before the servile sideboard stand,

188

Obedient to the beck of impious Band;
To slice the Mutton and to serve the Wine,
Than with proud Fops, and priestly Deists, dine—
Better, like him, of Confidence bereft,
Than boast profusion from foul spoils of Theft.
Glean the scant ears that greedy gatherers drop,
Than reap, with Rapine, Plunder's plenteous crop.
Rent a low Hovel, void of envied Fame,
Than build a Palace with the price of Shame.
Better with stinking tatters cover'd o'er,
Than richest robes, begrim'd with human gore,
To join the futile converse Clowns afford,
Than glare with Guilt beside the learned board;
Or share the shreds of Penury's rough remains
Than feed with Pomp, and feel Pride's martyring pains.

It was but bits of every broken dish,
Mammocks of Meat, and fragments left of Fish,
Refuse of Orts the Steward's table spread,
For mortal folks when Angel-hosts had fed.
'Twas not the patriotic Spartan Treat,
Where, with the Rich, each poor Plebeian eat—
That needed no Confectioner, nor Cook,
And all, as Friends, the temp'rate Fare partook—
Where no distinction was in diet known,
Betwixt mean Tenant's humble Hut and Throne.
There true Philosophy contriv'd the plan,
Intuitively feeling Man was Man;
And when wise Christians first assum'd that Name,
Their precepts, and their practice taught the same.
Now no such practice, no such precept's found,
Most Christians now are Christians but in sound—
With modern manners no such notion suits;
The Rich are more than Man—the Poor but Brutes;
At most but Monsters, or mere chattering Apes,
Moulded a little more like human Shapes—
Devoid of Manners—Knowledge—Common-Sense—
To Man's proud Species showing poor pretence;
Without one proof of Wisdom—Parts—or Wit—
For Courtiers' company how far unfit!
Like them they neither see—hear—smell—taste—feel—
Such Dolts could ne'er enjoy their gen'rous Meal.

The firm remains of nice, and costly, cates,
Were most reserv'd for Friends of medium rates,
All delicate productions kept apart,
Which tasted of expence, or smelt of Art,
To keep Appearance up, yet spare the Coin,
That Subalterns might, elegantly, dine.
Spoonfuls of Soup were closeted secure,
No clownish crop such dainties could endure,
Prudence witheld the Venson and the Lamb,
Lest gross Hobgoblins might to mischief cram;
For if such vulgar appetites should pick,
The savoury bits might make such Booby's sick.
The flesh of Poultry—Turkeys—Guinea-fowls—
Were all unfit for sordid Swine, and Owls—
Rich larded Veal—sweet Pies—and luscious Pats,
Were never cook'd to diet Dogs and Cats;
And Fruits, preserv'd, or raw, in perfect shapes,
Ne'er meant for Monkeys or meet food for Apes.
Unpinion'd pigeon—undissected game—
By new ordeal prov'd, preferr'd fresh claim;
While Pastry, 'scaped without a deadly wound,
Was oft, again, in front of battle, found—

Sometimes, alas! quite shocking to relate!
Dread Weapon wielded by one Friend of Fate;
Determin'd each opposing Dish should die;
All infant Patties, and each full-grown Pye;
It's desperate point, deep in each bosom plung'd,
From fighting Lists, for ever, now, expung'd,
Each made a Skeleton, or murder'd Corse,
Without compassion—or the least remorse!
Yea—Crispin was inform'd, that Friend, untrue,
Who all Vanessa's narrow foibles knew,
With playful Fun, mixt with a spice of Spite,
In such Assassinations took delight—
To frustrate every vain, yet niggard, view,
Poulards—Chicks—Pigeons—Game, and Pastry—slew.
Meanwhile the Hostess, harrass'd with chagrin,
Thrill'd thro' with horror—split with wedging spleen—
Her features, and her Frame, all seem'd to feel
Each fatal stroke of immolating steel—
In spite of politesse was seen to grieve,
Unable to procure one hour's reprieve.
She hop'd some might have miss'd each plunderer's prey,
And liv'd to face the Foe some future day.
If 'twas a Maccaroni found, by Art,
Well dress'd, and deck'd, o'er all its outer part;
Could it escape without an injur'd skin,
Tho' robb'd of all its weak contents within,
Insipid brains and bowels were replac'd,
To greet again each eye, and Trifler's taste.

189

No scraps of Poulards, and no chips of Chick,
The Steward's tools, or Menials' teeth, might pick—
Light Meats with lusty stomachs ne'er agree—
Beside they'd help a future Fricasee—
Help to augment the Patties minish'd group,
Or serve to strengthen upper-bodied Soup.
Blanc-mangies, Jellies, or St. James's Cake,
No mean plebeian Monster must partake;
Nor would one foreign, or domestic, fruit,
With any clownish constitution suit—
Ev'n purchas'd herbs, and plants were hurried thence,
No Servant could be kept at such expence.
They, daily, must, poor Devils! eat and drink;
For tho' their empty noddles ne'er could think,
Their beastly bodies stood in constant need
Of helps, for health, for labour, and for speed;
But might, most certainly, be fully fed
With long-palm'd luncheons of brown home-bak'd Bread—
Might common, lukewarm, vegetables eat,
And ragged remnants of the mammock'd Meat—
Such Cormorants' craving appetites, might share
Puddings, and Paste, no Cookery could repair—
Mere Skeletons that Pride would pick no more,
And Kickshaws mortal Skill could ne'er restore—
Oysters, no art could close, which Cooks had cleft—
Fish-bones, heads, tails, with some few fibres, left—
But if some single, sweet, and handsome, Sole,
Had scaped with skin, and bones, and sinews, whole;
Or ev'n a dainty, undiminish'd, Smelt,
No trowel, or impaling fork, had felt,
Both must be match'd, with comrades of each caste,
To eke out some subordinate repast.
All else remaining on the list of life,
In spite of spoons, and miss'd the murderous knife—
Whate'er their place, their office, or their name,
Must risque, again, their fortune, and their fame—
Again, predestin'd, at command must move,
With water—fire—and foes, their prowess prove;
In rank and file, again, ordain'd to stand
Before a fiercer, and more barbarous, Band!

Immur'd, meantime, 'midst barrack's bolted stores,
To shun the murders of marauding Corps,
These, ere their ultimate commissions close,
Must pass the strictest scrutiny of nose,
Or march, distinct, according to their class,
For proof of spectacles, or single glass;
Muster'd, and marshall'd, in their new array,
To triumph, or to fall, next dangerous day:
But little hope could any entertain
One single Warrior could escape unslain;
Tho' well-embodied with some bold Recruits
Clad in their new accoutrements and suits.

Fierce, in their front advanc'd a valiant Chief,
In France, well-known, by name of Bouilli-beef.
The centre crowded with a motley crew,
Stale volunteers, and mercenaries new;
Whilst loose detachments of light troops appear,
In feebler bands, to form reserves, in Rear—
Assembled in battalions, weak, and small,
To fight, at last, and, like their Fellows; fall!
Each Troop, dispatch'd upon a hope forlorn—
Lose life, or limbs, or get their garments torn;
For on all parts, redoubled dangers press,
Their Enemies increas'd, their squadrons less.
Not Plenipos, and Peers, in Sport, employ'd,
To face and view their fair outside;
Nor Lady-Consorts, who, with tender hearts,
Scarce scratch Birds breasts, or sound poor Patts, or Tarts!
Not General's, or Field-marshal's, mock review,
But Combatants to cut them through and through!
Not Foes encountering with mere Fencers' pranks,
That skirmish'd, slightly, but scarce broke the Ranks—
Nor reconnoitering Corps, unfit for fight,
But Women-warriors, and tried Men of might!
Heroes, and Heroines, never known to yield,
While one opponent kept the open field,
But, right and left would thrust—cut—slash, and slive,
Till no fish—flesh—paste—fruit—was left alive—
Not meeting at their posts in mere parade,
But well-instructed in the tactic trade—
Not striplings who with mimic strokes assail
But Veterans who contend with tooth and nail—
And if their valour seem'd one moment slack,
They prov'd full triumph by a fresh attack.

They ne'er once gave unfinish'd conflict o'er;
Ne'er found each regiment was half-beat before—
Ne'er deem'd such dastard weakness was betray'd,
That show'd unskilful hands, or hearts afraid;
Nor scorn'd the combat, or despis'd the prey,
When summon'd forth to fight that second day.

Their Talents to such feats were not confin'd,

190

They'd skill, and courage of another kind—
With equal Art could other weapons wield,
Besides those brandish'd in that fatal field.
With Tongues could tilt, or cudgel with their Quill,
Legions and Cohorts to defend, or kill.
Not only conquer Hosts of Meat, and Drink,
But fight their way to fame thro' floods of Ink.
From bitter fountain large libations pour,
Or make Tongues merit what dread Teeth devour—
By flattering Pen, or Speech, those Treats to earn,
Who ne'er could furnish Feasts for like return.

Anxious all honours, and respects, to pay,
Each look'd ambitious, debonnaire, and gay.
In proudest trappings, from small stocks, attir'd,
Admiring, each, in hopes to be admir'd—
But tho' their wardrobes thus display'd their best,
No Carriage show'd their 'scutcheon'd arms, or crest—
Compell'd to travel, each, in number'd Hack,
And trudge, by lamplight, on their ten toes, back.

Such were invited for mere selfish ends,
To fix the old, or fetch new, flattering friends.
None ought, on promise, future prospects raise,
Not skill'd in compliments, or prompt in praise,
The conscientious Christian, or dull Dunce,
Unvers'd in eulogy might victual once;
But those that puft not pomp, or taste, or pride,
Like year-old Almanacs were cast aside;
While all who clever things would pen, or speak,
Might hope kind invitations once a Week.

The Characters that, thus, composed the Throng
Were liberal of applause in prose or song—
Proclaim'd, by speech, or literary arts,
Her viewless Virtues, and her peerless Parts—
Her Wisdom, visible—her Knowledge, vast—
Her wonderous Genius, which all praise surpast!
Strung pearls of Prose, or form'd fresh wreaths of Rhyme,
To make her mental Pow'rs appear sublime!
Told, in some Dedication's dulcet sound,
What matchless Merit was in Woman found;
Then, with a soft, insinuating, tone,
Prov'd her that Phœnix—Nonpareil—alone!

Some in heroic, or in lyric, lies,
Dubb'd her Jove's Child—strange Monster of the Skies!
Proclaim'd, in sweet, and soft, but stupid strains,
Her pow'rs obstetric, and their labour pains;
At length, with many a hard, and heavy, throe,
Brought forth another monstrous Birth below—
Then fed with nectar, and ambrosial pap,
While Pallas dandled in her learned lap.
Made Venus o'er her face and form preside—
Gave Juno's glorious pomp, without her pride—
Show'd shame-faced Dian form'd her pure, and chaste,
And all the Muses taught her Wit and Taste.
Apollo learnt her two transcendent Arts,
To heal, and ornament internal parts;
But gave not kind, irrevocable, word,
His gracious Godship would confer the third—
For, to prevent confusion, Fate confin'd
To Med'cine, Speech, and Prose, her pow'rs of Mind,
Lest Man the modern Goddess might adore,
And worship Him, and His Compeers no more!
Her skill in Physic ne'er increas'd her pelf,
She only puk'd the Poor, and purg'd Herself.
As for pure Song her Spirit was too terse;
It could not condescend to drawl in Verse;
Nor frame her fingers, or exert her throat
To thrum, or tweedle out one tuneful note.
They made her, tho' a Mortal at her birth,
A Paragon—a Phœnix, now, on Earth!
With sounds bewitching, and expressions warm,
A heavenly Seraph in a fleshly Form!
Some her stupendous Taste, and Talents, show'd
Her Wit, and Wisdom, in a modest Ode—
With Fancy's flatulent endeavours, woo'd,
In saccharine Sonnet for some fleshly food;
Or, that indulgence might more frequent cram,
Gave salt and pickle in an Epigram—
Each, offering fame, still grasp'd at sprigs of bays,
Or pence, or pudding, while they hymn'd her praise.

But ne'er can Poesy perfection reach
In twist, or turn, or point, or pun, like speech—
Can ne'er accommodate itself to all
The nice occasions that in converse fall;
Nor ought sweet Cadence condescend to tell
What silly, simple Prose can word as well;
For Folly's best explain'd by speech, or letters,
As Monkeys frolick most without their fetters.
No Muse degrades her charms to chaunt, in Song,
What's better told by title-tattle tongue.
'Twould ill bespeak her spirit to rehearse
Such vacant nothings in sonorous verse;
Or weakly waste immortal strength to strow

191

Light shafts of feathers from Apollo's bow;
To take His nobler Lyre, and strain to sing
The charms of butterfly's, or beetle's, wing!
To hitch in measure how moths subtly lurk
And make such mischief in fine feather-work!
In rythmic numbers labour to reveal
The wares in which such haberdashers deal;
Nor could the conscientious Muse recite
The monstrous fibs in which such Folks delight!
Ev'n pure prose-writers, of true modern stamp,
With quirks and quaintnesses would scorn to cramp
The flowing periods of their flowery pen;
Much less repeat such ribaldry agen:
But flippant jabber, and familiar joke,
Unmeet for print, or paper, may be spoke—
Spite's poisonous fruits, with Fancy's flowery pips,
May fully flourish on colloquial lips.
In such gross soils, and situations, grow
All seeds that Vice, or Vanity, can sow.
In such uncultur'd hearts, productive, spring
Lust's embryo buds, and ev'ry envious Thing;
While Pride's hot summer sun profusely feeds,
On Luxury's dung-heaps all wild crops of weeds.
Scandal, too curious for the common ear,
From secret hints of Folly's foster'd there;
And pestilential progenies of Lies,
Increas'd in number, and enlarg'd in size;
Like Thistle-seeds, well-wing'd, fly far and wide,
Each baneful breed's increas'd and multiplied.
Flattery too fulsome, ev'n for vulgar taste,
Most promptly scatter'd, spic'd each rich repast;
And Wit, too coarse, and harsh, for Critic's eye
With fungous growth might there expand, and die.

Among the members of such humbler Host,
Were Pimps, adapted to each destin'd post.
Some Family-connexions, close Allies!
Prompt, at low politics, or apt, as spies;
With every hypocritic art endu'd
To plan a plot, or personate a Prude—
Would, warmly, christian characters abuse,
Or, like train'd spaniels, fetch and carry news—
In quest of scandal beat each thicket through,
Knowing what game would give the highest gout.
Scoop every puddle—net each nasty pond,
To catch coarse fish, of which their Friend was fond;
And bring salt—spice—and vinegar, to dress,
To make, of sordid meat a savoury mess.

Some, Assentators, of her frowns afraid,
Whose daily drudgery some snug pension paid;
And such convenient income so secure,
Would every slight, and slavery, endure.

One, without Sire begot, or Mother born,
Tho' not for that deserving scoff or scorn,
From consanguineous germ spontaneous sprung,
Who liv'd by labours of the active tongue,
Or prostitution of the patient ear
To catch each tale in her contracted sphere—
With cunning skill each circumstance extend,
Thus bring it home, with interest, to her Friend—
Or, perch'd at table, exercise her eye,
To mark when poor Crispinus loung'd awry,
Or look'd atwist from his important post,
To furnish wrath a sacrifice to roast—
Or watch each whisper—note each idle nod,
To bring the Culprit to his Tyrant's rod—
Seem struck with trifles—o'er her foibles blink—
But look alert whene'er she caught the wink—
From each dull hint some sapient inference draw—
Hold mere opinions Medes and Persians' law—
With rapture hear each quondam anecdote,
Which listening Servants long had learnt by rote;
Hammer'd, on every ear, whole evenings through,
Still construing all oracularly new;
Tho' all those Servants tittering stood the while,
To mark her grins, and egotistic toil—
Tho' doubts perplex'd, her face must feign content,
Certain 'twas petit-treason to dissent;
Or sit, whole mornings, like a mummy, mute—
'Twas death, or degradation, to dispute!

Some Sycophants, to show their great regard,
Disgorg'd stale Wit, for gluttonous reward;
Or brought to birth their own base mental brood,
As some small recompence for corporal food—
Where Ladies needed not much skill to carve,
And Gentlemen might literally starve.
A well-known Lord once look'd chagrin'd, and bluff,
When soups and sauces were not half enough;
The rest, by flattery, favour to engage,
To screen the dinner prais'd the equipage,
The refectory—linen—fires—and lights—
Whate'er she dictates—or, whate'er—indites—

192

All, aiming to produce their full effect,
Attempt the puff oblique, or puff direct.

Among the topics touch'd on, great, or small,
Morals, not much—Religion, not at all!
Much saccharine compliment—more Scandal's leav'n,
But not one sound transpir'd like Hell—or Heav'n.
That, made them gloomy; and this, never glad;
They seem'd best satisfied with what they had.
Possess'd of plenty for so long a space,
And knowing nothing of the gifts of Grace;
They labour'd still to lengthen out their time,
And dreaded to desert so sweet a Clime!
Accustom'd to deny no calls of Sense,
They deem'd it dreadful to be hurried hence.
What dear delights in heavenly grounds could grow,
Compar'd with those they boasted here, below!
Ne'er tasting genuine intellectual joy,
They knew what Earth could yield, but not the Sky.
Could they conceive Mohammed's Heav'n was right,
They would not much refuse to take their flight,
When Age depriv'd them of all pleasure here,
And Pain and Sickness prov'd their Exit near—
But Prejudice had held their Souls so long,
That Hypocrite's fond Scheme they fear'd was wrong;
And, lest that fear should prove the real case,
They'd rather choose to keep their present place.
Of Earth's accommodations grown so fond,
They found no relish now to look beyond.
The present was well known—the future, not—
They wish'd such subjects could be quite forgot.
Such disquisitions made each Miser scoff,
The Great ne'er guess'd they should be better off.
Capricious Heav'n to prove its tyrant State,
To Needle's eye compar'd its entrance Gate;
And how could they whose grossness daily grew,
Ev'r hope, so hamper'd, they could struggle through—
At least they must conceive it most unkind,
To order Pride and Lust both left behind.
None, here, appear'd so humble, meek, and poor,
But what must needs require much wider door.
Self-love felt too averse from such low views,
To call such waspish Notions welcome News.
In well-beat path true pleasures were bestow'd,
They loath'd such Christians' solitary road.
Nor could they keep their independent Souls
To Pilgrims' patterns, or Christ's harsh controuls—
Morals made mopish—Piety austere—
'Twas wiser to partake true pleasures here—
Morality that laid such strict restraints
Was only fit for Fools—or, snivelling Saints.
Such Piety with great Ones ne'er agrees,
It levels Lords with vulgar Devotees.
To deep humility would Kings condemn,
And make Archbishops pray, and pinch, like Them—
Sure heavenly Pow'r prerogative must stretch
To make the Rich like each poor loathsome Wretch!
To make each Priest—and Prince—become as base
As Dregs and Rubbish of the human Race!

Such crabbed converse would be drear and dry—
What's worse, reminds the Great that God was by!
In such grave Company who could be gay?
They wish'd such Tyrants, and restraints, away!
They knew His Eye would penetrate their Hearts,
And still condemn all dark deceptive Parts.
Would all black Vice, all Vanity behold—
All frailties, fallacies, and faults unfold—
Whose Wisdom—Justice—Judgment ne'er were sway'd
By Wealth, or Wit, with Pomp or proud Parade;
Who, piercing thro' the dark, pries deep within,
And sees them Dupes of Satan—Death—and Sin!
Whose moral Government enacts those Laws,
That make them fractures which Self-love calls flaws;
And whose Religion will not once admit
Of Falshood—Flattery—or licentious Wit.
Its Truth so simple—Piety so pure—
No Passion—Lust—or Idol, will endure.
A Code, so clear, all subterfuge defies,
All spurious Charities, and specious Lies;
All meretricious Prudery puts aside;
Frail Passion—Pomp—and ostentatious Pride.
Thwarts all wild thoughts, and weighs each idle word—
Brands Mirth as madness—wanton Wit absurd—
Marks every motive—keeps a strict account—
And, firm in memory, notes the nett amount;
To bring the balance fair, in future day,
And prisoning all who found no Friend to pay.

Would Wits then wish to spend their sportive hours
In the known presence of such searching Pow'rs?
Mirth seek society, at festal times,
With One who makes mere crotchets mortal crimes?
Would Wealth, or idol Honour, e'er unite
With Him whose Eye would damp each dear delight?

193

Or bow before the footstool of His Throne,
Who claims those tributes they deem all their own?
To trace their faults all those reflections tend;
Their base beginning, and their hastening end—
To place dependence for their all below,
On One they view a fierce, inveterate Foe—
Their Lives unleas'd—their Frames but crumbling clods,
Tho' Self, and Satan told them they were Gods!

To keep their Maker from immediate view,
These groveling Ingrates yield no honours due—
No blessings beg, true Gratitude requires,
But quirks, and compliments, and dark desires.
Far more ungrateful than the grossest Clown,
Wealth—Pomp—Wit—Learning—squat, indifferent, down;
To all indifferent but the darling prize
That greets their nostrils while it glads their eyes—
And when, on dainties, they've indulg'd their fill,
No thanks return—cold, and indifferent, still!

How much unlike the Hind who earns his bread,
By Nights of care, and Days of labour, fed;
Who, in the school of Christ his lesson learns,
And, for few morsels, many thanks returns;
But, They, like thoughtless, thankless Birds, and Beasts,
Perceive no Power which furnishes their Feasts—
Yea, like mean Reptiles, or more hungry Sharks,
With graceless greediness, prelatic Clerks,
Right Reverend, or most Reverend, seize their prey,
Nor praise the Friend that feeds them day by day—
By Conscience, and by Custom, unimprest,
Unmindful of their Maker, like the rest,
Their heavenly Father, rather, thus offend,
Than wilfully affront that fickle Friend!

All knew, like them, She dreaded loss of breath;
The stings of Conscience, and the stroke of Death—
Loath'd cold ideas of a bed of clay,
And Christ's appearance at the Judgment-day;
That blest Appearance which pure Christians love,
Delightful prelude to the bliss above!
Such hateful thoughts and humbling themes to waive,
Age, pain, and sickness; guilt, and sordid Grave;
The loss of health, and strength; the close of Time;
And retribution for each baleful crime,
Must needs be objects of extreme offence,
To all who sought, alone, the joys of Sense.

To give their own embarass'd bosoms ease,
And dear, indulgent, Patroness to please,
Each strove to give more grateful subjects birth,
For gay amusement, or more gladd'ning mirth—
Something that gave indulgence greater gust,
To drive the thoughts of darkness—and of dust—
All that could banish Death's ideal gloom,
Archangel's trumpet, and tremendous doom!
With smiles they mock'd, with accents mimick'd truth,
From memory tracing images of Youth,
Flatter'd her juvenility of face,
Her sprightly look, and gaily moving grace—
Told how her Spirit still of Spring partook—
Prov'd by epistles, and her peerless Book—
And, fully to enchant her cheated Soul,
Poetic turn some Plagarist had stole
To prove her Steed's epistolary pace
Each Female's Courser distanc'd in the race;
Yea, when with critic-pow'r she claspt her pen,
Longinus-like, o'er-match'd congenial Men—
More than all other Shakespeare's genius knew,
And was, herself, the great sublime she drew!

Poets and Painters fill'd her first-rate seats
As Men most skill'd in flattery's cleverest feats.
Their fertile Wit, with Fancy's rich resource,
Could compliment her form and mental force;
And, tho' they carefully forgot her face,
Could puff her virtues—gild each personal grace—
While she, a like adept, in flatteries learn'd,
Like spurious debts, and pseudo-drafts return'd;
Calling each Dauber bold—each Bard sublime—
Who launch'd a liberal brush, or link'd a flatt'ring rhyme.

Such as had Learning, tho' but little Nous,
Were always welcome to her honour'd House;
And had they Science, tho' but little Sense,
They found but little call for Eloquence—
Placed by the President, or seated near,
They needed but one pow'r—the pow'r to hear;
With painful patience to continue mum,
And find her tongue an auditory drum.
This passive quality would recommend
And gain the proud appellative of Friend.
'Twas quite sufficient, without words, to sit
And smile at shrewdness, or laugh loud at Wit;
While all were sure her great good-will to win,
With bow approving, or applausive grin—
To hear her eloquence with nodding grace,

194

And bear her boasts with fortitude of face.
Nothing so certain fill'd her with offence,
As rival Knowledge, or obtrusive Sense—
While Envy wak'd, and whisper'd in her ear,
Competitors were dangerous creatures near.
The poet might possess unrivall'd fame;
To laureat-crown she ne'er advanc'd her claim;
But quite unpardonable crime to balk
Her Pegasus, when tittuping in talk.
No child of Man that hobby-horse might check,
Tho' prancing on with peril of her neck.
She ne'er forgave the temerarious guide
Who told her when to stop, or how to ride.
She hated every argument that glanc'd
A doubt of dogmas her clear views, advanc'd,
Or when her Fancy wild ideas fir'd,
'Twas death to judge her Genius not inspir'd.
Those highest in her estimation stood,
Who call'd her judgment great, and reasonings good;
But fondliest lov'd that favourite He, or She,
Whose flattery reach'd infallibility.
Without that Art no Pander long could please;
No Friend find favour; nor a Hireling ease.
A wonderous Art! transforming frowns to smiles,
And making Rustics talk in Courtier styles—
A sweet ingredient! mix'd with rankest mess
Gives daintiest gout to dishes Scullions dress—
A rich amalgam, courtly Chemists mould,
Which turns the grossest metals into gold.
A Coin which may for current mintage pass,
Of choicest Silver—tho' its base is Brass—
All counterfeit by Christian's hearts confest
When brought to Conscience's, or Scripture's, test.

In deep decline the climacteric Dame
When Time had pluck'd her flow'rs, and pinch'd her frame,
All might indulge that never-dying lust,
In filthiest form, nor give the least disgust;
Yea—this disease was grown so great a height
The grossest Flatterers gave the full'st delight!
Tho' Time had stolen the lily—robb'd the rose—
Might speak of sparkling eyes, and sapient nose.
Tho' none presum'd to prove how tall—or strait,
Kind Guests might compliment her sprightly gait—
Tho' outward charms, now, challeng'd not those arts,
Still ample scope was left to praise her parts—
Tho' Cupid ambush'd not about her face
He still might sharpen shafts with Wit, and Grace—
Tho' breasts, nor neck, were fair, nor full the skin,
Yet Sense, and Wisdom kept their Court within—
And tho' her head was grey, her Wit was green—
Her Understanding clear—Her Reason keen—
Her Fancy brilliant, as when years were young,
While Eloquence with Rhetoric tipt her tongue—
Might boast each lively Virtue under Heav'n,
While Time's crook'd finger points half past eleven!

When Pimps would wish to quit this beaten course,
Arch Adulation scents a new resource—
In every adjunct scans a copious text,
From personal property, or place, annext—
Divining Vanity's adoring dream,
In every object finds a fruitful theme—
Will praise her palace, or each matchless mess;
Her plate—her porcelain—her tasteful dress—
Urge, Princesses or Princes, Queens or Kings,
Would sigh for such incomparable Things.

How more than Music would such sounds allure,
While praising wealth, fine rooms, or furniture;
Or, set at table, flattering inference draw,
From all they tasted—touch'd—heard—smelt—or saw.

Before the Parasites possess'd their seats,
From each glad mouth a mimic rapture greets;
While all exclaim with fond-affected air,
'Tis Paradise! 'tis Beauty, past compare!
Repeating still the hypocritic roar,
Tho' iterated fifty times before.

When chair'd, in stately order, subjects, choice,
Engage each eye, and sound from every voice.
How charming—how superb—the polish'd plate!
More sumptuous than Ambassadors' of State!
From hand to hand proud Porcelain is turn'd,
To look what legs it stood on when 'twas burn'd.
What joy to hear the chyming accents join,
'Tis exquisite! superlatively fine!
Still more extatic was the tuneful sound
When Connoiseurship sent the secret round,
And, loud, from tongue to tongue rapt echoes ran,
China? tis genuine! true! antique Japan!

Some puff'd the bread—most beautifully brown!
Richer than best french rolls when bak'd in Town;
Yet One, who seem'd most partial in its praise,
Invited frequent on those festal days,

195

When half a loaf his flattery had obtain'd
His grumbling Slaves the flouted favour gain'd.

Some call'd her country Mutton charming, sweet,
Tho' bought but just that Morn from Oxford-Street—
In Fish, and Fowl, pure freshness could explore
Tho' blown on by their betters days before.
Yea, found each other Viand vastly nice,
Tho' pass'd thro' fingers—fire—or water—twice.

Her Cloaths must not uncomplimented pass,
But every eye becomes her looking glass—
And tho', at present, Pomp was set aside,
Something might still be found to flatter Pride—
'Twas neat, tho' plain—'twas charming, tho' quite chaste,
Judgment adjusted—all prov'd perfect Taste—
Materials, matchless—Fashion fair, and new;
'Twas, somehow, more than other folks could do.

Finding such offerings, such poor offals, prais'd,
Black eye-brow's-bend to prouder pitch was rais'd,
While full-exciting force, o'er such remarks,
Struck, from her lucid eyes electric sparks—
Attractive sparks! that fiery flash unlike,
When Anger's flints each steely spherule strike,
Repelling all offenders, who refuse
To tell the Hall's, or Kitchen's, curious news.

On these occasions Blockheads could observe
Her unbent Body lose its common curve,
And, growing gradually tall, and starch,
To line direct reduc'd each antient arch;
While mumbling mouth with quicker motion mov'd,
To chew the charming praise her heart approv'd.
How fond affection simper'd, smirk'd, and smil'd,
Till all the antiquated traits were spoil'd;
And every feature, of her haggar'd face,
Assum'd a youthful grin, or maiden grace;
Each limb—each motion—smiling air, and mien,
Intensely strove to look like sweet Sixteen!

It seem'd unsocial—felt a little hard—
To hear old Friends enquire about the Bard,
With whom, at table, oft, before, he'd sat,
Exchanging chearful smiles and cordial chat—
To be by proud Employer pointed out,
While, “There he stands,” was utter'd with a flout.
Felt more intense, when, station'd, as a mark,
For miscreant shafts to shoot at, in the dark—
A butt for blasting tongues and base-born eyes,
His outlines, and his acts, to criticise—
With poisonous spiders' mask'd malevolence,
Sucking their noxious food from Innocence—
Or with a Dauber's pencil, dipp'd in spleen,
Caricature its motions, air, and mien;
Then with dire Serpent-sycophant's address,
Place the crude sketch before false Patroness;
Who, with a Dilettanti's dexterous skill,
Completely colour'd what was etch'd so ill;
Then plac'd the picture in so foul a light,
That artless Nature look'd a loathsome fright.

He felt still more to aggravate such smart;
Enough to stir a Dutchman's torpid heart,
Enough to rouze a Stoic into wrath,
Or turn a Pilgrim from his purpos'd path—
Enough to melt a Savage into tears
To see the spurnings of experienc'd Years—
To hear a Woman with intemperate rage
Dissect the sensibilities of Age—
The undisputed truths of Childhood told
A Man much more than half a Century old;
The shallow lessons of a Tyro taught,
By seventeen years of bondage dearly bought—
Taught the fantastic rudiments, and rules,
Fashions, and forms, of Ladies' Boarding schools—
Instructed in his types, and how to spell,
Tho' told, long time ago, he'd learnt so well;
And conn those elementary lessons, o'er
Prais'd, as possess'd, full twenty years before,
By one whose Soul possest the purest parts
Of Learning, Knowledge, and all courtly Arts.
Not kind instruction mildly meant to teach,
To mend his manner, or improve his speech—
Not soften'd down with gentleness, or joke,
But fierce, with Pride, or flaming Passion, spoke;
Clothing each cutting look with pow'r, and right,
Words mark'd with malice, and each spoke in spite.
One never deem'd a dastard, or a dunce,
To be degraded from his rank at once—
One who'd long strutted in true Captain-style
Reduc'd to drill with rubbish Rank-and-file—
To try manœuverings with mere raw Recruits,
Attain'd by many Apes, and humbler Brutes.
Push'd lower far than when he first began,
Propp'd on two legs, to mimic monkey Man.
A stern Commander's mandates strict observe,
And keep his body free from awkward curve;

196

While Crispin's frame, from curves, and angles, free,
Tho' tall, was straight, as straight as Bard should be—
Must feel fresh consequence when call'd to wait,
And bridle, perpendicularly straight—
Yet not to bristle when he ought to bow,
But learn pure etiquette, and practise, now;
Standing, and studying attitudes, and airs,
While Puppies—Pimps—Fools—Churls—fill'd all the chairs.

Musician never met those juntos there,
But why? because the Hostess had no ear.
Her Heart, discordant, too, ne'er felt desires
For troubling strings, or violating wires—
To rival vespers on the vernal spray,
Or pledge Apollo in one tuneful way;
Yet every courtly custom still to ape,
And vie with Peacocks both in voice and shape,
Mere Ostentation Concerts must partake,
Not for a tuneful Taste's but Fashion's sake.
Her Soul would pompous sights to sounds prefer,
For chords and discords were alike to Her.
In her some secret heresies were hid,
Which all the bliss of harmony forbid—
Some pow'rful schism pervading head and heart,
Which warp'd both Frame and Mind in every part—
Tho' she had legs to walk they would not dance:
Ne'er, out of pace, with Niece and Nephew, prance—
Risqu'd not her honour, or e'er hurt her ease,
Adopted Son and Daughter so to please.
Not that she judg'd it joyless, or jejune,
But, like her Lugs, her Limbs were out of tune,
Nor could her Intellect, whene'er it list
Prevent its faculties' unnatural twist.
She had two Ears' external parts, 'tis true,
Where Pride exhibited vain toys to view,
Which, by the ostentatious burdens borne,
Each overloaded cartilage was torn,
Till, by the frequency of Folly's fits,
Their lappets both were sliced in bloody slits.

Such sacrifice will Vanity sustain,
And buy importance at the price of pain.
To gratify its gust will undergo
All shapes of shame, and wickedness, and woe—
Will toil and study, ev'n thus bear to bleed,
That Pride, Promethean Vulture! still may feed!
With countless comforts, endless pleasures part,
To foster that foul Harpy in the heart
Impale true peace, impoverish fertile purse,
To heighten carnal Nature's heaviest curse!

Wealth's the warm Sun that gives that Serpent birth,
Conceiv'd in every sensual heart on Earth;
And flattery's oft the pamp'ring, poisonous, food
That gives full vigour to the vipery brood!
Flattery from Self, and all the sordid Troops
That gather round the Rich, in graceless groups;
Where Wits for Self-applause vend all such hoards,
The sinful badinage of social boards!

But let not Candour utter false decrees
By saying all were Sycophants like these—
Nor let the Muse, with random rhymes, exclaim,
Each segment of each circle's just the same.
Skill may discover some few grains of gold
In large collected heaps of common mould.
Among a gather'd mass, on stoney ground,
A magnet may, by diligence, be found—
Experienc'd eyes may some small pearls explore
Among the shells that shine on every shore.
Some star with steady light may hold the eyes,
Among the twinkling troops that crowd the skies—
Ev'n in Judea's most abandon'd times,
When idol worship hatch'd all other crimes,
Still seven thousand, from profaneness free,
To Baal ne'er had bent their honest knee—
So some were scatter'd thro' this cringing Throng,
Who dar'd espouse the right, and spurn the wrong!
Who gave to creatures nought but creatures' due,
Distinct from all the trifling, scraping, crew!
Politeness shar'd, but no devotion show'd,
By robbing Him who all, on all, bestow'd!
Confus'd not objects, like such flatt'ring Fools,
The Artists' honour tendering to his Tools—
Nor let such weakness 'mid their wisdom lurk,
The Workman's glory giving to the Work!
Who knew that Wealth, and Wisdom; Pomp and Pow'r;
Were all unmerited—all Heav'n's free dow'r!
With manly Reason—Judgment, more refin'd,
By mere externals never measuring Mind!
To human Make, or golden God, ne'er knelt
But Christian-character's full import felt!
Weigh'd well Heav'n's truths, and Man's eternal weal,
Nor mock'd, nor marr'd, kind Conscience, for a Meal!
Still, still the many, neither good, nor wise,

197

Offer their Souls a free-will sacrifice;
In foolish Fellow-Sinners' eyes to shine,
Or, that foul flesh, more daintily, may dine!
Let Conscience get deep stab, or lasting stain,
For frail indulgence; fame as vile, and vain.
Commuting Reason's, and Religion's, right,
For visual lusts, and pamper'd appetite;
Nor spurn content and temp'rance which ne'er cloy,
For abject bliss of kennel, stall, or stye!
Or leave Religion's joys, and Virtue's void,
For ideot Pomp, and diabolic Pride!
The whispering plaudits of pure Conscience quit,
For noisey crowds, and worthless claims of Wit!
From Wisdom's pedestals profanely stoop,
To fill frail niche in Fashion's pagan group!
Heav'n's holy lectures—Christian's converse, leave,
To flatter other Fools, and Selves deceive!
Fly Truth's rich treat, at fickle Custom's calls,
For chat that cheats, and pleasantry that palls!
Nor this the worst—in all their weak pursuits,
While reason rises not—above the Brutes',
Yet when Death calls, and Consciences condemn,
They'll find they cannot feel, and fall, like them!

If, in such second conflicts ought survive
And, by strange Chance choice Dishes left alive,
From cruel carnage, hapless pillage, 'scap'd,
With teguments untorn, nor much misshap'd,
Repeated proclamation still forbids
To lib'rate such spruce corps of Invalids,
But still preserve them for a better fate,
Ordain'd for many a day to stand in state,
Till every Veteran, overcome with Age,
Must strut no more upon their mortal stage.
Meantime, again, must garrison the shelf,
And keep close sentry for their Sovereign's Self;
For tho' not number'd with the heaps of slain,
They're ne'er thought fit for serving third Campaign.
Tho' mid such dire, tremendous, wasteful wars,
They may have met with numerous cuts and scars,
Yet, thus improper for a public fray,
May fill such office in more private way:
And She, thro' fondness, for such faithful Slaves—
Would gladly rescue them for common Graves;
Desirous to bestow distinguish'd doom
Would fain inter them in her native Tomb.
Quick hue and cry would flee from post to post
Should servile hands dislodge one single ghost;
And strict court-martial try those miscreant Souls
That hid her Favourites in their vulgar holes.

Such precious morsels Pride would not produce
For Steward's table, Hall's, or Kitchen's, use.
But let them rest, and rot, from day to day,
Mid must, or mould, vile mites, or maggots, prey,
Till only fit to feed some hungry hog,
Some starving vagrant, or stray beggar's dog.

Deem not the Bard those delicacies crav'd,
Or envied her the shreds lov'd luxury sav'd,
Such costly cates were not his wish, or care,
He ask'd but milk, and vegetable fare—
He sought not so to gratify his taste,
But griev'd to witness such ungracious waste.
It hurt his heart to see such constant cost—
Such labour, and profuse expences, lost—
It pierc'd his Spirit thro' each part, to think
How Thousands moan'd, meantime, for meat and drink;
While something whisper'd his wak'd pow'rs, within,
Such Pomp—such Selfishness—such waste—were sin!

But let not Censure's lungs her screams confound,
With Panegyric's lute, of Lydian sound;
Or squinting Calumny, with twisted eye,
Thro' half-hid pupil turn pure Truth awry—
Blind Prejudice, with daubing pencil, trace
Philanthropy, with Ostentation's face,
Or gracious Gratitude attempt to hide,
With pious mask the lineaments of Pride;
But honest Satire, with distinction, true,
Limn every action in its native hue;
Unvarnish'd o'er with Vanity's disguise,
That looks like Charity in Children's eyes.
Let not my partial Muse relate, alone,
How Phrenzy frolick'd, or how Fashion shone,
But here pourtray far different festal Scene,
Alike in motive, but unlike in mien.
Not a commercial feast for barter made,
By prouder feasts, or flattery, over-paid—
Not for rich Neighbours, or some fawning Friends,
But mimic'd what the Gospel recommends,
Where Faith's pure eye looks up for God's regard,
And hopes, and only hopes, for Heav'n's award.
Where meekness makes no boast—Zeal fears no blame,
While entertaining deaf—and blind—and lame—
Love opening wide her hospitable door

198

For all descriptions of the helpless poor—
Not to attract a Mob's admiring ken,
Or hoping for applause from fickle Men;
But to achieve true Charity's design,
Faint imitation of Christ's Love divine!

Here, faithful Muse, the matchless feast describe,
That, yearly, entertains, the sooty Tribe;
And, with triumphant strains, the pomp display,
That ushers in the joyful month of May!
Record the rapturous day in deathless rhymes
And show its features to all future times!
Let all its attributes come forth, unfurl'd,
Before the fancy of a wondering World!
How glossy beams of gilt Beneficence,
Charm'd Ideots' eyes, and dazzled simple Sense!
How ostentatious Pomp disburs'd vain pelf
To show good works, but glorify itself!

Behold, Ye modest, but mistaken, Rich,
Who spend much substance in sequester'd niche—
Obscurely wandering round, from Cott to Cott,
To learn, and to relieve, each Abject's lot—
Dealing out bounteous doles to craving Clowns,
That publish'd, thus, might much astonish Towns.
Come forth unfashionable, shame-faced few,
And make the World see what such Wealth might do,
Or hide for ever your diminish'd head,
And, silent, still deal out unblazon'd bread!
You who make hungry Souls, in secret, eat
Unpublish'd portions of kind Mercy's meat—
With blindfold wisdom obstinately wink,
While offering to the Poor their daily drink;
Or, when dispensing Heav'n's imparted dow'r,
Repay the glory where you get the pow'r!
With foolish faith, so fancifully loth,
To let the left hand know what right hand doth.

Would it not tend to aggrandize your Name,
And trumpet thro' the streets your fondled Fame!
Make smother'd kindness burst in open blaze,
And fill each famish'd mouth with frantic praise?
Bring forth to view your charitable bits,
And make a bonfire of your benefits?
While thus condens'd, your charitable doles,
When shown abroad, may shine to both the poles!

Why will you thus, like weak fanatics, wait
For reimbursements in a future state?
The weakest Tyro, in a trading way,
Sees vast advantages in present pay.
What Dunce would trust his Debtor till he dies,
Tho' heightening stock in Heav'n's clasp'd ledger lies,
When he can principal and interest find
By issuing instant cheques on all Mankind?
The Satyrist may sneer, with envy vex'd,
And silly Christian sigh, and quote a text—
His Conscience may not see such reasoning clear,
And o'er the dangerous inference drop a tear—
Far different logic such self-love employs
To keep in countenance its present prize—
Feeling twice paid, let who will weep, or laugh,
By Morning-paper's rapturing paragraph.

But lest frail Fame, should, like ephemeron Fly,
At midday flutter, and, at evening, die,
Muse! every striking circumstance relate
To save her glory from such grievous fate!
Tell how the chearful Chimney-sweeper train
Fill'd her front garden's newly-polish'd plain—
Tell how large pyes and puddings, were prepar'd—
How bread—beef—mutton, merry Shouters shared—
While rattling choruses, both long and loud,
The Giver gladden'd, and convuls'd the Crowd.
Oh! 'twas the solace of her heart to see
The splendid group! The pompous Jubilee!
Of richer relish, tho' of grosser gout,
Than when Dependents wait, and Poets woo!
Than when fond, titled, Foreigners attend,
Or British stars bow down, and ribbands bend!
They only in a narrow boundary blaze
Shoot forth, in Rooms, confin'd, their feebler rays—
Like lamps, and waxlights, tho' serene, and clear,
Can spread pure fulgence but thro' puny sphere;
These, more like Light'ning's glares, or Meteor's gleams,
All round the bright Horizon shoot their beams;
Or, mass'd, in motion, Glory, full, unfurl'd,
Like solar Light, illuminate the World!
Grand Fête! where gazing throngs, all wide agape,
Charm'd with proud Charity, in public shape,
In mighty Multitudes, stop—stand—and stare—
Crowding the corner of the squeezing Square.
Where penetrating eyes might well behold,
Among both males and females, young and old,
The different passions of the Soul pourtray'd,
In vast varieties of light and shade,
In every feature, every air, and mien,

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While marv'lling wonder eyes the mimic Scene!
To see the brilliant Bands pursue their sports,
From cellar'd Cells, in Alleys, Lanes, and Courts,
Conven'd by Vanity, as Love avow'd,
To gain fresh glory from a countless Crowd.
Where all in one refulgent focus glow,
Spangling the glebe before grand portico,
While, in a motley mass assemblies bright;
Friends and Acquaintance throng to see the sight,
And, to accommodate that monstrous tide,
Each ample Outlet yawns with opening wide;
Windows, and doors, and parapets, replete,
To see how Sweep's can dress—and dance—and eat—
That not an eager eye, or heart, might miss,
The splendid Spectacle! the bounding bliss!

Speak not of Pomp, ye Ladies, and ye Lords,
See! how your Pomp's eclips'd by climbing Hordes!
Nor bridle up your heads, ye Beaux and Belles,
But mark how much this tinsel Tribe excels!
Boast not, ye Beaux, your poor external pride,
Thus by this sable Brotherhood outvied!
Nor deem, bright Belles! your Garb, supremely fine—
See how the sooty Sisterhood outshine!
Ev'n Kings and Queens, in brilliant Birthday Courts,
Compare not with poor Sweeps, in Pomp, or Sports—
Nay, Milton's Pandemonium scarcely vies,
In bright Assemblies, with these Climbing Boys!
Note how the sparkling, sportive, Troops advance,
In grand procession, or in glittering dance!
With gayer Garb, and Equipage, approach,
Than Courts in Chariot, Vis-à-vis, and Coach!
On Steed, caparison'd in Armour, bright,
Mounted, like modern Chief, or antient Knight;
To show, while waiting on their Lady's will,
The days of Chivalry existing still,
More proud than Prince's Chair, in conic skreen,
Majestic stalks pedestrian Jack-o'-th'-Green;
With ivy wreath'd, and fairest vernal flow'rs,
Rich as a Peer's parterres, and noblest bow'rs,
Thick-ornamented round, with massy plate,
More than rich sideboards in proud rooms of State!
Lordlings might leave their shabby Cloaths for shame,
The blythe bedeck'd Coquette, and courtly Dame;
While oft the Milliner, and Taylor, sneers,
Conscious their Bills, and Books, hold vast Arrears—
Musicians might, with Dancing Masters, blush,
Before their shovels, and quick-tabbering brush;
Wild antic attitudes, and feats of foot,
Among the smiling, smutty, Sons of Soot!
The feather'd Crests of Queens ought humbly stoop
Before mock Females in each gaudy Group,
When Madam Sweep her May-day-dress assumes,
Of crapes—foils—tissues—ribbands—lace—and plumes—
And pompously puts on high courtly Airs,
More natural—noble—graceful—oft than Theirs!

This pantomimic Puppet-show, most sure,
Wore all the features of Caricature—
Was plann'd, and modell'd, by that very rule
Most fitted to excite strong ridicule;
Exhibiting those artful looks, and acts,
That Cunning coins, or Fallacy refracts.
But Common-sense, with intuition clear,
Distinguishes what's simple—what sincere.
Discriminates what's clever—what uncouth—
Deception's muffled tricks from naked Truth.
Can sever solid Corn from hollow Chaff—
Feels what's important—what provokes a laugh—
What merits Approbation—wakes Disgust—
Wins kind Affection, or instils Distrust—
What looks liks Perfidy, and what like Pride—
What Justice should reject—when Faith confide;
From obvious marks the latent motive learns,
And, spite of Art, the Spirit's drift discerns.
Thus this Phenomenon so strange! so new!
That look'd like Charity to Children's view;
In riper Minds far different feelings rais'd,
Tho' Weakness wonder'd, while Expectants prais'd.
To Wisdom's eye Hypocrisy appear'd—
While simple Sense, with true discernment, sneer'd;
Meantime the Patroness with heaving heart
Survey'd the whole, and dwelt on every part;
And with a wild, enthusiastic, glow,
Thrilled o'er the shouting throng, and shining show;
The screaming fiddle, and the scrannel drum,
Till raptur'd Sense, thro' sounds, and sights, o'ercome,
With witching sympathy, at every glance,
Thro' glass, diaphanous, was seen to dance—
While Vanity and Pride were clearly shown,
To view the Pomp, and lov'd Parade, alone.
Without one secret sentiment of Love,
That hopes approval from blest Pow'rs above!
Thus while these images her Fancy fir'd,

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And Fools, and Infants, in the Mob admir'd,
The pensive Poet blush'd, and look'd askew—
The Butler grinn'd—Housekeeper quite withdrew—
The Groom stood grumbling—Coachman growl'd a damn,
And Maids and Footmen felt it all—mere Sham!

Nor only here did ostentatious Pride,
Assume celestial Charity's outside,
But stalk'd with Vanity and weak Parade,
Amidst recesses of the sylvan shade;
Erecting altars in the sacred grove,
For offering sacrifice to fond Self-Love—
To snuff the fumes Mobs' incense might afford;
In throngs assembled round the social board;
And catch the bliss of bows, and crooking knees,
Like Baal's Priests beneath their shady trees.
There, ampler crowds of Votaries she invites,
Herself Chief-priestess of the festal rites.
Sends out full summonses to Sunday-schools,
To trap mistaken suffrages from Fools;
Whose wild imaginations ne'er surmise
Such mighty gifts from graceless motives rise—
That Pride will spend its Wealth in Christian cause,
And only look for popular applause.

Did e'er true Charity appear so proud,
As look for low conjees in vulgar crowd?
E'er institute parade, and pomp, and sport,
And make to Clowns, and Children, anxious court!
Or, mixt with Mobs, expose mere childish pranks!
Collecting retail curtsies—bows—and thanks?
Parading round, a spectacle of praise,
Thro' thirsty ears to drink Dolts' harsh huzzas?
Or eager gape, thro' all the ignorant throng,
For honours that, alone, to Heav'n belong?

Pure Charity, the Heav'n-taught Paul declares,
Assumes no vain, or ostentatious airs—
Is ne'er puff'd up with false affected Pride,
But empty Pomp, and Vanity's denied—
Of bounteous Benefactions never vaunts
In private circles, or in public haunts—
Ne'er acts indecent, while it gives its dole,
Impell'd by selfish purposes of Soul;
But, like disinterested Pow'rs above,
From purest principles of heavenly Love!
Devoid of that may open wide each door—
Give all its goods to feed the famish'd Poor—
Devote the living Frame to funeral fires,
Yet want that grace the Word of God requires!

'Twas not a heart impenetrably hard
Struck sparks of Envy from the steely Bard—
'Twas not a moping, melancholy, head
That Fancy's phantasms, Maniac-megrims, bred—
Passions denied, or prejudices dark,
Engendering Malice, or morose remark—
Blank'd expectation, or benighted hope,
Transform'd the Man to frantic Misanthrope,
Whose agitated bosom, robb'd of rest,
Wish'd every bosom, like its own, unblest—
No—none of these his intellect could cramp,
His Heart and Conscience felt far different stamp.
He ne'er on rags and wretchedness could look,
But peace and comfort his pain'd soul forsook.
To mark the miseries that oppress'd Mankind,
Was deep affliction to his feeling Mind.
Reflection fixed a thorn in every thought,
Contemplating immortal Souls untaught.
When human Misery met his anxious eyes,
It damp'd the dawnings of his brightest joys,
To see such flocks of Fellow-creatures born,
Condemn'd to drudgery 'mid the scoffs of scorn;
All hopes of peace and competence denied,
By wanton Wealth and supercilious Pride!
Made Slaves to Dissipation—Pride—Sloth—Lust,
Till worn away—then drop into the dust!

Could Crispin, Brethren—Sisters—thus, behold,
With dead indifference, or affections cold;
Oppress'd with poverty, and torn with toil,
The Worthless feasting on their fruits the while?
And such his heart conceiv'd was every Elf
Who look'd, and spoke, and acted, like himself!
He ne'er could meditate such human smart
But icey cold collected round his heart;
Nor spy oppression Fellow-sufferers spurn,
But indignation made his bosom burn!
When Infant-ignorance caught his aching sight,
He panted to impart his twinkling light;
Or youthful folly fell within his way,
He labour'd to bestow his borrow'd ray—
When Vanity display'd her painted wings,
His Spirit wish'd to whisper better things—
When Gluttony or Drunkenness were seen,
Lust's flaming look, and meretricious mien;

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Or profligate Prophaneness hurt his ear,
He sigh'd, or groan'd, or dropt Compassion's tear,
Impatient to point out some happier path
To save their Souls from God's most righteous wrath!
How was his Spirit griev'd, with gracious pain,
When Love allur'd to visit Heav'n's fair Fane,
To see such peccant Crowds, in every place,
Neglecting Mercy's offer'd means of Grace;
Provoking Justice by rebellion, rude,
And angering God with gross ingratitude!
If, to his pity, Want, or Woe, applied,
He breath'd a blessing—dropt his mite—and sigh'd;
Lamenting deeply, through his inmost Soul,
That Poverty forbad more bounteous dole!
Could He, then, mean to stop the plenteous meed,
From Sons and Daughters of disastrous Need?
Attempt to intercept bright Learning's beams,
That serve to rouze the Soul from Folly's dreams?
Extinguish in their hearts Religion's glow,
The noblest blessings in Man's lot below?
Could One, who wish'd the happiness of All,
With feeling bless'd, about this earthly Ball,
Shut up his bowels from his Fellow-brood?
Wish to deprive them of their destin'd food?
Or strive to damp such Equals' warm desire
To rise in Rank, or Estimation, high'r,
By cultivating those vast pow'rs of Mind
That Heav'n for Truth, and happiness, design'd;
And bar blest Hope's, and Understanding's, door,
Against his Partners, ignorant, and poor?
Wish Pearls amidst the waves might ever dwell,
From every eye shut up, in rugged shell?
Wish Diamonds condemn'd to unwrought Mine,
On human heads, or bosoms, ne'er to shine?
Or buds, denied all nurture, die unblown,
Their virtues, and their beauties, both, unknown?
No! while he bless'd the God who gave him bread,
He begg'd the Poor to fullness might be fed—
And, while he search'd His Book, besought His Name,
That every deathless Soul might share the same:
But when he saw the plenteous board prepar'd,
Tho' hapless Indigence the County shar'd;
Yet, while Hypocrisy the treat display'd,
For impious purposes of mere parade,
Disdainful Conscience every claim refus'd,
That Pomp set up for boast, and Pride abus'd.

How could a heart with holy ardour warm'd;
How could a reasoning head, by Heav'n inform'd,
With ignorant crowds in acclamations join,
Conferring on a Creature dues divine?
With warm approval such weak plaudits pledge
And injure Conscience with such sacrilege?
He saw, instead, with pity, and surprize,
A Mind, by Friends, and Fashion counted wise;
Well read in Books and bless'd Religion's laws,
So greedy grown of puerile applause.
To flightier Minds, that form'd her motley train,
'Twas truly ludicrous to view how vain,
With pageant pomp, she stalk'd three toilsome hours,
Thro' the throng'd covert of her clamorous bow'rs,
To gather nods, and curtsies, as they grew,
While grasping bubbles fawning Flattery blew,
To gratify false taste, for noise and glare,
And feed, Cameleon-like, on frothy air.

CHAPTER 11th.

When all these paroxysms of Pride were o'er,
And Feasts—Routs—Concerts—Readings, rag'd no more,
To pristine state Economy return'd,
Weighing, and measuring all, ate—drunk—or burn'd—
While parsimonious management extends
To scraps—crusts—cinders—coaks—and candles-ends:
As when a raving fever intermits,
And freezing agues follow burning fits;
Or, when the surgey element subsides,

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The lowest ebbs succeed the highest tides;
So, in full space, betwixt these frantic scenes,
Penurious apathy still intervenes.
Small messes, then, domestics must suffice
No more pound foolish, now, but—penny wise.
Prudence appointed, now each moderate meal,
That wicked miscreants might not waste, or steal—
That careless Cooks might dress but just enough,
Each article was told of household stuff—
On counted fingers calculations fram'd,
While males and females, all, were nicely, nam'd;
And when by this uncommon, clever, trick,
This new-discover'd, quaint, Arithmetic;
The names, and numbers, now, precisely known,
Each lot was laid one pound of flesh and bone.
Not to be guttled at one gross repast,
But, that reliques thro' the day might last—
The rumps of poultry—rabbits' heads, and wings,
And pyes—and puddings—superadded things.

Once in a while a Baronet of beef
Gave jaded appetite a small relief,
So small, that, oft, before the whole could dine
The sliver'd Chief expos'd his naked chine.
So seldom, in that place, those Knights appear'd,
The Maids much wonder'd, and the Footmen sneer'd;
And feigning to mistake both face and fame,
They call'd them Strangers, as a stigma'd name.

When mutton—veal—or pork—were somewhat stale,
The total, often, would exceed the tale—
Open'd and shut, in store, each stated hour,
Lest thief should filch, or myrmidon devour—
And thus the fusty fragments run the rounds,
Till only fit for hogs, or famish'd hounds.
Nor musty meat, alone, with every shred
Of mouldy pudding, and of mangl'd bread,
But all the refuse of the higher board,
Was kindly added to the common hoard,
When like corrupted Corpses, quite unfit
To set before her Friends—Wealth—Rank—and Wit.

This task to patient Crispin was assign'd,
That none might be embezzled, none purloin'd—
To lock, and unlock, this important trust,
And keep each corpse from ashes—earth—and dust;
Attentive watching each refection's close,
Lest squeamishness should scorn, or sport expose.

To cut off every criminal abuse,
He balanc'd butter for Cook's kitchen-use;
While, to avoid all waste, and private pique,
Each female had eight ounces once a Week.

Tho' food was chief, 'twas not his only charge;
Fires must be watch'd that none were made too large;
Still ordering out a strict proportion'd prey
To feed all needful fires throughout each day.
Must oft inspect the parlour—kitchen—hall—
And mark when half-burnt coals, and cinders fall;
That Scullions—Cooks—Maids—Footmen—were not slack
To throw all scatter'd coaks, and rubbish, back—
While strict Employer, with example, strove
To fix the practice by full proofs above.

When Winter's cold, keen, persecuting pow'rs
Had stretch'd Night's sombrous reign to sixteen hours,
Whole candles were each Servant's nightly claim,
And prompt compliance, then, incurr'd no blame;
But, when prevailing Suns, with shafts of light,
Kept longer back the shortening shades of Night;
The crabbed reckonings to such fractions rose,
Adjusting tallow to each Evening's close,
That Newton's pow'rs had met most puzzling pinch,
In measuring out each millionth of an inch;
And Martin's mathematic skill must fail
To graduate, and grave, so nice a scale.

New difficulties lay with waxen lights,
Profusely lit on fashionable Nights;
The numerous remnants circumspectly told,
And all in Memory's register enroll'd,
That each devoted shred might duly shine,
And spend each spark before its Owner's shrine;
That Grooms might never glean the scatter'd crop,
And pile the produce in some Chandler's shop.

'Twere curious to recount the witty ways
Art us'd to lengthen out their balmy blaze—
How many modicums together knit,
Whose first-fruits dazzled Fashion, Wealth, and Wit,
Like knotted canes grown long by joint increase,
Some evenings lighted, in one specious piece;
Call'd patent-candles, from their matchless makes,
Both for Inventor's and Consumer's sakes:
And, lest a line in length should e'er be left,
To help a perquisite, or prompt a theft,
Above their sockets half-inch scraps appear'd,
On pedestals, of pins, sublimely rear'd!

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Till deep consumption seiz'd each staggering wick,
Then, dying, drench in tears their death-bed-candlestick!

Could Peasants in their Cells waxlights consume
And thus, at least expence, their Huts illume;
Pride—Pow'r—and Wealth, would then their use condemn,
That Boors and Bond-Slaves might not look like Them—
Yea, supercilious Pomp, in such sad case,
Would soon expel them from each servile place;
Ev'n tainted air from oil, or tallow, breathe,
To stand distinct from blackguard folks beneath:
And, lest such darling lust should be denied,
Still to support the pompous course of Pride,
Would buy the coarsest lights, with double coin,
Rather than let poor Louts, like Fashion shine.

Aristocratic Minds intensely strive
To keep Precedency, and Pow'r, alive.
Will grievous ills, and labours, undergo,
To keep their heads aloft, and others' low.
With Wealth imperious, and with Titles proud,
Continual spurn the pertinacious crowd;
Much like fermenting liquors, ne'er at rest,
Till full Superiority's confest—
Till all those loathsome dregs to bottom drop,
While their aspiring spirits foam at top.
Yet, when these fussy fermentations end,
And incongruities no more contend,
Finding all competition still, or fled,
They soon grow sour—insipid—flat—or dead!

How does each proud, perturbed, bosom swell,
To see some labouring Creature quit his Cell;
And rise by industry, or dint of Parts,
The Man of Science—Genius—Wit—or Arts—
Some Individual well-deserving fame,
Much more than thousands boasting blazon'd Name;
Whose conduct merits more than common praise;
Should such presume to mount ev'n One-horse-Chaise,
Tho' He decline a Chariot, Chaise, or Coach,
They vent their spleen by every vile reproach;
And prove by vengeful pray'r their envious hate,
That some disastrous fall may seal his fate.
They scorn all honour Diligence acquires,
Dreading a deluge of mechanic Squires—
But, tho' their Carriage thus creates alarms,
They pique themselves such Puppies have no Arms;
No boasting motto—coronet—or crest—
Nor tawdry Slaves in motley liveries drest—
Yet fear base Heralds, for the sake of bribes,
Should choose atchievements from their titl'd Tribes;
Then, they, like proud Compeers, might ape court airs,
And raise retinues blotch'd, and badg'd, like Their's!

How would Diogenes with wildness rave,
Did he behold each patch'd and powder'd Slave—
How must Democritus, in flippant fit,
Feel his tough sides with peals of laughter split—
Or Heraclitus weep, were he to view
Such prim Jack-puddings patch'd with every hue!
Their wrists all ruffled—bosoms frill'd all down—
Each like a Courtier, stiff like unlick'd Clown—
His heart must melt to see Man's dire disgrace
Among those Monkeys of the human Race!

'Twould puzzle any plain Plebeian's Nous
To mark the train of Tools throughout the House;
Yet might, without the least pretence to Wit
The actual circumstances often hit,
Conceiving, what is oft the real case,
The Servant fill'd the dup'd Employer's place.

But none in Lavaterian school well-read,
By silk or broad-cloth would be much misled;
For, tho' their impudence, and ignorance, might,
Encourag'd much, usurp their Patron's right;
Such measuring, weighing, Minds, by marks, without,
Would find the rest all forgery throughout—
For those that exercise the mimic Arts,
Without exception, over-act their parts;
And, while their pride puts on a lordly dress,
Expose more palpably their nakedness—
And should they copy the Sign-painter's plan,
And write, o'er all, “This is a Gentleman,”
Their vacant face, where few ideas play,
Affected pomp, and foolish speech would say,
Unmeaning mouth, and cold, cadaverous eye,
'Twas all pretence—a base—low—bare-fac'd Lie!
But such deceptions give no great offence;
They magnify their Master's consequence,
Who prove, by showing such preposterous Elves,
Some human Creature sillier than Themselves—
Some Lady's lap-dog, in their canine herd,
More snarling—snappish—sordid—and absurd!

The larger multitude of motley troops
That Folly gathers, and that Fashion groups;
The matchless Beaux, which Observation meets,

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That perch on Carriages, or stroll the streets;
That stand in lines, or straggle all alone,
To run on errands, or attend on Ton—
All, all display some deep-degrading notes,
On galligaskins, waistcoats, hats, and coats—
For Vanity contrives, by art and trick,
To make some sign on each exterior stick;
Pride still pursuing its illiberal end,
To prove what numbers on its wealth depend—
Not ev'n on sables is the farce forgot,
Black frocks, and jackets, show the shoulder-knot.
Democritus must burst did he stand by,
To mark their dress of each prismatic dye;
With multitudes of mingled hues beside,
Contriv'd by Vanity for pamp'ring Pride.
The strong-contrasted shades, and shapes, of stuffs,
Composing nether-garments, capes, and cuffs—
Like puppets, part of Punchinello race
Bedizen'd oe'r with work, or worsted lace.
Long tassels, dangling down, of many a tinge,
With flaps and butt'n-holes, edg'd with frogs, or fringe,
The miniature atchievements, link'd in teams,
With rough embroidery, brightening all the seams;
And, that no mark of majesty be lost,
The metal-buttons blaze with crests embost;
Discriminating Ranks, in curious shapes,
To make badg'd Brethren look like hordes of Apes.
Still the tame Slaves, in pitiable plight,
Admire those marks, with ideot's low delight;
And when distinguish'd with a Ducal crown,
On Dupes of Lords—Earls—Marquisses—look down!
Deem Boors—Mechanics—Tradesmen, much beneath—
That common Drudges scarce deserve to breathe—
Not feeling liberty enough to know
Such Slaves are still the lowest of the Low!
That Shoe-blacks—Dustmen—Sweeps—yea, Nightmen, free,
Stand higher than they—in undefined degree!
Much high'r than ev'n their mighty Masters stand,
Which bow before the Baals of ev'ry Land!
Who think one monosyllable enough
To licence lies, and sanction silliest stuff;
And that the solemn, sacred, name of King,
Confers all merit on the meanest Thing!
In them, what Dolts in common Men despise,
Is good! and great! and wonderfully wise!
Such ne'er in treacherous estimations own
A Fool, or Villain, ever fill'd a Throne!
Compute the value of a Prince's smiles,
O'er pays all servile skill, and courtly toils;
And put a price on miscreant Monarch's nod
Beyond all favours of a Father-God!

What nouns and adjectives those Pimps support!
Rash, lying language current round a Court!
While, ignorant Herds, to puzzle, and appal,
The Servant, by the name of Sovereign, call,
And each Fool-Country feels a cruel curse,
Which plans, and practices, such vile reverse!
Yet each ought stoop to Law's, and Truth's, controul,
In Him who represents, and rules the Whole.

Which is the Servant, which the Master—say,
The Man who gets or he who gives the pay?
When Farmers', or Mechanics', needs engage
Some worthless Fellows for their fixed wage,
To fill some Offices, themselves appoint,
Do they those Creatures as their Kings anoint?

Do Lords, and Commons, with a certain dow'r,
Invest their Stewards with superior Pow'r,
And, though allotting each prescriptive Law,
Approach those Persons with an holy awe?
Or, when amidst their supple circles met,
Adore, and worship, each appointed Pet,
Profoundly trembling with devoted fear,
And bend and bow, as tho' a God was there?
Would they, for duties, which they might demand,
Kneel humbly at his feet, to kiss his hand;
Submitting, tamely, to each worthless whim,
And feel full nothingness, compar'd with Him?

Such Idols, oft, are works of wiley Knaves,
To serve themselves, and make all subjects Slaves.
Then place their Lama in a Temple, proud,
Far from the eyes, prophane, of common Crowd;
To taste like pleasures both at bed and board,
Which needy Dupes' finances ne'er afford—
Who feel, when favoured with such rapturing sight,
Tumultuous motions of intense delight;
With sounds, and attitudes, like frantic Fools,
Or Tyros, just escap'd from prisoning Schools:
Their mad demeanor seen, and uproar heard,
As tho' some wonderous Deity appear'd.

But they who so deceive those ignorant Elves,
Contrive the plan to profit but Themselves—

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Make their grand Monarch but a Treasury-box,
While they keep all the keys who fram'd the locks;
And with a poor pretence of common good
Force from each Labourer half his livelihood.

Did once the Poor perceive the various tricks
That Despots practice in their politics,
They'd not long study, toil, and starve, so tame,
For tyrant Masters, with so slight a claim.
But, with firm fortitude, and courage warm,
Determine to obtain a full Reform.

If all Men clearly saw the Christian scheme,
Such solar light would dissipate this dream;
They'd mark their Master's speech and plainly see
His love allow'd no difference in degree—
For, when two proud Apostles held debate,
About that blessed Master's future State;
And with a bold ambition, sought to soar
Above their Brethren, of the sacred Corps,
What was His answer? “Gentile nations may
Acknowledge Lords, and suffer tyrant sway,
But, guided still by maxims just and true,
It never can, nor shall, be so with You!”

But 'tis not Ignorance, in the Crowd, alone,
That thrills, or trembles, at a Tyrant's Throne;
Nor is it simply want of larger wealth
That makes the Million stoop to Art, and Stealth,
By tamely yielding up their little store
To make their livings less, their Master's more,
But bands of soldiers, bayonets, and swords,
That strip their bodies bare, and starve their boards.

All tyrant Natures push some private scheme
To climb the pinnacle of Pow'r, supreme;
Or, with perpetual application, plan
Their plots, to come as near it as they can.
Indulge each Vice, or every Virtue feign,
The summit of their selfish views to gain—
Their Protean figures varying every hour,
To hit the humour of some Dupe in pow'r—
Bear each rebuff—and countenance each crime—
Fawn to stark Fools—o'er former Friendships climb—
Draw o'er an envious heart the veil of Love,
And hold the stirrup for each Tool above;
But like true Popes present the scornful toe,
To spurn each prostrate Devotee below.
The calls of Nature—Conscience—Heav'n—disclaim,
To raise their Honour—Fortune—Influence—Fame—
Nor e'er once deviates from this general rule,
The greatest Tyrant is the greatest Tool!

'Mid Scenes of nonsense, flattery, and fuss,
In every shape of social compacts, thus
The groveling little, and dependent Great,
Thro' all departments of both Church, and State;
Thro' Camps, and Cloisters; Palaces, and Plains;
In all Societies, and Ranks, and Reigns,
In Clubs, and Families, from foot to head,
'Mong Clowns, and Scholars; brutish, or well-bred;
With mutual guilt, the wicked, and the weak,
In all they think—and look—and act—and speak—
Idolatry, and Despotism, still tends,
Tow'rds proud Supremacy, from Man's fag-ends.
The Rich and Pow'rful tow'rds the Throne aspire;
Strain hard for ampler Posts, or Honours high'r—
To seize some shooting Stars, or shining Strings;
With noisey Nicknames, retail'd round by Kings;
Or dirty drudgery, long, in Life, endure,
With anxious cares, for some snug Sinecure.
The next, beneath, all rivals in the race,
Squeeze—wriggle—run—to gain superior place—
The same desires endeavouring, thro' the Whole,
To thread the wicket, or to gain the goal.
By cunning scheme—chicane—or apt address,
Hunt filmy bubbles of false blessedness;
Which, when pursu'd, oft burst before they're caught,
Or, grasp'd too eager, vanish into nought.
The last and least of all the cringing Crowd,
As vain—as venal—politic—and proud—
By sordid meanness, or manœuvering, strive
To rise by roguery, or by theft to thrive;
For gold put off base brass, or plated coin
To purchase claims in rising ranks to shine.
All but the Beggar, free from toil and care,
Feeds on what Fools, or Parishes will spare.

The wealthier Class, with canvas all unfurl'd,
Thro' carnal commerce aim to win the World!
Round rocks, and sands, and desperate whirlpools, sail,
To court, and catch, frail Fortune's gusty gale.
Thro' rugged roads, bye-paths, or quagmires trudge,
Grieve not at labour—no hard study grudge—
But care and trouble brave, both night and day,
For higher honours, or superior pay.
Each wing'd, both head and feet, a Mercury flies,
With store of tattle, and large forge for lies.

206

All trying fawning trick, and flattering strain,
Make each proud mansion a foul pagan fane—
With priestly pride round every idol dance,
To gain fresh glory, or frail pow'r advance.

But high Ambition, which would claim a Crown,
Will drudge as hard to keep inferiors down;
And once of pow'r, and privilege, possest,
Will tyrannize, and tread down all the rest.
Combin'd with weakness, in a female form,
Will wink at treachery—at each trifle storm—
But, when a female menial comes in view
With cloak, or bonnet of forbidden hue,
Like lean cameleon, sickens at the sight,
Watching their colour, crimson, blue, or white;
While kind construction, charitably, thinks
No Maid is modest dress'd in pales, or pinks.
Long bows of ribbon—lappets edg'd with lace—
Are certain signs of robbery, or disgrace;
And each low Creature's but a common hack,
Whose head, and shoulders shine in ought but black—
Yet ne'er is known fastidiously nice,
O'er one, who, hearkening to her kind advice,
Will treat her hungry ears with petty tale,
Of each Yoke-fellow, idle—false—or frail—
Thievish, or thoughtless—boisterous, or bold—
Squeamish or queer—sly—slattern—cormorant—scold—
Or tells low tales of Hall, or Kitchen, chat,
May wear white cloak—or any colour'd hat—
May gain more favours—fix her firm regard—
Augmented wages from her first reward—
May seize supreme prerogative, and pow'r—
Then rest on promises of prouder dow'r—
While kept a check on every other Elf,
May boast full-licens'd liberty Herself—
May win male Slaves with wanton air and mien,
And pour low language, impious and obscene.

Thus Dupes, in pow'r, cajoling Dupes in pay,
Dispense ephemeron hopes from day to day;
Who some few sunshine hours may flaunt, and flirt;
Then drop, at eve, and perish in the dirt.
And thus the Great still trample on the small,
While each would wish to grasp, and govern, all—
These branding those, who boast not noble birth,
As foul off-scouring and vile scum, of Earth.
Tho' this, mayhap, some weak, but wealthy, Cit,
Devoid of knowledge—learning—taste—or Wit;
Or buoyant Court-balloon, a hollow mass,
Compos'd of silk, and varnish; gilt, and gas—
Some impious Prelate, or immoral Priest,
Much less, among true Christians, than the least—
Some haughty Statesman, or imperious Peer,
Whom poor Folk ne'er affect, nor wise Folk fear—
Compounds of pride, of insolence, and lust;
Reason's disgrace—Philosophy's disgust—
Kings' titled spawn of Children, sprung by chance—
They manage matters, now, far worse in France—
When manag'd better, Blockheads would not learn,
But to vile vomit Gallias' dogs return.
Few exercise their Common sense, to scan,
By Tory-twilight, the just Rights of Man;
Nor look across the eastern waves, to see,
These Fools now worse enslav'd, which once were free!
Still feodal darkness dims Men's mental eyes,
While purblind Prejudice scarce half descries,
Thro' Habits' medium, what to all belongs,
While domineering Despots rule the Throngs.

So long low Broods have Tyrant-Riders borne,
They note not Courtier's curb, nor Patriot's scorn.
Let legal Grooms pull tight each saddle-girt,
Nor seem to see disgrace, nor grutch at hurt.
Fresh saddles fitted neither kick, nor flinch,
Nor know their bits and bridles rein and pinch.
So long have suffer'd galling whip, and spur,
They now ask no deliverance—no demur;
But wales, and wounds, still silently sustain,
Like Trees, or Plants, insensible to pain;
But more like Brutes, in every other sense,
They seem to feel, yet suffer no offence—
Like Asses, crouch beneath each crushing load—
Still trudge, and toil, thro' Life's rough, wearying, road;
And while the weight's laid on by Lords and Knights,
They boast, like Bigots, all's their Sovereign's rights;
And when their King confirms each monstrous tax,
The burden's light, and all restraints but lax—
While, tho' they feel the snaffle—rowel—thong—
Think Ministers, like Monarchs, can't do wrong.
By Rulers, base, in blinds and muzzles led,
With Rehoboams' blustering at their head;
To beggary submits each abject Fool,
Halter'd, and harrass'd, like the Horse or Mule—
In mean mechanic occupations plods,
Or tamely cultivates the teeming clods.

207

In drudgery spend their talents, time, and strength,
With daily labour eighteen hours in length;
Or ply, with plastic skill and dexterous parts,
Their heavy lot of Life, in various Arts;
All clad in filth, and fed with coarsest food,
Still toiling on to breed a starving Brood;
While greedy Potentates, and Fools, in pow'r,
The fruits of half their industry devour.

Would steward Kings, and Counsellors, be just,
And manage, Christian-like, their Country's trust—
As Deputies maintain an upright plan,
True representatives of God and Man!
Would they the body politic controul,
As grosser Organs by the godlike Soul—
With Christian Justice—charity—and zeal,
Watch—guard—and guide, for good, the Commonweal—
With honest warrants, witness'd by the heart,
Compel each Member to perform its part—
Urge every Limb to help in social Life,
Confining fraud, and cruelty, and strife—
Let true Religion find their first regard,
And moral Worth experience prompt reward—
All Virtue's Patrons—Vice's full reverse—
Their Country's Conservators—not its curse—
Bless'd in themselves—endeavouring all to bless—
Still widening spheres of human happiness,
Then might they merit permanence with pow'r,
Enlarg'd authority, with ampler dow'r—
Find every Individual's firm defence,
Good Men's caresses—wise Men's confidence.
But should Supremacy, wrapt up in Self,
Grasp at all pow'r—accumulate all pelf—
O'er Slavery smile—on patriot firmness frown—
And deem all Rights concenter'd in a Crown—
Conceive all Traytors, or inveterate Foes,
Who e'er o'er-stretch'd Prerogative oppose;
Still looking forward for more selfish ends,
Relax all Justice to indulge its Friends;
Who, in return still buttress up the Throne,
Knowing its interest involves their own.
Should it, profuse, proud lordly titles pour,
Not in refreshing drops, but drowning show'r;
That cringing Peers may kingly Pow'r support,
And swell Corruption's currents round a Court;
Till a full deluge, running o'er the Realms,
All natural Rights, and Liberties, o'erwhelms.
Bestows no pow'r, or Wealth, on pious Worth,
But each licentious Sovereign's bastard Birth;
Its highest Honours—most productive Posts,
In preference to its own created Hosts;
Confirming, to their spurious Pedigree,
Each guilty Favour, and each groveling Fee;
Squeez'd from the sweat of Artist, or of Hind,
Yea all the honest Members of Mankind.
For flattery should confer each proud employ
On cringing Sycophant, or Culprit, sly;
Those Creatures taught at Court to smile and smirk,
And ready to adopt all dirty work—
Tools form'd to bow, or bully; grin, or growl;
Leap o'er God's Laws, nor dread to damn the Soul.
Should forge new Offices, split each old Place,
To multiply the parasitic Race.
Should waste a Nation's wealth in abject bribes;
Corrupting Towns—suborning country Tribes,
To huckster all their legislative Rights,
To Treacherous Burgesses, and bribing Knights;
Whose perjur'd hearts, in hope of paltrey prey,
Would send Truth—Justice—Freedom—far away—
Leave Wisdom—Virtue—Learning, in the lurch,
To starve in poorest pastures of the Church,
That every Lubber, of a lordly Breed,
From well-corn'd mangers, and full racks may feed;
And all the sacred constitution wrench,
To seat Time-servers on the Bishop's bench.
Preferring most abominable Brutes,
To strengthen bloody deeds, and base disputes,
Involving millions in a mass of debt
By usurpation, or mad, mulish pet;
Fond of such frolics, with sinister view,
To lay, on Slaves, vast loads of levies, new—
To keep their passions, with their purses, down,
Lest they should offer force, or dare to frown.
Enlarging bags of gold, by borrowed loan,
To gratify fresh Friends, and prop the Throne—
Who, to secure their interest in the State,
Condemn their Fellow-men to cruel fate—
Doom'd to the plough, the anvil, mill, or mine,
That Fops in ease, and affluence, may shine.
And should the Monarch, 'mid the slaughtering Trade,
Which Demons' malice can no more degrade;
Still those transactions of a Monarch's mind,
Should show most perfect patterns to Mankind.

208

Should Kings, in that most curst of Trades, betray,
And rob the Warrior of his blood-earn'd pay—
Should they, with all the cant of courtly Art,
Perform the Tyrant's and the Traytor's part—
Each martial and maritime office fill
With Striplings, void of courage—strength—and skill—
Mere drivelling Tyros—totally denied
All warlike qualities, but, pomp and pride—
Whose pert hauteur, and insolence, would tread
On Veteran's vaunted scars, and hoary head;
Thus damping ardour in each hostile host,
The hopes of Honour, and the pride of Post—
Snatch praise and profit from true martial Men;
And make their wounds all smart and bleed agen.
With Penury's pence, in wanton spendings, sport,
To please the listless Loiterers round his Court,
On Armies gathering mean, inglorious, wreaths,
On bloodless Commons, Hills, and blasted Heaths,
Where Drones and Dastards with high courage glow,
To meet, in mimic fight, with friendly Foe—
Or Beaux, or Bantlings, on the watery way
With eagerness engage in fearless fray;
While playful pulses beat, in bosoms brave,
Encountering phantoms on the foamy wave.
Such Potentates are found but Nature's Fools;
Arch Wits' amusements, and Court-Intrigue's Tools;
For fall'n Man's faults and reformation rais'd,
By Christians, pitied—none but Pandars prais'd!

In Hist'ry's records, thro' the Countries round,
Such frail unkingly characters are found;
And, in this Realm should such mean Monarch rise,
Whose Mind was pleas'd with paltry tricks and toys;
While such transactions, and expensive sights,
Were all the Court's desires, and King's delights,
Then would such Sovereign look for Things like these,
Such Courtiers cringe, for Luxury and Ease,
Whose morbid Minds suspect no lack of health,
While wasting time, and squandering Country's wealth—
With wild Insanity's tumultuous change,
From place to place, thro' mad Amusements range—
With hungry eyes, and ears, insatiate, seek,
Such trifles as would tinge ev'n Children's cheek.
While Courts, with stupid rapture, hear, and gaze,
O'er loud explosions, and expensive blaze;
The Christian's pain'd, while Candour weighs their worth,
Their baneful tendency, and demon birth;
Reason unrav'lling all the complex clues
Of martial discipline, and mock reviews.
Sees, retrospective, and prospective harms,
Arise from butchering Bands, with hostile Arms;
And fears, lest Lust and Pride should find a plea
For venting vengeance on the troubled Sea;
While scenes of slaughtering strife with woe, and pain,
Convulse and ravage groaning Earth again.

How can the Soul suppress a painful thought,
Ev'n o'er sham fires, and conflicts, idly fought—
O'er cruel Troops and Tyrants in command,
Who spread Hell's ensigns o'er both Sea and Land!
The Sons of Pillage, and the Sons of Pride,
By Fiends, prophane, and Profligates, employ'd!
All meditating Minds must feel offence,
Contemplating both Vice, and vast expence!
The pompous trappings—steeds—and rich array—
The costly arms—accoutrements—and pay
The wicked spendings, and the wanton spoil,
Drawn from tax'd Slaves, in Trade, and Slaves of Toil!

What clogging Taxes are sustain'd by Trade
To fill the Park, and furnish the Parade!
What vast privations Farmers undergo,
For such proud finery, such superfluous show!
What countless comforts Artizans resign
To make the echoing shores of Hampshire shine!
What levies from Mechanics' labours rise,
For sport, in each Spring-morning's exercise!
More aggravated rates poor Hinds must yield,
To spend in Farce, when Princes take the Field;
And numerous fruits of toil, in fumes must fly
To charm weak Chief with foolish feu-de-joye!
But famish'd Families must labour Years,
Midst wants and troubles, weariness and tears,
To yield proud Potentate one Day's delight,
Mere sound—smoke—fire—in mimic naval fight!!

What is the bent of all these hostile Bands,
Incumbering this and all the neighb'ring Lands?
Which all on industry of others thrive,
And bring no wax, nor honey to the hive;
But by their dress, their forage, and their fees,
Destroy much produce of the labouring Bees.
These, thro' their time, continue constant Slaves,
Till sunk, untimely, to their sordid graves;
While those that rule them, Candour must confess,

209

To arbitrary Laws are Slaves no less—
Slaves, by firm oaths, for waste, and murder, made,
Whose crimson coverings indicate their trade—
Fattening Earth's sinful climes with sanguine flood,
Bred up in riot—rapine—spoil—and blood!

Such Tools, 'tis true, are, now, a needful Ill,
While Crime, and Folly, every Country fill;
But what advantage to the Poor proceeds
Whose industry accoutres—clothes—and feeds?
They need no Warriors for their Wealth's defence;
The Poor, to Property, have no pretence—
Their only property, their only wealth,
Is time and sense, and, sometimes, strength and health.
And these must all be spent for proud support,
Of cruel Guardians, and a graceless Court;
And when, with toil, sense, health, or strength decay,
Their time, to misery soon becomes a prey!
They no protection for their Freedom ask;
That's but an empty Name—a constant Task—
Their only Liberty, thought—care—and toil—
To slave with tools, or till an alien soil—
And what's the hope to which endeavours tend?
To study—labour—starve—till Life's full end!
While that Life lasts on tiresome terms, like these,
They find no Friend—respect—nor hope—nor ease—
No object worthy of fond Love, or Fear,
Whose poor protection must be bought so dear—
Nought but their pure, imperishable Soul,
Far, far beyond all Tyranny's controul!
Their Lives Earth's Lords will anxiously protect,
Self-love would suffer by their gross neglect.
They want those Arts the worthy Poor possess,
To furnish fire, with dwellings, food, and dress.
Deep conduits that receive their toil and care,
With all the pence Necessity can spare—
Small tubes returning mites, for Misery's meed,
Whence Want's frail, filter'd, dribbling drops proceed.
But still, whilst Life, so miserably, lasts,
Wrapt in coarse rags, and fed on scant repasts,
Subjects of scorn, and objects of disgust,
Whose labours pamper their proud Pomp, and Lust!
And while for them these Negroes work, and weep,
Their Folly digs out channels, wide and deep,
In which Wealth pours, spontaneous, ample streams,
To feed all Fancy craves, or Fashion schemes—
Or, thro' capacious pipes gross Riches glide,
To feast, and fatten, Appetites and Pride!

But chief, in vapours, Penury drizzles down,
To thrifty Courtiers, and still thirsty Crown;
Whose Treasury, like the Sea, receives all rills
Which drip from woods, or ooze from fields and hills—
Which courtly Cunning's distillation drains
From reeking vallies, and from weeping plains;
From reservoirs, in mines, which skill can draw
With forcing-pumps, and engines, fram'd by Law—
Or what State-chemistry extracts, in drops,
From furnaces and forges; sheds and shops—
From sweat of toiling Man, or labouring Beast,
The mighty mass grows, constantly increas'd;
From every melting eye, and moisten'd hand,
Till every source seems dry, thro' all the Land—
But scarce a single particle returns,
To feed those Fountains, or to fill those Urns—
To make more fresh and fair each rude retreat,
Each Plain more pleasant, each Recess more sweet;
All only pouring from its plenteous stores,
A showery deluge on dependent shores;
Or arrogantly swells Ambition's tides,
Flooding rank pastures, on proud river-sides—
Replenishing each pouch before too rich,
And mounting Pride to more mischievous pitch.

Yet operative Heav'n, in ways unknown,
Supports the Cottage, and controuls the Throne—
Empow'rs the Sun's evaporating beams
To lick the surface of such Lakes and Streams,
Transporting treasure thro' the ambient air,
That Need the nurturing drops, and dews, may share;
To distant tracts of barren regions borne,
To mounds that wither, and to wilds that mourn!
Still to refresh Man's feeble, fainting Train,
Then thro' Taxations rills return again.

What feeling Mortal but must flame or freeze,
While marking mad enormities like these!
Must feel his sympathetic bosom bleed,
Noting the pomp of Wealth, and press of Need!
While, fix'd in thought, on such afflicting themes,
He views mass'd Man's extravagant extremes!
Beholds what's wrong but cannot make it right,
While passions wrestle, and affections fight!
How Toil, in tatters, o'er poor scraps repines,
While Indolence in fat, and frippery shines;

210

Till Want, which all proud Luxury supplies,
In wretchedness despairs—and droops—and dies!

Not thus, in secular concerns, alone,
Despotic Pow'r subjects their Souls to groan,
But makes Religion, which, by Heav'n, was meant
A fount of joy, a cause of Discontent!
Meant to restore lost Paradise agen,
And bring down banish'd Peace to dwell with Men;
While they, by Grace, to Happiness might grow,
With angel tempers, in this Life, below!
Some precious tastes, and glorious glimpses, prove,
Like what Saints fully find in Bliss above!

But, trembling still, the Saints on Earth rejoice,
Midst fears, and doubts, in this fair Paradise;
For still among fair trees foul Serpents hide,
To venom all with perfidy and pride,
And cunningly infuse thro' mortal clods,
Hell's old deception—“Ye shall be as Gods!”
Still Heav'n's dread Sovereignty, and Pow'r, defy,
And give God's Truths the colour of a Lie.
Still in the Church's haunts such reptiles hid,
The blessed fruits of Knowledge now forbid;
And Life's fair Tree, but little hope affords,
While strongly guarded still with flaming Swords.
Still Pow'r despotic, round the Garden, draws
A magic Circle, of levitic Laws;
That not a Soul can o'er the boundary climb,
But Men of Might—high Hope—or Faith, sublime.
With Might enough, inflam'd with selfish zeal
To challenge Heav'n by most profane appeal—
Hope, bright enough to dissipate the gloom
That hangs o'er hours of Death, and Judgment's doom—
And Faith sufficient to invoke, and vow,
What Common-sense, and Conscience, ne'er allow.
But Kings and Convocations pounce for prey,
Tho' neither Priest, nor Potentate, obey—
Or humbler Hypocrites, who bow their knees,
And basely kiss the Book, to claim the Fees.

Such is the form each Candidate confines,
Plain Laics, Priests, or Prelates, styl'd Divines.
Such are the pliant passports which admit
To every various office, Fool, or Wit—
Within the Church the Scholar, or the Clown;
And, in the State confirm the regal Crown,
With all the manifold, and motley Hosts,
That occupy the countless legal Posts,
Which form the carnal rabble round a Court,
And kingly Consequence, and Pow'r, support;
Not for the love of those that Scepters sway,
But various Benefits their Crowns convey.
By sacramental tests must all be bound,
The Minister that's mitred—King that's crown'd—
All, all, alike, most solemnly must swear,
Whate'er their principles, or practice, are.
Alike the Prince—the Placeman—and the Priest—
The wise—the weak—the lordliest, and the least;
Both idol Courts, and Christians that believe,
Must swear the same, and sacraments receive.
Doubt is the sad unpardonable Sin
That keeps poor pious Souls from entering in.
Each Child of Adam who feels fear, or doubt,
Must kill Conviction, or still stay without.
The squeamish Clown whose ticklish Conscience loaths
To swallow dread accommodating Oaths;
And christian Courtier, if such Being be,
Can get no priestly, or profane, Degree—
Or, while one conscientious scruple's held,
Must, blushingly, give up, or pine, expell'd—
With loaves and fishes never can be cramm'd,
But be for follies driven, and doubtings damn'd—
All deeply sentenc'd to eternal death,
Who stammer out, or lisp their Shibboleth.
The Church enjoining rules for word and thought,
Clear Conscience ne'er attests, nor Christ e'er taught.
But Law and Gospel both set quite aside,
To check prelatic pow'r—and kingly pride.
That Clowns, like Bigots, might a Bible read,
Not find a Pope in each preposterous Creed;
To strengthen and confirm Christ's faithful Code,
That Ignorance never might mistake the Road;
But superstition, prejudic'd, and blind,
Long floundering on might drop all doubts behind,
And, not devoid of Grace, and Reason's ray,
With dog-and-bell might safely feel its Way.

Thus, tho' the Church Rome's papal Chief disclaims,
'Tis but a bare dispute about mere Names—
Plain Popery still, tho' shown with novel shape,
With linen or prunella, silk or crape—
Whether in lawn, snow-white, or sable, sleeves,
It dogmatizes still, and still deceives.
Whether in mitred guise, or ragged gown,
All strongly lies intrench'd behind the Crown—

211

Tho' not a triple Crown 'tis much the same,
All earth and Heav'n still come within its claim,
As vast its views—as dangerous its design,
To drag in all things, human, and divine.
Whether in Surplice clad, or hooded Cowl,
Some Mystery's muffled up to trick the Soul.
And whether Pope, despotic, reigns, alone,
Bellowing his thunders from belligerent Throne.
With legions, arm'd, governs, like pagan God,
Innumerous Monks, and Friars, beneath his Nod
With troops of Jesuits, who, continual, wait,
In each trickt Country to betray the State—
By each curs'd stratagem, and cunning Art,
To act each traiterous Politician's part—
Or, arbitrary, kingly Tyrant reigns,
And, with proud Myrmidons, like pow'r maintains,
While full ten thousand Priests ply unfair Trade,
To soothe, or supple—puzzle, or persuade;
All cordially combin'd, with state intrigue,
To shut Schismatics out from holy League;
Decreeing, jointly, all they judge most fit,
To make ten millions to their Sense submit.
All self-selected from the supple throng,
Become sole arbiters of right and wrong—
Truth resting on their Sense, and learned skill,
Infallibility, continuing, still.

Hath Heav'n, exclusively, such Sense consign'd
To Men in Schools and Colleges confin'd?
Is heavenly Wisdom never well discern'd,
By Guides, but those, in Greek and Latin learn'd?
Or can the heart produce no perfect fruits
But where the head abounds in Hebrew roots?
Can classic Sophs, alone, completely spy
Where Revelation's difficulties lie,
And with clear argument, and close remark,
Convince the doubtful, and illume the dark?
Are all religious mysteries rightly known,
In learned Universities alone;
Each Understanding still increas'd in strength
As erudite research extends its length?
Are Scholars all from contradictions free,
When each attains his Bachelor's degree?
Doth Reason, or doth Judgment, never trip,
When reach'd the altitude of Mastership?
Or is the Truth with Error never mix'd,
When Doctors' dignity is fully fix'd?
All difficult, disputed, Doctrines clear,
When once arriv'd at such superior sphere?
Are heads made perfect, hearts become divine
When their grave Synods give such hallow'd sign?
Can all true holiness, and honour, claim,
When talismanic Symbol ekes the Name?
Is spiritual discernment always found,
Join'd with each cabalistic sign, and sound;
Or do they ne'er possess that purer light
Till hoisted up to full prelatic height?
When thus exalted to superior Place;
And all proclaim—Your Lordship—or—Your Grace—
Do those in these high'st Order set aside
Low Lusts—mean Passions—Vanity—and Pride?
Then become humble—simple—meek—and mild—
And wear their honours like a little Child?
Like true Apostles do they daily plod,
To raise the glory of their Saviour God?
Now, so exalted to prelatic Stall,
Forego each honour and still give Him all?
Ne'er let impure desire possess their breast
Or wish for something by a friend possest?
Can they impart, from their superior post,
Converting Grace? or give the Holy Ghost?
From their transforming touch, and solemn charge,
Make Deacons feel their faculties enlarge;
Or note illumination much increas'd,
When each becomes a consecrated Priest?
Can they a portion of pure Spirit spare,
When mounted up as Chiefs in Moses' chair?
Can they by laying on their holy Hand
Make Weakness wise, or Dullness understand?
With elevated eye and look devout,
Draw help from Heav'n to turn the strong Man out?
Their topic and their speech so well contrive
Their quick'ning heart shall make dead Men alive;
And emphasis and accent so arrange,
That Nature, fall'n, shall find a christian change?

Still Crispin meant not Learning to impugn,
Nor judg'd true Science, or pure Arts, jejune—
Ne'er wish'd instinctive Parts, or innate Pride,
Should set the learned Languages aside—
He only deem'd no Knowledge so acquir'd,
Should spurn at purer Truths by Heav'n inspir'd.
Such dull Advantages should ne'er dispense
With genuine Genius, or true native Sense.

212

Or Earth's poor Education e'er explode
The nobler gifts of Grace, by Heav'n bestow'd.
He never strove by cunning, or chicane,
To state one useful Ordination vain—
Subordination, or blest Order, spurn'd,
Or wish'd one virtuous Statute overturn'd—
Ne'er hop'd wild Chaos would return agen,
Yet loath'd those Laws that injur'd meaner Men—
Despis'd not needful Policy, nor Pow'r,
But hated all which dared the Poor devour—
Would, gladly, grievous Tyranny controul
Abominating Despots—Heart and Soul;
But most in Priests o'er-bearing Pride abhorr'd,
Pretending to be like their lowly Lord.

The first Disciples our Redeemer chose
In pure pursuits resembled none of those.
They were not call'd from courtly troops of State,
Or polish'd circles of the Rich and Great.
They, School—and College—learning ne'er could boast,
Or occupation of superior Post.
The simple Minds of that selected few,
No soul-sophisticating Science knew;
Nor proudly aim'd to shew their shining Parts
In false Philosophy, or useless Arts.
By hypocritic tricks ne'er strove to rise,
Or mark'd out moral turnpikes, to the Skies.
With metaphysic wings ne'er meant their flight
Should soar beyond the reach of human sight.
On logic-ladders never aim'd to climb
Beyond the bounds of simple and sublime;
Or strove to fathom Truths immense, profound,
By syllogistic steps from round to round;
But with their Master's maxims quite content,
And treading in His track where'er He went.
Ne'er blinded Reason, or bewilder'd Sense,
With Rhetoric's flow'rs, or philt'ring Eloquence;
Nor taught by technic terms, or frantic fits,
Scribes—Lawyers—Pharisees—and Hypocrites.
In temporal Architecture quite unskill'd,
No earthly mansions ever meant to build;
Or raise Ambition's battlements and tow'rs,
With clay and slime, by puny mortal pow'rs,
To subjugate all Nature—Death—and Hell,
And take, by storm, Heav'n's holy Citadel.
They were content, in calm inferior sphere,
With any human habitations here—
Content with Wealth of Christ's atoning Worth,
And boundless comforts from their second Birth—
Thus, while they travell'd on their temporal road,
Still daily conning Heav'n's eternal Code—
Instructing learn'd and unlearn'd; Age and Youth,
From Inspiration's apophthegms of Truth;
Ascending still, tow'rds blissful Seats, above,
On scaffolds rais'd by Faith, and Hope, and Love!

Tho' all the antient apostolic Bands,
Like modern Prelates laid on special Hands;
And o'er each head, like them pronounc'd their Pray'rs,
They knew no efficacy could be Their's—
Ne'er tried to make their heavenly Mission known
By delegating Pow'r to Priests alone,
But all Believers in each faithful Host
Receiv'd the influence of the Holy Ghost.
No speech is now inspir'd, nor wonderous works,
Are e'er conferr'd, on crafty, selfish, Clerks—
No cloven tongues of fire; nay scarce a spark
Appears, to lead their pupils thro' the dark—
No Holy Ghost's in modern Bishop's gift,
Tho' they their Friends to fattening Livings lift—
No living coal from Altars can convey,
To touch their lips, and teach to preach and pray.
No understanding on their Minds bestow,
Or make their Souls with sacred ardour glow—
Their hearts with Faith, or Hope, or Love, supply,
With genuine Happiness, or heavenly Joy.
Ne'er make one Head celestial Knowledge learn,
And gracious Truth, from gross Mistake discern;
To guide their Flocks in faithful Gospel Path,
And save their Spirits from perpetual Wrath—
No! only He who form'd the Heav'ns, and Earth,
And gave Man first, can give him second, Birth!
That Spirit, who, o'er Chaos mov'd, at first,
And adamantine bars of Darkness burst,
Alone can dissipate dark Nature's Night,
And say to human Souls—“Let there be Light.”
He, only, who with fulgence fill'd the Skies
Can make the Sun of Righteousness arise.
Who fashion'd Matter to Man's moving Form,
And will'd the circulating juices warm,
Alone can renovating pow'r impart
And fill with Light, and Love, the Head, and Heart.
Thus, as the Father fill'd up Nature's plan
The operative Spirit acts on Man—

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On every faculty of Mind and Soul,
All subject to His infinite controul—
Moving, at first, like weak, or mighty, wind,
O'er the wild Chaos of his gloomy Mind;
Then forms a feeble Light, by whose faint ray,
His Soul perceives a glimmering dawn of Day.
Then, in his Heart the Heav'n from Earth divides,
And acts on Passion's fluctuating tides;
While on the face of all the naked ground,
The first-fruits of his faith, and Hope, are found.
Next greater Lights his kindling Soul illume,
And scatter more remains of graceless gloom;
When, with alternate change of gracious gleams,
Now Day's bright blaze prevails; now Night's pale beams;
Or, tho' no clouds o'er-cast his Hemisphere,
Sometimes but twinkling Stars faint sparks appear:
The Sunshine's like the Saviour's glorious Grace—
The Moon, like Reason, fills the second Place—
The Stars, like Teachers, for instruction given,
Or Truth's thick-scatter'd thro' the Book of Heav'n.
There Man, with pow'rful Faculties, may trace
The great Creator's Providence and Grace.
The noblest proofs of boundless Love and Pow'r,
And types of Life's ascent, and setting hour;
Or use, as Pilots, to point out the Way
To far more blest delights, and brighter Day!

When these resplendent Lights had thus display'd
The shapes and hues of all in Nature made;
The Fish were form'd, depicting Appetites,
And Fowls that soar aloft like Fancy's flights;
Beasts—useful Cattle—Insects—creeping Things—
Which tread the soil, or soar on wavering wings—
That beautify this fair terrestial Ball,
Or, o'er its face, offensive, creep, or crawl;
Resemblances of Man, when form'd at first,
And since his Faculties are fall'n, and curs'd—
When with his pow'rs complete, by God's decree,
Made last, the Sovereign both of Land and Sea.
Made in the image of His blessed Son,
When infant Time, at first, his rounds begun;
Till Hell's dire Murd'rer, and base Liar, beguil'd,
Man's menial Pow'rs, and Body's beauty spoil'd—
His Body doom'd to Pain, and Death at length
While Sin destroy'd his intellectual Strength.
This, deep deprav'd by Vanity and Lust;
That doom'd to perish in its parent Dust—
Yet Man, so ruin'd now, is offer'd, still,
Fresh Pow'rs to execute Heav'n's holy Will—
May be, by humbly asking, still supplied
With heavenly helps, to govern, and to guide;
Not suffering worldly Lust—Pride—Passion—Whim—
Or Sin, or Satan, still to govern him.
Each sinful Habit, daily, to subdue,
By Motives—Pow'rs—and Inclinations, new.
Bless'd benefits! which every Soul may share,
All free, for all, as Water—Light, or Air;
Except perverse with Pride, or dead thro' Doubt,
Men close each avenue to keep them out.
A Spirit, pure! each open'd breast may breathe,
Infus'd, like airy Atmosphere beneath.
A boundless Light! for each Believer free,
Whose intellectual eye's inclin'd to see.
A Fountain, ever full! where, all, that will,
May wash all foulness off, or drink their fill.
Not like the broken Cisterns Man has made,
Where all who seek pure beverage, sigh, betray'd—
Not like the Lamps which Man must feed and trim,
That burn but dull, and soon expire, like Him—
Or filthy fumes of His corrupted breath,
Drench'd with Disease, and fill'd with forms of Death;
But like the breezes breath'd in Eden's bow'rs,
Suffus'd with sweets from spicey fruits, and flow'rs,
With pure Afflatus, offer'd praying Souls,
Which Lust—Pride—Passion—Sickness—Death—controuls.
Like splendour flowing from the new-born Sun,
That o'er those unpolluted regions run;
Which, whether human eye-lids wake, or close,
With heav'nly warmth, and glorious radiance, glows—
Which drew no show'ry cloud from hill, or dell,
Before Earth's rebel Occupiers fell;
But only made a daily mist arise,
To cool the ground, yet not obscure the skies:
Or that fair Fount, with current clear and strong,
That thro' the Garden roll'd its stream along.
And, issuing thence, diffused its fourfold tide,
The Earth to chear and comfort, but divide—
A pure Afflatus ever free for those,
Who ne'er, with wilful crime their nostrils close—
A Light which Heav'n no human Soul denies,
Who shut not, wilfully, their mental eyes—
A Fountain ever flowing o'er its brink,

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Where none but Demons are forbid to drink;
None but whose impious obstinacy turns
To drink foul draughts from Nature's earthly Urns.
An heavenly Fount! where each faint Soul, that will,
May surely find, and sweetly drink its fill—
Which feels how feebly Earth's Man's strength maintain,
While striving, still, the Gospel Door to gain,
And dreading death, from Heav'n's impending wrath,
Should he mistake the left for right-hand Path,
Which leads to Salem's pure and peaceful streams,
Man's noblest beverage! Angels' happiest themes!

This Way, tho' narrow, and the entrance strait,
No threatening Cherub, now, obstructs the Gate.
No papal Cerberus barks beside the Door,
To fawn on Plenty, but forbid the Poor.
Here Heav'n's, and Earth's, Proprietor unlocks
To every simple, humble, Soul, that knocks;
And persevering Patience, entering in,
May wash all Guilt away, and purge all Sin.
No ignorant Wretch need fear to find the Road,
For Heav'n unclasps its everlasting Code—
Unfolds the Maps which perfect Wisdom plann'd,
With full instructions Fools may understand—
To teach all Travellers the wisest Way,
Lest purblind Pilots lead their steps astray—
While here, and there, along the pathway sides,
Kind Providence has plac'd some gracious Guides,
To stir the slumbering—stimulate the slack—
Refresh the faint—and bring the wandering back;
That none the slightly trodden track may miss,
Which leads thro' bounteous Grace to glorious Bliss!
But, chief, God's Spirit prompts Man's inward part
To exercise the Head, and urge the Heart,
Whose holy operations first begin
By waking Conscience to a sense of Sin.
Then prompts Repentance—breaks the bosom-stone,
And makes the Saviour of lost Sinners known,
With secret influence, like a still, small, voice,
To charm base Rebels to a nobler Choice—
To shun the portal and the turnpike wide—
To wipe off Prejudice—and banish Pride—
To rule each Passion—rein in Appetite—
And make the Law of God their great delight.
To quit the carnal World's wild, thoughtless, throng,
And let calm Conscience tell what's right and wrong;
Instructed by the holy Book of Heav'n,
And Reason, freed from every earthly leav'n—
Thus bless'd with better theologic Rules,
Than impious Colleges, and pliant Schools.

Could modern Prelates, like Apostles, pray,
And this pure Spirit with a touch convey—
The Souls of Priests with sanctity t'inspire,
That scarce would move a modern Clerk's desire;
Unless, like Simon Magus, each, by stealth,
Could sell it, retail, to enlarge his wealth;
And, with new Impositions never miss
Communicating more fat Benefice—
At each Gamaliel's feet then troops would fall,
And vouch vile schemes like unconverted Saul.
Be Pharisees and Persecutors both,
While swallowing, unconcern'd, each sacred Oath—
With close attention watching Chieftain's nod,
Nor care one fig for Conscience—or, for God!

Alas! I fear that lucre-loving Tribe,
Should High-priests tempt them with a bounteous bribe,
Would Judas join, in covetous accord,
And sell for larger sum their sovereign Lord—
Or should some evident advantage plead
Compliance with a Pope, and popish Creed;
With every superstitious trick comply
And eagerly subscribe each Bigot's lie—
To suck their Parents' paps like Tools return,
And better Christians persecute, and burn.

Who, that reflects can doubt such base desires
To cram foul dungeons—kindle Smithfield's fires
For filthy pelf would perpetrate such facts,
Who hears their sermons, and who sees their acts?
Who fears not for their Cellars—Larders—Stores—
Who every day's proceedings well explores—
Feels not a dread for Servants—Daughters—Wives—
Who knows their fleshly Lusts, and frantic Lives—
And marks how devious views, in Age, and Youth,
Fly from all paths of Purity and Truth.

Do Priests, in public Lectures Christ declare
The Son of God—the only good and fair?
One with the Father; and like Him in all
True Christians infinite Perfections call?
With all their talents, and Acquirements, strive
To keep His Honour, with His Name, alive?
Do they, with all their strength, attempt to show,
What brought Him down to Rebel Men, below;
From boundless Bliss, and hymning Hosts, above,

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To Men, who mock'd His Pow'r, and spurn'd His Love?
Why He among such desperate Miscreants dwelt,
And felt what never Man, or Angel, felt,
Such sorrow—Persecution—Scorn—and Pain,
As Men and Angels, all, could ne'er sustain;
By Life, and Death, to purchase—woo—and win,
Lost Lives, from Satan—and fall'n Souls from Sin!

Do they enforce His precepts—urge advice?
Show Him the peerless Pearl of countless price?
The heavenly Treasure, hid in earthly field,
And tell their Hearers where, and why, conceal'd?
Why Wisemen part with pomps, and pleasures, here,
For that which Worlds can never buy too dear?
Their temporal profits readily resign,
To purchase that inestimable Mine?
Their Pride relinquish, and their Lusts deny,
That pure, invaluable Pearl to buy?
Adopt the simple treat, and humble trim,
And live a Life of usefulness like Him?
Controul each Passion—curb each Appetite—
Love Him, and Heaven's Law, with pure delight?
Ne'er spurn His Government, or Spirit grieve;
But prove, by practice, that their hearts believe?

Alas! how oft in thought, and word, and deed,
They make both Character and Conscience bleed;
Till Character declines, no more to rise,
And persecuted Conscience pines, and dies!
Vile Ingrates! how with crimes of harshest hue
They pierce the blessed Saviour thro' and thro'!
Not only take new nails, like Roman Bands,
And fix Him to the Cross by feet and hands;
Insult Him, with their taunts, and mockery, there,
But from the spiteful Caitiff catch the spear,
And, tho' past human pow'r, and human pain,
Try every trick to gore His heart again!
His, who first gave their wonderous being birth,
And made them habitants of beauteous Earth!
Furnish'd their temporal frames with mental pow'r
And fed and fenc'd them from their earliest hour;
Who, when their Sins had sunk all hopes of bliss
Came down from Heav'n to such sad World as this!
And, to redeem them from eternal death,
With agonizing cries resign'd His breath,
To purchase pardon for each foul offence,
And ceaseless happiness when summon'd hence!
His providence appointing each his place,
To tell the tidings of His gospel grace;
And, built on that foundation, find, on high,
An habitation, fill'd with Love and Joy!

He, by His Angels, first proclaim'd His plan
“Glory to God, on Earth, and Peace to Man!”
He offers heavenly Light to shine within,
And show the foul deformity of Sin!
The dreadful danger of each cursed crime
Against a God and Saviour so sublime!
The gross ingratitude! Rebellion base!
Against such Mercy—Goodness—Love—and Grace!
He sends the Spirit forth to turn their hearts;
To purge and purify their mental parts;
Impress'd on every Soul that simply asks,
To strengthen and instruct for holy tasks—
To make the reasoning close, the judgment clear,
And fix effects on all that humbly hear;
While heav'nly Love constrains the kindling Soul,
To form resolves for Pride's, and Lust's, controul.

Men might as well harangue rude herds and flocks,
Birds—insects—reptiles—fish—woods—hardest rocks;
Impetuous whirlwinds, boisterous billowy waves,
Or bleach'd, disjointed, bones disgorg'd from graves,
As wake Affection or confine the Will,
By clearest logic and rhetoric skill,
Except that Spirit gives His gracious aid,
To make the Conscience feel—the Heart afraid—
To make Man's pow'rs—pursuits—and objects—new,
And teach him to distinguish false from true.
For, as the viewless Wind, unbidden, blows,
And none knows whence it comes, or, whither, goes;
So is each Spirit of that Spirit born,
While every Soul beside is left forlorn,
Thro' Earth's great howling Wilderness to grope,
Without one brightening beam of heavenly Hope,
To help his footsteps on from post to post,
And land him safe on Canaan's happy coast!

Let Deists, after many a mark'd retreat,
By conflict fresh provoke a fresh defeat—
Cast their base Coin, worn out, in novel mould,
And boast their Brass transmuted into Gold—
Suppose their fanciful opinions right,
And they, alone, possess'd of genuine sight—
Call the bless'd Christian scheme both vague and vain,
The busy dream of a distemper'd brain;
But theirs much more than visionary view,

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And each strong argument and statement true,
Imagine Man, by Nature's feeble beams
Can read, and construe Heav'n's most secret schemes.
Think Reason's filmy sight can fully scan
The whole of Heav'n's deep, complicated, plan.
Banish the Book of God from all their shelves,
And proudly excommunicate Themselves.

Can reasoning Infidels' proud systems prove
How human Passions inbred Spirits move;
Each rocky heart, by threaten'd wrath, to break,
And show Men's weaken'd Souls each mad mistake?
Show them by Love, and Faith, and Life refin'd
The errors resting in each murkey Mind?
Earth's cheating charms, that led their steps astray,
Thro' barren wilds from Heav'n's more blissful Way?
Show how the World, that wicked mass of Man,
So wanders devious from a perfect plan.
Why such Disorder, and sad Misery, reign,
Thro' all Creation, o'er Earth's wide Domain?
How, in all human hearts each bane begins
Those gulphs of peace! those filthy sinks of sins!

They, from themselves, might arguments deduce,
Of Reason's blindness, and its rude abuse—
How it can only claim a feeble spark,
Far insufficient for a Scene so dark.
How Pain and Age, produce still darker Night,
Till Death, at last, puts out the glimm'ring light—
How each pulsation towards that period tends,
Nor can She prove but there Existence ends—
Tho' of that Fate afraid—of Life so fond—
Her optics cannot peep one point beyond.
Search all the records of each learned Clime,
Left by Contingency, and spared by Time;
All facts and reasonings, of each classic Age,
By specious Poet—Orator—or Sage—
And draw fair inference from these specious Men,
To prove dead Mortals must revive agen.
Then let not Reason try to supersede
Her Donor's doctrines—her kind Master's Creed;
But, clad in armour of celestial Truth,
Encounter still such sentiments uncouth;
All proud opinions Nature would prefer
To Truths, and Facts, confirm'd by Heav'n, and Her.
With weapons drawn from Deity's own Word,
To vanquish rivals, vicious, or absurd.
On that strong Basis let firm Logic stand,
And wield those weapons with a dext'rous hand;
Skill'd how to push, to parry every blow,
From Friends deceitful, and each desperate Foe.

To prove dependent truths, let Reason plod,
Not clearly stated in the Word of God.
Take up Her Heav'n-lit Lamp, nor, hopeless, pry
In Earth's deep caverns, dark, with heedful eye,
And trace materials, with that Word's accord,
To deck the living Temple of Her Lord.
Full many a truth her feeble torch may find,
To benefit herself, and bless Mankind;
In close recesses of the human Soul
For practical instruction, or controul;
All useful, when reduce'd to proper plan,
To ease the Ills, or check the Crimes, of Man.
But first Her lessons learn in Christian school,
To prove God wise, but every Man a Fool—
His heavenly Kingdom, and His Christ, to seek,
With simple Spirit, humble, mild, and meek;
And when well-taught His Righteousness to know,
Then endless blessings from His Love will flow.
Attack His Foes in every hostile field,
Till all are vanquish'd, or, repentant, yield.
Prove, from that Book, He left pure Bliss above,
And came to Earth full-fraught with heav'nly Love.
Prove His blest plan, was, Rebels to redeem,
From Satan—Sin—and Misery's worst extreme!
How all His Words, and Actions, show'd the Friend!
How He accomplish'd Heav'n's mysterious End!
How both His Body, and His Soul, sublime,
Became a sacrifice for every Crime,
That Man by motive, word, or act, had wrought,
When he, repentant, such atonement sought—
For how can impious Blasphemy, and Pride,
Produce one proof He bled for ought beside?
Could God, the Father, such a deed have done
As doom to cruel Death a sinless Son?
Could He appoint Him baleful place below,
Exposed to ignominy—pain—and woe?
Could He, in Justice, on His awful Throne,
Condemn Him for transgressions, not His own?
Could He so deep have suffer'd Sinners' dread
Such sanguine sweat, or tears of sorrow, shed!
Or on a Cross complain'd, and bled, and died,
But for some Others' Passions, Lusts, and Pride!
Nor, as mere Man, could He one Merit claim

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For sharpest punishments of pain and shame!
Impartial Justice ne'er could punish One
Whom Vice ne'er sham'd, but every Virtue shone;
Or, as a Creature, could one Creature win
A recompence from Heav'n, tho' free from Sin;
Much less presume with Deity to plead
Full pardon for Another's damning Deed;
Nor dare to think His dying Blood had bought
Remission for one sinful Word or Thought!
Yet He the crimes of all the World discards,
And claims, for faithful Friends, Heav'n's high Rewards!
Not cold Rewards, like what Earth's Kings bestow,
Wealth—Honours—Titles—Toys—but blanks, below!
That just inflate the heart with fickle Joy,
Which Chance oft checks, and Death will soon destroy!
Depending on weak Man's capricious Will,
Whose whims oft frustrate—Heav'n oft yields to Ill—
But Honours heap'd upon the least, and low'st,
All, all, attended by the heavenly Host!
Titles, to graceless Nobles never given,
Each chosen Child of God, and Heir of Heav'n!
Riches in Huts, thron'd Monarchs rarely find,
Faith—Hope—and Love—rich Treasures of the Mind!
Imparted Pow'r which conquers Pride, and Lust;
And plants Content instead, and rapturous Trust!
All bliss bestow'd from God's unbounded store
By Heav'n's rich Prince, on earth so mean and poor!
Nor these, alone, but, lest Mankind should miss
Earth's present Pleasures, and Heav'n's future Bliss,
The gracious Saviour gives a sacred Guide,
Who may o'er actions, words, and thoughts, preside—
And move them by His Wisdom, Love, and Might,
To prove what's wrong, and prosecute what's right—
To please their Father and redeeming Friend
Thro' Life's wild walk to Time's remotest End;
And, loos'd from temporal prisons, dull and dim,
Sit crown'd, like Kings, on Thrones, in Heav'n, with Him!!

On Themes like these be Reason's pow'rs employ'd
To fill, from Revelation, Nature's void;
For by Her native strength She ne'er could reach
The wond'rous truths which Heav'n's Historians teach.
Her pow'rs of thought produce no novel store,
But work on what the Senses brought before;
Or testimonial truths, affording facts
On which Her syllogistic arguing acts.
'Twere, else, like cloudy fabrics built on Air,
Which, to the eyes of Fancy seem so fair;
But while Her beams, about them, fondly play,
The visionary structures melt away—
Or Archimedes' wonderful machine,
So plain by prompt Imagination seen;
Which, wanting firm foundation where to stand,
Was found as weak as crafty Conjurer's wand:
Thus when Her systems reach no solid rest,
They sink absurd, nor stand one trying test—
Bring forth but frail Opinion's puny fry,
That just appear—behold the light—and die;
Or if their lives endure a longer date,
With equals fight and meet their mutual fate.

She never knew the frames of mortal Men
Deserted by the Spirit, rise agen;
Nor e'er, from innate notions could unfold
How Bodies, broke, resume their former mould—
How short-liv'd Man may heavenly shape assume,
For ever blest with Angels' youthful bloom.
This baffled every philosophic Sage
That Athens boasted in her brightest Age—
Confounded all those intellectual trades,
That bred such strife in Academic shades—
All Areopagus' puzzled Masters sought,
When dauntless Paul that novel doctrine taught:
With all that's hid by Nature's cloudy skreen,
In Revelation's light's distinctly seen,

Our modern Deists Miracles decry
Because they never met their mortal eye;
And from like prejudice, and inbred pride,
Attempt to set Christ's Doctrines all aside;
Tho' pious Witnesses, with ardour, plead,
To fix each Truth, and testify each Deed—
Attesting each blest Fact, with final breath,
And sign'd and seal'd the Doctrines by their Death.

Ev'n modern Priests those Benefits abuse,
And Doctrines, founded on those Facts, refuse;
Labouring by joyless, but ingenious, Arts
To hold the Whole while disbelieving Parts.

Here, Reason, prompt to exercise her pow'r,
Should show Herself Man's Heav'n-descended dow'r—
Should still demonstrate Her true heav'nly light,
Tho' ever-varying, like the Moon's, by Night—
Still prove by this faint, reflex, borrow'd ray,
All's drawn from Heav'n's o'erflowing Fount of Day—

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Should ne'er deny that Fount, nor blurr those Beams,
Pronouncing both but Dupes, or Madmen's, dreams—
By body dense, and dark, the Sun exclude,
Then boast Herself with full-orb'd light endued;
Nor strive to shut Heav'n's written radiance out,
By showing she could better shine without.
No—rather let Her ask for heavenly aid,
To shine thro' shrowded Nature's darken'd shade.
Let her, to Infidels, her task requir'd,
Prove Heav'n's blest book was penn'd from Books inspir'd.
By reasonings, bold, testimonies built,
Of Scribes, devoid of guile, and freed from guilt—
While, like the Sun, its light shines, clearly shown,
To Christians' eyes, by brilliance, all its own!

They, in those narratives of Truth, may trace
The birth of Time, with Man's once upright Race!
Mark how the Spirit, pure, by boundless Might,
Form'd embryo Earth, and spoke forth pristine Light!
The firmament of Air, o'er all to flow,
Dividing floods, above, from floods below!
Scoop'd cavern'd beds to form the watery bounds,
And o'er the waves rais'd high Earth's mighty mounds;
While grass and herbage sprang to glad the Soil,
Shrubs, trees, flow'rs, fruits, diffus'd one general smile!
How His command call'd up the splendid Sun;
The Moon, opaque, round honour'd Earth to run;
And Stars which travel o'er the azure plain,
Light's fount encircling with their wandering train!
Next wond'rous Whales, with all the finny fry,
And feather'd Fowls, that skim the liquid Sky;
Then Cattle, Beasts, and Reptiles, brought to birth,
With all those living Things that throng the Earth:
Last, godlike Man! the matchless Lord of all!
To reign, and rule this huge terraqueous Ball.

There learn how He, pure Paragon! was plac'd
In Scenes, by God, with every Beauty grac'd,
And every Good, with Will completely free
To feeed on every Herb, and fruitful Tree;
One, only one, withheld; a sovereign test
Of due obedience Heav'n's high behest.
But—sad to tell! alas! that Will complied
With strong enticement of his beauteous Bride,
First tempted by the Fiend let loose from Hell,
Who, thro' their Creature-frailty weakly fell;
Both forfeiting that pure, inspiring breath,
By Heav'n's unerring Justice doom'd to Death—
By that one Act involv'd the human Race,
In Pain and Sickness, Sorrow, and Disgrace.
Hence open'd all the mischiefs Man has borne,
In after-times, by countless miseries torn;
The sins, and griefs, and guilt, his Soul enslave,
And sink his burden'd Body to the Grave!

But stop not here, nor let gross Reason grope,
And stumble on, without one beam of hope,
But let Her pray, and read with patient eyes,
The striking truths each after-page supplies.
There will She soon perceive a promis'd Seed
Would rise, to rectify the damning Deed;
Nor only privileges, lost, restore,
But offering bliss more bounteous than before!

Here is a task, ye Priests! well worth your toil,
To cultivate with care this sacred Soil.
Nor plough, with shallow share, the turf, alone,
Or ask a Crop from heavenly seed, when sown,
Just to supply a simple, slight, repast
Of mental nutriment, not long to last;
But harrow well, and keep off birds of prey—
Base briars, thorns, and thistles, weed away—
Securing crops, for purely mental meat,
To yield the Spirit an eternal treat!
Thus while the gracious Crop securely grows,
And, ere your harvest-day Death's sickle close;
Dig deeply in its pure prolific Mine,
For Gold and Gems to make your Spirit shine;
While seeking goodly Pearls in every page,
To ornament your Youth, and grace your Age—
Seek Faith, to fence, on Earth, against each storm,
And ardent Hope to keep the Spirit warm;
With every other Grace combin'd in Love,
Pure Source of Joy below, and perfect bliss above!

Ye Christian Champions, suffer not Heav'n's Foes,
To mock the maxims whence all Wisdom flows—
Watch well the outworks of Christ's commonweal,
And combat boldly with heroic zeal!
Contend like those that love their Master's Cause,
Embrace His interest, and obey His laws.
His faithful Followers, and His truths protect,
Nor let them suffer from your foul neglect.
Ye fight, with warmth, for offerings, and for tythe,
Produc'd by spade, and plough, and hook, and scythe;
Why not for him with equal fervour burn,
And make your living Tools a like return?

219

Ye speak with boldness of that blessed Book,
But seldom o'er its sacred folios look.
You make its interests, and importance, known,
Just with a selfish view to serve your own.
The themes that occupy its inner space,
Your Lives, and lack of diligence, disgrace;
For every Soul that looks may clearly see
How practice and profession disagree—
You stickle well for orthodox decrees,
To fence your Livings, and enlarge your Fees;
Yet care but little for your labouring Friends,
Whether to Heav'n, or Hell, their practice tends.
To 'scape Your censure, and Heav'n's awful scourge,
On Dupes all diligence in business urge,
That You may largely of their labour share,
Their pure economy, and patient care—
May, in your store-house grain and fruitage stow,
Who neither plant, or prune, or plough, or sow—
Mark every crop, but neither mow nor reap—
Tythe herds and flocks, but never shear one sheep—
From gardens, and from orchards, claim some Stock,
And share the fleece, but badly feed the Flock.
With trifling labour feeble preachments frame
From others, long enroll'd in lists of fame;
Like Joseph's coat of every hue compos'd,
With patchwork parts, and scarce a seam well-clos'd.
You seldom exercise you mental strength,
To form fresh lectures fifteen minutes length,
And when they're shap'd, the superficial parts,
Inform no heads, nor op'rate on Men's hearts.
You ne'er, with ardour, Christ's deep doctrine search,
To fix your Faith, and edify the Church;
But cold, and careless, read the sacred Lore,
Like Tyros gabbling daily Lessons o'er.
Ne'er strive and study deep, to understand
That holy Charter of the heavenly Land.
Ne'er diligently seek to comprehend
The full donations of a dying Friend—
To trace what Things He wills to all His Heirs,
And whether those bequests are Your's and Their's—
Not suffering Fools, from prejudice, false pride,
Or petulance, to set that Will aside;
Nor suffer secret Foes from peevish Spite,
To mock their Minds, and rob them of their right.

But num'rous modern Preachers, sad to tell!
Against those Deeds, and Documents, rebel.
O'er all the interesting items leap,
Yet still propose conditions none can keep.
Still some uncharitable inference draw,
Against suppos'd oppugners of the Law;
Haranguing, loud, with harsh, unmeaning, heat
As tho' themselves kept all the Code complete:
Opposing impiously, those Doctrines' course,
Which give the moral Maxims fullest force.

Let such, as Mystics, true Professors flout,
And, proudly, try to put their Lamps all out—
Light their trimm'd link at Sinai's awful flames,
And then, from Pulpits, with preposterous aims,
Hold forth their lurid, feeble, farthing light,
To show, mid gospel sunshine, grossest Night;
Or, bring forth Ignes fatui from the Press,
To lead Believers deep in false distress.
Make smokey vapours, dark, and dense, arise,
To keep Christ's glorious gleams from faithless eyes,
Call simple comments—“Methodism—and Cant!”
“Fanatic stuff!”—“Enthusiastic rant!”
Decry the subject of a second Birth,
With cold contempt—or dull, indecent mirth.
How different from the Jewish Chief, who tried
To quell his passions, and subdue his pride;
Not the Messiah's arguments to spurn,
But humbly heard His Truths, and strove to learn.
Not urging questions just to harrass thought,
Or spread sly snares that Ignorance might be caught;
Like hypocritic Scribes and Pharisees,
To gratify their spite, and High-priests please;
But like young Children longing still to hear,
Nor judg'd such Science could be bought too dear.
With Him gross ignorance was a proper plea;
And want of light Heav'n's glorious Light to see.
Not like the Priesthood of these present times,
Which deem true Christian Doctrines damning Crimes.
Too self-sufficient to enquire, and pray,
Or seek the Saviour to point out their way.
Too proud before their Maker to attend,
And ask His help, as Father—Saviour—Friend
But call His humblest Followers arrant Fools,
Designing Knaves, or Superstition's Tools.
Call superadded Light a dark pretence—
A lack of Learning—or a loss of Sense—
Mere fancied fire, or melancholic phlegm,
And dream all Wisdom lives, alone, in Them!

220

If those be Fancy's frolics, they're combin'd
With all that nerves, and magnifies, the Mind!
Which, by their influence, labour to restrain
Whatever's vicious—frivolous—or vain!
Whose operative pow'rs, with strength, controul
Each base and wandering bias of the Soul!
Pride, Lust, and impious Passion, strive to quell—
Each folly, fault, and foible's pow'rs repel
Each snare Satanic, and all earthly leav'n,
All that allures to Hell, and leads from Heav'n!
The World's attractions weaken, or destroy,
And give new gravitation tow'rds the Sky!
As water smitten by the sunny beam,
With new direction quits its native stream;
No longer to its earthly centre tends,
But, drawn by fresh affinities, ascends;
Reflecting, clearer, Truth's ethereal rays,
While soaring nearer Heav'n's resplendent blaze—
Or, like the fragments of attracted steel,
Which, near the magnet, new affections feel,
And, from a sluggish state of sleep, profound,
To meet their new-belov'd, enamour'd, bound:
So when the Soul perceives its lost estate,
Enfeebled pow'rs, and fast-approaching fate;
New light imparted points out new alarms,
From countless crimes, and anger'd Heav'n in arms!
A God, offended, its all-pow'rful Foe,
With belching flames, and beckoning Fiends, below!
Till blest Immanuel's merits opening, prove
His boundless Mercy, and His endless Love!
The Will to rescue, and His wish to save,
From reigning Sin, and from the rigorous Grave,
From Lust, and Pride, and Passions' constant strife,
Redeem from Death, and give unending Life!
Then trims its native plumes, and fluttering, tries,
With gifted strength, and energy, to rise,
Enraptur'd! to attain that sacred Site,
Where Love, Grace, Glory, furnish full delight!
Meantime, tho' troubles dwell with mortal Dust,
Which swells with Pride, or leans aside with Lust;
Yet still urg'd upwards by impelling Grace,
It points with trembling, tow'rds its polar place;
And, when it touches Earth it hates the stain,
Aspiring, eagerly, tow'rds Heav'n again:
The Spirit still presenting to its view,
Some pleasing prospect, or bright object, new—
Some fresh attraction—some extatic joy
Which draws from dust, and tears each sensual tie—
Affection calling from its false career,
Still sharpening spurs, and goads, for gracious Fear;
Or twisting golden chain, or silken rope,
That fix the anchor, firm, of christian Hope—
Emotions feel that make the bosom thrill,
And Motives which o'ermatch the wayward Will,
While such Sensations fill the fervent breast,
As language ne'er display'd, or lips exprest,
Nor fancy fram'd; yet such glad motions grow,
Till scarce one lagging thought is left below.

Among the Few that such Experience find,
Which warms the Heart, and meliorates the Mind,
Will any wish to quench that brilliant Light
Which brings all-perfect Beauty, thus, to sight?
E'er labour to extinguish grateful Fire,
Which kindles rapturous hope, and pure desire?
That Spirit vex—put out—or, force to part,
Whose pow'r exalts, and purifies the Heart?
Which, in a World of wants, and woes, like this,
Bestows rich tastes of beatific Bliss?
That such pure blessings true Believers share,
Let all their humble, honest, hearts declare.

If such be dark Deceptions, those, deceiv'd,
Wish all their transports tasted—boasts believ'd!
If 'tis Possession, all the Souls possest,
Experience pleasures Nature ne'er caress'd!
Feel more delights from such rich Whims arise,
Than all blind Worldlings judge substantial Joys!
More than the pulse of short-liv'd Lusts, impure,
In grovelling Letcher, or prone Epicure!
More bliss than Misers', when their eyes behold,
And hearts adore, their dazzling Gods of gold!
More than rapt nerves of Vanity, and Pride,
Or bold Ambition's, with no wish denied!
An humble Christian Clown enjoys, each hour,
More than proud Prince in all his Pomp and Pow'r.
Believing Artist, destitute of bread,
More than blind Atheist at full tables fed—
A pious Pauper, stripped to nakedness,
Than graceless Deist deckt with gaudiest dress—
In Hospitals, the Faithful void of Health,
Than Prodigals, in Halls, while squandering Wealth—
Believing Debtors, starv'd, in Dungeons bound,
Than Rakes, on Thrones, with Wine and Wantons round.

221

If all be Fancy's freaks, or mad mistake,
Such dreaming Maniacs never wish to wake;
But still to rave, nor seek, or ask, a cure,
While Life's lov'd dream, and frantic fits, endure.
No Soul would wish fancied Scenes to fly
That ever view'd such visionary Joy—
No Mind would seek such Malady to heal
Who ever felt what such fond Madmen feel—
Who call that pleasure which the World calls pain,
And beg, sincerely, still to be insane!

Sure such Demoniacs need not be deplor'd,
Who only feel a fear to be restor'd—
And none need pity Prisoners fancied pains,
Who're charm'd with music in the rattling chains—
Who watch, with diligence, lest word, or thought,
Bring that imaginary bliss to nought—
Who constant strive against all carnal schemes,
Lest Earth's delirium should destroy those dreams—
Deem false Professors most deluded Elves,
Yea, all, besides, more moonstruck than Themselves.
Thro' all the cheated Multitude, the chief
Think those derang'd by Pride and Disbelief.

Earth's Maniacs may, by Fancy's pow'rful spells,
Make Palaces of prisoning walls and cells—
Turn squalid tatters into royal Robe—
With sedgey Sceptre govern all the Globe—
Rule millions with imaginary Law,
By edicts issued from their Thrones of straw—
Transform to regal Crown fantastic wreath
And deem their frantic Brethren far beneath—
But Heav'n's presuming Lunatics aspire
To more exalted State, and Honours high'r!
Ne'er satisfied with sublunary Things,
That appertain to temporal Courts, and Kings!
But hope, and trust, to share an endless Reign,
Secure from sorrow, sickness—care—and pain—
Adorn'd with bright, unfading Diadem,
Reserv'd in Heav'n for Them—and, only Them!
In robes of Christ's clean Righteousness array'd,
That never can decay, nor foul, nor fade—
With Life—and Love—and Bliss—beyond all bound—
By Angel Hosts proclaim'd, as Kings, and crown'd;
While at His feet they throw all Honours down,
Whose Grace gives both the Kingdom and the Crown!

Scoff not, ye Kings! tho' subject Slaves surmise,
Or boast, of Crowns reserv'd, above the Skies;
That Want should hold such Honours full in view,
And hope to mount, perhaps, much high'r than You!
Scoff not, ye Princes! should poor Clowns presume
To deck their Heads with more than princely Plume;
Nor frown, contemptuous, with proud look elate,
Should abject Penury hope superior State!
By pacts, and covenants, to You unknown,
Each Christian Beggar claims a brighter Throne!
By Acts, and Deeds, of Potentate supreme,
Man's only Hope, and Angels' happiest Theme!
Whose Name—His Will and Testament records,
Eternal King of Kings, and Lord of Lords!
A Lord, not titled a few fleeting Years,
Among a motley Troop of temporal Peers;
Or one whose Honours can be e'er increas'd,
From country Curate, to a proud High-priest—
Perhaps be summoned in a single Hour,
From all his Honours—Riches—Pomp—and Pow'r—
But independent—whose Prerogatives
Nor Time extinguishes—nor Greater gives!
A King, not reigning by deputed Sway,
Which Multitudes may give or take away;
Or Monarch ruling by mere right of Birth,
Uncertain time, o'er some small tract of Earth;
But matchless Majesty, which rules, and reigns,
With endless Life, o'er infinite Domains!
With Pow'r to fix, and Goodness to fulfil,
His gracious Covenant! His godly Will!
The Record not in Archives close confin'd,
But offer'd to the eyes of all Mankind!
Not understood by Lords, or Kings, alone,
Or Gods that occupy the Papal Throne;
But such a simple, pure, and perfect, Deed,
That Faith's wayfaring Men may run and read;
Yet, still, the plain interpretation's kept
From each vain Hebrew, and Greek Adept,
While Christian Tyros clearly understand,
In true translations thro' each thinking Land;
Who heav'nly Wit and Knowledge never learn'd,
Yet plain to each repentant Soul concern'd—
All humble Supplicants, contrite and meek,
Still taught the meaning, and most promptly speak;
Not mutual Covenant, by Monarchs, sworn,
So soon by Interest—Pride—or Passion—torn.
Not such convenient, necessary, Act,
Where selfish Pow'r confirms the solemn Pact;

222

Nor false, capricious, arbitrary, Deed,
Which, when the Sovereigns break the Subjects bleed;
But which the sole Contractor's Life-blood seals,
Nor Time—Caprice—nor Death—the Deed repeals.
A Deed of heavenly Love! firm—full—and free—
And sanction'd by the Oath of Deity!
A Will, not made to heighten Monarch's meed,
But chiefly meant to chear Man's humble Breed—
Not to endow the Great with grander Dow'r—
Not to give Pride more Pomp, or Might more Pow'r—
Not for the Noble whose fond boast is Birth—
Not for the Wealthy who engross the Earth—
Not for the Learn'd, of paltry Knowledge proud—
But simple Souls, collected from the Crowd—
The Weak, so rated by Self-wisdom's Race;
And what vain Boasters name the Mean, and Base—
But call'd by Him, on whom all Pow'r depends,
By fondest Names of Brethren—Sisters—Friends;
And tenderer still, if tenderer can be known,
His Bride, belov'd! His very Flesh and Bone!

Wealth! wonder not their pious Hearts aspire
To call the lov'd Testator Lord—and Sire!
Whose kind selection every claim secures,
More than hereditary rights like Your's!
They know their Bodies are, like Your's—but Dust,
Yet Death, You dread, ne'er takes away Their Trust,
But borne on wing sublime, by Faith, They aim,
Far to surpass Your Fortune, and Your Fame!
Hope still endeavouring to substantiate Joys,
Which, with dull Ways and Means, your Minds despise;
While holy Love of Heav'n, and gracious Gifts,
The faithful Spirit, thro' their influence, lifts
Above the Evils of this nether Sphere,
And Toys that fetter Your Affections here!
Above the changes of this churlish Clime;
The haze of Habits, and the mists of Time—
Fancy's dim fog, and Prejudice's cloud—
Which, from Your mental sight the Saviour shrowd—
Refracting mediums, interpos'd by Sense,
With darkling envelopes of Providence—
All palpitations—pains—and wants—and woes—
That kingly pride, and priestly claims, impose,

Ye mighty Chiefs! who rule each hostile Host,
Who dauntless Courage, bloody Conflicts, boast;
Look not askance, and toss each haughty head
O'er humble Souls in simple Hamlets bred;
Who ne'er the pulse of proud Ambition feel
To bear War's standard, and Strife's brandish'd steel!
To climb the mountain, or to stem the flood,
And reap rich harvests, fed from Brethren's blood!
Christians are Warriors—may be Chieftains too,
And undertake more dread Campaigns than You!
No carnal Chief e'er felt so strong a call,
Or shew'd such painful scars as Christian Paul!
Far more than You each Subaltern sustains,
Of watchings—labours—fastings—fears—and pains—
And all must learn more strict than martial Laws,
Who fight for Heav'n, and Christ's most glorious Cause!
All who beneath Immanuel's banner fight,
Need more than worldly Warrior's utmost Might—
Much harder discipline each undergoes,
Who strives with stronger—subtler—fiercer—Foes!
For not alone must each obedience yield
To Man's inspection—fight in public field—
But every moment meets Omniscient's view,
Who marks each thought, and looks each motive through.
Not only swears to honour sovereign sway
But gets no furlough, for a single day—
Still, daily, train'd to learn the use of Arms,
In drills, alert, or open War's alarms—
Must, every moment, wield their weapons, keen,
Against a Host of Enemies, unseen;
Each more malicious—politic—and strong—
Than all You Chiefs, with Xerxes' hostile Throng!
Nor only taught to walk with upright Air,
And keep, completely, flesh and clothing fair;
But watch, with constant care, their inward parts,
To keep foul spots, and wrinkles, from their hearts;
Lest treason and rebellion work within
By base desires producing acts of sin—
Still toiling hard to gain some higher ground,
Against a wicked World, in Arms, around;
Striving by strength, by artifice, or skill,
Their Faith to conquer, or their Hope to kill—
To ridicule their Love—their Prospect spurn—
Or, elbowing, hustling, each, at every turn.
By smiles, or frowns; by flattery, or disgrace,
To push by Pow'r, or tempt them from their place—
While inward weakness prompts them to comply,
Or, from their Posts, like faithless Cowards, fly,
But, tho' oft wounded—sometimes sorely beat;
They ne'er must seek, nor meditate, retreat!

223

No hospital must rest their weary head,
Skreen Lives from danger, or frail Souls from dread;
But still must combat, while retaining breath,
In Youth—in Age—in Sickness—Pain—and Death!

Where then is these poor Warriors' rich reward,
Who, thus, have fought so long, and far'd so hard!
Is it prompt payment, or the hopes of pay,
That stimulates their Spirits day by day?
To help their Labour, and allure from Sloth,
Each Soul's supplied with blessings from them both.
Tho' low, like Rank-and-file, they're simply fed,
With Nature's beverage, and with humblest bread;
Yet not with these, alone—they often fare
On what the Saints, in Heav'n, with Angels, share.
Food issued from their high Commander's hoard,
Exhaustless! to supply their humble board—
Fit only to refresh pure mental Taste;
Enough for nourishment, but none to waste—
With richer relish than what-e'er's enjoy'd,
By Luxury, and Lust, by Pomp and Pride!
Not to be bought of Kings, like Pow'r, with Gold,
But offer'd, free, from Christ, an hundred-fold
For every Pleasure—Passion—Wile, or Whim,
Lust—Vanity—or Gain—giv'n up for Him?
But, chief, blest promises for future Time—
And fairer prospects in a happier Clime—
All gracious Gifts! for ever full, and free!
From General Jesus; God true Guarantee!

This is, in part, the patient Christian's Meed,
Bestow'd by God—proclaim'd in gospel Creed—
Indited by His Spirit, bless'd, above,
And brought below, by Christ, from realms of Love;
Which claims each Christian's Faith, with fullest scope,
Confirming, in his heart, each fruitful Hope!
Its perfect sense no Soul interprets right,
But those that see by that same Spirit's light—
And, when instructed in their Saviour's Will,
With all their Force each labours to fulfil.
'Tis not attainable by natural Sense,
Or e'er transmitted by bare Eloquence—
Nor can mere Learning lasting Pow'r impart,
To teach and turn one unregenerate heart—
Yet this is frequent found in meanest Mind,
With neither Knowledge, Wit, or Sense, refin'd;
But blest with mild Humility, to seek
Those matchless Favours Heav'n affords the Meek.
Enough of Knowledge certainly to see
The emptiness of Earth's poor Pageantry—
Wit to discern whence every blessing springs,
And Sense to labour for those better Things.

CHAPTER 12th.

Ye learned Levites! view not those with scorn
Not bless'd with Letters, or to Livings born;
Should they presume, with simple skill, to scan
God's ministry of Peace, propos'd to Man.
Should they attempt to construe Christ's Decrees,
Explain His Will, and claim as Legatees.
Boast not Yourselves sole Advocates between,
Alone to teach what heavenly Mysteries mean.
May not such Souls approach His Mercy-seat,
And thro' the mighty Mediator, treat?
Will not the pray'rs of Penury reach His Ears,
As well as Priests, ev'n consecrated Peers?
Will He shut up His Presence-chamber door,
With cold indifference, to exclude the Poor;
While You, with learn'd, and wise, addresses, win
Impartial Purity to let You in?
Hath He inform'd You all His Favours flow,
Alone, on Learning—Pow'r—Pomp—Riches?—No!
His Gospel, and pure Spirit, unconfin'd,
Are offer'd free, alike, for all Mankind;
And that blest Gospel clearly hath declar'd,
The better blessing's for the Poor prepar'd.

224

Not all reserv'd for learned Priests, alone,
Prelates, or Popes who fill the Stall, or Throne—
Nor for proud Commoners—or Peers—or Kings,
Has Christ appointed all these precious Things.
From such how little heavenly Light proceeds,
Illuminating motives, words, or deeds!
How little warmth to bring forth Wisdom's fruits,
More than in Boors—or Cannibals—or Brutes!
Their Light, fierce flashes, from thick darkness dealt!
Flashes, to fright; and darkness, deeply felt!
Fruits that would flush a Christian's cheeks with shame!
Yea, stop their tongues from offering most a Name!
Produced by graceless Clans miscall'd the Great,
Who spoil this World, and spurn the heavenly State!
As much among the priest-appointed Priests,
Who burden, flog, and fleece, Mankind like Beasts;
And, in return for all their ample pay,
Sit down to eat and drink—then rise to play—
Studying, much more, increase of Tythes, and Stocks,
Than how to edify their ignorant Flocks.

They, once a Week, their cold Assemblies call,
To hear how Clarks can bray, and they can bawl;
Retailing pray'rs, and scraps of scriptural store,
Like close-caged Pies, or Parrots, hobbled o'er;
Displaying Pinions, gay,—or sable Gown,
In Church, and Chapel, thro' the loitering Town.

With dull delay, when Worshippers approach,
By tardy footsteps, creeping Chaise, or Coach—
With cold indifference call'd, assume their Seats,
There to participate their Sunday's Treats,
In gentle slumbers, while the Reader's drone
Lulls them to rest, with many a melting tone,
Till Organ-pipes impel to stretch their throats,
And grunt, or squall, or scream, their scrannel notes,
To measur'd words, if possible, much worse,
Hopkins' and Sternhold's dismal, doggrel, Verse;
Devoid of tuneful cadence—rule—or rhyme—
Oft out of tune, and always out of time—
By which the ear is balk'd—the heart beguil'd—
And David's heavenly Poems doubly spoil'd.

What can Man's natural indolence excite,
But obvious hopes of interest, or delight?
And whence can profit, or delight, proceed,
While hearing Snufflers roar, and Slovens read?
Or, what keep watchful Auditors awake
But blundering slips, and, frequent, foul mistake.

If blest with Knowledge, Taste, in Sound, or Sense,
Such Mind, spontaneously, must feel offence;
While individual Ignorance gapes, and stares,
As Clarks spoil Psalms, and Coxcombs lisp the Pray'rs.

If serious, Heav'n-instructed, Souls attend,
Who fear their Father—love their Saviour—Friend—
How are they shock'd, while shameless Droll recites,
With Driveller's drawling accent, sacred Rites—
But most, when Fop, with emphasis absurd,
Mars Heav'n's blest meaning, gabbling o'er God's Word.
His breast must feel contempt, and pity, both,
To hear such Wretch, who, once, with solemn Oath,
Appear'd by Prelate's Fiat, first approv'd
Swearing the Holy Ghost his Mind had mov'd
To take the sacred office on Himself,
Without regard to honour—pow'r—or pelf—
Was well-enlighten'd with Heav'n's holy Ray,
To teach Mankind Christ's pure, and perfect, Way!
How can such perjur'd Monsters, pertly, stand,
With sacrilegeous lies in either hand—
Mid mimic airs, and attitudes, declaim,
Yet scarce e'er mention their kind Master's Name!
Ne'er preach obedience to His holy Will,
But speak to catch applause for taste and skill—
To prove the strength of intellectual pow'r,
And fill the office of their hard half-hour!
Who, tho' they ne'er devour the Widow's house,
Oppress the Peasant, or the Orphan chouse;
Still dissipate in sport, and spend in spoil,
The Farmer's profits and the Tradesman's toil.
None feels the shame, or reprehension shares,
From Christ's impeachment, for prolonging Pray'rs—
More fond themselves, than starving Flocks to feed,
Each spouts the Forms with most familiar speed;
And, having learnt, “Life's but a span in length,”
They cut each Sermon short, to save their strength;
That all their Heart, and Spirit, may apply,
To reach, and relish, more congenial joy!

The listless Congregation, gather'd round,
Seek not for sense, but only soothing sound;
More pleas'd with folly, pour'd in pompous phrase
Than sad recitals of their wicked ways;
Abhorring solemn Lectures, tho' sublime,
That seriously recount one single crime.
They'd sooner let lov'd sins in secret lurk,
Then wail one fault, and set their Souls to work;

225

Yet o'er a little work would feel rejoic'd
Rather than stoop to crave a dole of Christ—
In painful tracks of Superstition plod,
Than own one obligation to their God!
Best pleas'd with Preachers from St. James's mart,
Who trouble not the head, or touch the heart;
But let the quiet Conscience, dormant, doze,
And calm Reflection happily repose.
Ne'er harrass pleasing Hope, or fillip Fear,
But, like their Organ's notes, just stir the Ear,
With dulcet sounds, to lullaby the Breast,
To drown their doubts, and rock their fears to rest;
While sooth'd with Drone's uninteresting Theme
Thro' hum-drum, sing-song, Sermon, doze and dream.

Sometimes rude Beadles, in such sober place
With false officiousness, not genuine Grace,
Fond of their pow'r, and of their office proud,
Or, quite provok'd to see the sleepy Crowd
Indifferent to the Cleric's fine Discourse,
Deliver'd with such prompt pathetic force;
And jealous for his Credit, gently creeps,
Where, in some Dormitory, Dullard sleeps,
Then with a wanton, or intemperate, rap,
Abruptly breaks a comfortable Nap.

But rustic Beadle's, only, now so rude—
In Town, become polite, none, thus, intrude,
But keep due distance, in some snug Recess,
And, like their Betters, let bright Visions bless;
Who here, and there, in Church, or Chapel, loll,
Like molten Image, or dress'd maiden Doll—
Recumbent Devotees—male slumb'ring Saints,
Or deck'd Madonnas, plaster'd o'er with paints;
Each like lone Medal, or Medallion, set
In youthful Virtuoso's Cabinet;
Cloister'd, recluse, in each respective place,
Waiting for other Coins to fill the Case.
There each, distinct, in wide seclusion dwells,
All thinly scatter'd thro' their separate Cells;
And these, sublime Originals! alive,
Like dormant Bees coop'd up in wintry hive—
None like the labouring-Bees, but Queens, and Drones,
Reclin'd and thoughtless, on their timber Thrones.

At intervals, if rouz'd from torpid state
To hear the Piper play, or Preacher prate;
Or, with a vague, insipid, stupid look
Like gibberish, babble pray'rs from gilded Book—
Look round, on all, with Hope, or Envy, fir'd;
With flattering Hope that idol Self's admir'd,
Or Envy, in each glaring glance exprest,
O'er all with brighter charms, or better drest—
Eye crossing Eye, from each thin-peopled Pew,
With frequent turns to look for something new;
Uncouth, or comely; ludicrous, or odd;
The grossest Object superseding God!
None feeling for the Spirit's work, within,
But make mock-Worship a new source of Sin!
Men idolizing Women; Women, Men,
When tir'd, close their dull lids and doze agen:
With Parson's pipe in concert, snuffling, snore,
Till silence tells the twentieth minute's o'er;
Then instant start, and feel their Souls rejoice
To hear no longer Lecturer's vexing voice;
For sudden silence, like all sudden sounds,
Lov'd reveries, or fondest dreams confounds—
But should the numby nerves withstand the shock,
And still continue, like a brother block,
The Organ blows again a brisker blast,
To tell with jaunty Jigg, their Labour's past;
Calling these Dreamers from Christ's dulling Courts,
To Feasts more friendly, and more sprightly Sports.

When first the scatter'd few appear at Church,
And cross the threshold, each eye sends a search,
With strict attention every face to scan,
Of Friend—Relation—Stranger—Woman—Man.
Now, eagerly, intenser glances, darts,
Swift circling round, thro' all remoter parts,
With keen pursuit Acquaintances to trace
And catch responses from each speaking face—
While on each side are seen the simpering lips,
Low bow, or curtsy; slighter nods, or dips;
Degrees of Rank, and lower shades, to suit,
With due devoirs, where friendly looks salute.
Nor only practis'd thus, ere Priests' approach,
By pompous Worshippers, in Chair, or Coach;
But each, low Creature the mix'd mass compose
From introductory clause till Sermon's close:
Yea, Priests, themselves, who ought to feel, and know,
The fullest interest of their flocks below,
Will, from their desks, tho' devilish vain, and proud,
Oft ape the conduct of the polish'd crowd—
Look, with a formal face, and humbly bend
To compliment some Courtier—Patron—Friend—

226

Or more familiar smile, or slightly nod,
With some kind token greeting all—but God.
So, when this false religious farce is o'er,
And the mute Organ swells gay trills no more,
Like salutation passes round the spot,
And Heav'n—and Hell—and God; are all forgot!

Is this Religion? this the reverence, pure,
Man ought to render? or his God endure?
The God by whom he was to being brought?
With Sense supplied, and wonderous pow'rs of Thought!
Whose Will impels those mental pow'rs to move,
And all Things round to spurn, or to approve.
The God who, every instant Life supplies,
With all the objects of its Hopes and Joys;
The fount from whence all pains and pleasures flow,
That exercise the Soul of Man below.
Who, when Man forfeited His favour, strove
To gain his heart, agen, by Acts of Love.
Love, inconceivable! too vast for Man,
Or all created Intellects to scan!
Who His own, only, Son, to Death, could doom,
To rescue Rebels from eternal Tomb!
Yea, from a Sentence, infinitely worse
From boundless wrath, inflicting endless curse!
And will such hypocritic Worship stay
Christ's dreadful Verdict, at the Judgment-day?
Or bring the best delights of Life beneath,
From Him in whom we live—and move—and breathe?
Is this the Incense Rebels ought to bring,
And offer up, to Heav'n's eternal King?
These the fresh fumes, sweet-smelling, which ascend
To greet a God? a Father? and a Friend?
Such as Heav'n's Mediator may present
Before that God, when Prodigals repent?
These the best fruits fall'n Creatures can afford
For such forgiving Father—Friend—and Lord?
The Mind's pure perfumes, that should, fervent, fly,
To the great Governor of Earth and Sky?
The Soul's sweet aloes, frankincense, and myrrh,
That Sovereign will to slaughter'd beasts prefer?
The Heart's free Gifts that Father-God receives,
While in the Saviour not a Soul believes?
Are such fit Sacrifices for the Son,
Whose gracious Goodness hath such wonders done!
For all His Love the Spirit's best return,
Which makes pure Cherubs chaunt! bright Seraphs burn!
Rejoicing o'er a sinful Race, forlorn,
For whom Heav'n's Best-belov'd on Earth was born;
And, what should wake all praise—suppress all pride
For whom that best-belov'd Redeemer died!
And will His holy Spirit well respect
Such offerings as just Mortals must reject?
Who, yet, stands ready, still, to help their Pray'rs,
And make them meet for Heav'n, as holy Heirs!

Oh! mock not God! mock not His heavenly Son!
Without whose Death your Souls had sunk, undone!
Nor mock that Spirit, who, with special Grace
Is ready to restore Man's wretched Race!
God is a Spirit! Hear it, Age and Youth!
And will be worshipp'd both in Heart and Truth!
Not mere lip-labour, and unmanly yell,
Which Birds would sing, or, speak; Beasts act, as well;
Much less with idol lusts, and needless lies;
Which while Heav'n spurns—all honest Men despise.

Mortals, attend! hear what the Scriptures speak—
“Such Worshippers Christ condescends to seek,”
And will bestow, on such blest Souls, alone,
The richest Comforts flowing from His Throne;
While all beside, proud—obstinate—and blind,
Shall ne'er in Earth, or Heav'n, such Comforts find!
Consider who your trifling tongues address!
Your mouths thus mock! Your lying lips confess!
Tho' with your ears unheard—Your eyes unseen—
God marks your words—your actions—manners—mien!
Can each close purpose, and pursuit, explore,
And see Thoughts—wishes—motives—long before!

Think Ye that Being, Holy! Just! and True!
Can welcome what such Self-deceivers do?
That One who Martyrs, blest, in Heav'n, obey,
Regards what graceless Hypocrites can say?
One to whom high'st Archangels humbly bow,
What Profligates confess, or Liars vow?
Will He whom heavenly Hierarchies laud
Accept the praise of Fools? The pray'rs of Fraud?
Will not His boundless indignation burn,
Such mockery punish, and such mummery spurn?
From His blest Seat, of purity sublime,
Thro' all the past, and all approaching Time;
In all Man's reasoning Race, from first, to last,
Such crimes condemn—such base endeavours blast!

227

Would temporal Prince, from any Knaves He hires,
Admit such Services? such dull Devoirs?
Be pleas'd with those he clothes, protects, and feeds,
For such indifference? such unduteous Deeds?
Such slothful, such inert, returns, from those
On whom He Titles—Wealth—and Pow'r, bestows?
Be pleas'd with mere formality, and phlegm,
Were He a deep Dissembler, such as Them?

Should such attend a Drawing-Room of State,
Before the Throne of earthly Potentate?
How anxious would each Worshipper appear
To prove profoundest adoration there.
All circumspect within! all wing without!
Lest faith, or fealty, such Dupe should doubt.
How all punctilious Devotees observe
To shine each compliment, and shape each curve!
No phrase—no emphasis—no look, neglect,
But yield their mortal Monarch prompt respect!
To fellow-Sinner—upper-Servant—show,
How much they honour, and how much they owe,
But lounge, and loll, and slumber, at the shrine
Of Pow'r, supreme—and Majesty, divine!
Still with feign'd praise, and false petitions, call
On Him who ever lives the Lord of All!

How dare Fools, thus, with pharisaic face,
And graceless Pride, approach the Throne of Grace;
With sinful, sacrilegious lips, to lie,
Forgetting God, the blest Omniscient's by!

How would it wound a King's, or Prince's, pride,
To note, at Court, such negligent outside—
Each Minister would feel the fault immense,
To see such apathy—such poor pretence;
And Peers, and Pensioners, would name it Sin—
Thro' treachery, or treason, hid within.
And will rank Hypocrites presume to bring
Base mimicry before all Nature's King!
Presume to gaze and giggle; yawn, and nod,
In Presence-Chamber of Almighty God!
Within His Drawing-Room play Apish pranks,
Instead of gracious thoughts, and grateful thanks!
Present such counterfeited praise, and pray'r,
To Him who gives them all they have, or are!
To Him, for all, pert mockery repay,
Who, instantly, could call each Life away;
And what's far worse, their false respects repel,
By sinking Soul and Body both in Hell!

Such are the Wretches that surround a Court—
Whom childish Princes deem their chief support—
But pious Christians give much clearer proof,
The qualms of Conscience keep them far aloof—
For Piety and Truth feel no delights
In false professions, and mere idol rites;
Yet, by pure pray'rs, from Heav'n's supernal Throne,
Whence earthly Kings derive all pow'r, alone;
Their pow'rful influence brings more blessings down,
Than all the Courtiers that adore a Crown!

On mere externals Man's opinions rest—
On what adorns the brow, and decks the breast.
His ear can catch the flattery floating round
But not perceive the Soul that prompts the sound.
His eye may mark the fashions, and the face,
Yet ne'er can dark desires, or motives, trace;
But God's deep glance discriminates the Whole,
The devious Deed, and all the secret Soul—
The latent thoughts that feed the fostering roots
Whence every look, and word, and action, shoots.
The ghostly sap, by which the branches grow,
Producing fruits for use, and flow'rs for show.
Sees cunning Courtiers act their specious parts,
And set up Idols in their Sovereigns' hearts;
To make each Monarch deem Himself a God,
That they may share his rights, and shake his rod—
And while these Panders, thus, approach His Throne,
They nurse the like delusion in their own.
He notes these Knaves, beneath fair Friendship's mask,
Endeavouring to atchieve some selfish task—
Why springs the flattering speech, the fawning smile
Which these deputed Gods, on Earth, beguile;
And why such Worshippers with views as vain,
Debase Christ's favours, and debauch His Fane.
But he reviews, and will revenge, each feint,
Which tends to hurt His Truth; His Honour taint;
In public practice, or in private sport,
At Church or Chamber; College—Camp—or Court—
That injures Happiness, or Grace aggrieves,
In hordes of Hypocrites, or throngs of Thieves—
For His pure Spirit must as much abhor
The craft of Courts, and wickedness of War,
As crimes of Crowds assembled in His Name;
Whose impious hearts ev'n decency disclaim.
Eternal Truth and Love, alike, must hate
The Falsehoods—Crafts—and Cruelties, of State—

228

His Laws, true Justice must alike, maintain,
O'er Taught and Teacher—Sovereign and Swain!

Will Pow'r supreme so condescend to scan,
And rectify the Ways of Man with Man—
Weigh with His balance, and inflict His rod,
Alike, on Beggar, base, and golden God—
The Clown that ploughs, and Prince who claims his Coin,
And yet forego His own just dues divine?
Will boundless Love with cold indifference, look
O'er gross blasphemers of His gracious Book?
Let ostentatious profanation lurch
Within the boundaries of His blessed Church?
His perfect purity feel no disgust
Address'd by Drunkenness, or mock'd by Lust?
Truth, uncontaminated, ne'er despise
Fictitious sentiments, when leagu'd with lies?
Will Wisdom, infinite, affect those Walls
Where Pride petitions, and Vain-glory bawls?
No! all His Attributes must needs unite
To punish Traytors, and support His Right!

But if the mingled Multitude offends
The best of Fathers, and the best of Friends—
If Lawyers—Scribes—and Pharisees, pervert
Both Law and Gospel to their endless hurt—
How can the Priesthood possibly escape
His heaviest vengeance in the sharpest shape?
How shall they 'scape His Pow'r with vengeful Sword,
Who grieve His Spirit, and despise His Word?
Who by vain babblings, and by impious Pride,
Degrade His Glory, and His Truth deride;
And by licentious Lust, and Passion, still
Refuse His Favours, and withstand His Will!
How shall their Souls receive His offer'd Grace
Who fling back Mercy in their Maker's face?
How shall they deprecate eternal blame
Who thus expose Him to an open shame;
How find acceptance at Christ's Judgment Seat,
Who thro' His Followers wound His Hands and Feet?
How 'scape pure Conscience's perpetual smart,
Who every Sabbath pierce the Saviour's Heart?
E'er hope to shun the sharpest pangs of Hell,
Who every Hour against His Grace rebel?
Or, when become Court Parasites, and Pimps,
Find any Company but Fiends, and Imps?

Are those the blest Ambassadors of Heav'n,
Whose Lives are lumps of sour Satanic leav'n?
Who their pure Saviour's Love, and Wisdom, spurn,
Too good to be forgiv'n—too learn'd to learn?
At clear credentials of their Captain, scoff,
And, from their Lord, throw all allegiance off?
Their Prince's orders proudly disobey,
And simple Subjects draw a devious way?

Are those Enforcers of Heav'n's holy Law
Whose faulty Conduct's one continual flaw;
With grievous burdens make their Neighbours groan,
But furnish not one finger of their own?
Who close up Heav'n from poor uncultur'd Elves
Nor e'er attempt to enter in Themselves?

Can such dead Salt corruption's pow'r prevent—
And save Men's Lives from all unsavoury scent—
If oft applied make every Soul secure,
And keep their Consciences, and Spirits, pure?
They rather make some foul miasmus fly,
To taint their Bodies, and their Souls destroy.
Do their Examples shine both bright and clear,
Like Cities, that on hills their turrets rear?
More like some Pagan Temple, fall'n, forlorn,
The Owner's scandal, and each Christian's scorn!
Are They not like false ignis fatuus' light,
Which leaves Believers bogg'd in Nature's Night
More than blest Morning's bright celestial beam,
Which wakes the Soul, and drives each senseless dream?
Or like some burning Beacon seen from far,
Inviting Friends to join religious jar;
To kindle Choler in each natural Heart,
And call Pride—Envy—Spite—to take a part—
To light their firebrands at the bickering Pyre,
And set the Church, yea, all the World, on fire!

They show not Conscience where all evils lurk,
That stir foul Hearts and set frail Tongues to work,
Nor try from heav'nly stores to furnish stocks,
Of perfect knowledge, for Themselves and Flocks;
But still bewilder'd in dark, dangerous Way,
They lose Themselves, and lead their Flocks astray!

Unfaithful Stewards of Christ's Heritage!
Graceless expounders of the Gospel page!
Who keep cold Hearers in their darkling State
Till both lie buried in the Gulph of Fate!
Still stretching far prerogative, and pow'r,
The Widow's house, and Orphan's hopes, devour;
Nor ev'n the Pharisees' pretension share
Of lengthening out one dull, cold, pow'rless pray'r.

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Keep not their conduct with a clean outside
But each bold act's debas'd by Lust or Pride—
Not white without, like tombs, while foul within,
But each external stinks with filth and sin.
In this unlike that base, but strenuous Band,
They neither cross, nor compass, Sea, nor Land,
To do what Wisdom deems most meet and right,
By labour to procure one Proselyte;
But leave untutor'd all the ignorant Race,
To grope their way to Heav'n by special Grace,
From consecrated Fanes all work withhold,
And view the virtue only in the Gold.
No merit in the sacred Altar own
But look for Graces in the Gifts alone.

Ye wilful Fools! ye obstinately blind!
In Heav'n's pure Temples is the Gold refin'd.
And would your Mind each Scripture mystery sift,
You'd find God's Altar sanctified the Gift—
For, if Man's Heart no purity supplies,
All pray'r and praise is loathsome Sacrifice!

Such are too many Priests in modern Times.
Vile, vipery pests! long catalogues of crimes!
In whom each Sin receives its grossest growth,
Begins in Perjury, and proceeds in Sloth;
Full-fed with Lust, and Luxury, ripens fast,
Then ends in deep despondency at last!

How dare their lips pronounce that impious boast
Their Hearts feel influenc'd by the Holy Ghost!
Have they ne'er heard, or read; or, now, forgot
False Ananias' and Sapphira's lot?
Who, for like falshood, felt Heav'n's wrath severe,
Nor found a time for one repentant tear;
Warning Blasphemers, in all future days,
To shun such shameless—wicked—impious—Ways!

How dare they touch the emblematic Bread
For fear an angry God should strike them dead!
Or how the blest, symbolic liquor sip,
Lest Christ, with wine, tho' cold, should scald their lip—
Strange! that their perjur'd Conscience ne'er appals,
Till trembling plate, and quivering chalice, falls!

Have not their Nurses taught, or Parents told
What fates befel the spurious Priests of old?
Or have not Tutors, in the times of Youth,
Taught them these Lessons from the Tomes of Truth,
How Aaron's Sons, by God's displeasure, fell,
Who dar'd against His order'd Rules rebel;
Offering strange Fire before their holy Lord,
In vile inebriate state, by Heav'n abhorr'd?
Not that pure Fire the Deity pours down,
To consecrate the Priest—the King—the Clown!
That warms the human Heart with due desires;
And kindles up pure Songs of heavenly Choirs,
But such false flames as graceless Minds misguide,
And Hearts impel by sacrilegious Pride;
Till, led, at length, by deep, delusive, glare,
They stumble—fall—and fell destruction share!
Or did they never hear some Friend relate
That other instance of alarming fate,
Penn'd by some Preach'r, in the sacred page,
As warning, full, for every future Age,
How Reuben's rebel Offspring felt the Rod,
Made Priests by fleshly Self, but not by God!
Who dar'd, in company with Friends, profane,
Alike presumptuous, insolent, and vain,
Against the Statutes of their Maker, strive;
Earth opening, large, and swallowing all, alive—
The gaping Glebe, with wide-extended jaws,
Avenging Heav'n's sublime and broken Laws!

Tho' wonders now ne'er interrupt His plan,
Still God's pure Spirit strives with maniac Man,
While Justice waits for Time's departing hour,
To testify His Truth, and prove His Pow'r—
Then must such ingrate minist'ry sustain
More than Chorazin's, or Capernaum's, pain,
And all such congregations undergo
Worse than Bethsaida's misery and woe!

What numbers, now, on pow'r, and plunder, bent,
Live, pamper'd, by profuse Establishment!
Extending far and wide its iron sway
To make Mankind an universal prey.
Their Bodies, and their Souls, becoming Slaves,
From opening matrices to closing graves;
Yet, while they wallow in their illgot wealth,
They ne'er regard Men's Souls', or Bodies', health.
Rest not on Learning—Diligence—or Skill—
Their Flocks' Appointment—or their pure goodwill—
But hoisted to their place, for private Ends,
By Infidels, in Pow'r, or partial Friends.

Establishments might prove of pow'rful Use,
By helping Worth, and branding wild Abuse,
Did they on Merit, or on Morals rest,
Instead of lying tongue, in legal Test—

230

On Learning—Knowledge—Gravity, and Grace;
And only patronize the pious Race;
But then, how few, among the modern Host,
Would keep their credit, or maintain their Post!

Deceptive Teachers! who, devoid of sight,
Affect to lead, and guide all others right!
Presume to show the track to Shiloh's dome,
Yet never went one furlong from their home.
Far worse than finger-posts, which fairly show
The way all ignorant wanderers ought to go;
While these ne'er point the proper path-way out,
But teach their followers wrong, or far about.
In this they're like, with neither wit, nor will,
While teaching others they themselves stand still—
But, if they move, their notions clearly say,
They're wandering round, a devious, downward, way.

Mere quack Physicians! who can scarcely tell,
Whether Themselves, or Friends, are ill—or well—
Unable to pronounce, or yield relief,
When heart, or Conscience, feels regret, or grief—
Discern no symptoms of a Soul's disease;
Completely skill'd, alone, in forcing fees,
Scarce one, among the high, doctorial, Tribe,
Knows when they're sane, or can, when sick, prescribe—
Untaught the troubled Spirit's pulse to try,
Which beats too quick, or slow, too low, or high—
Trace no distinctions when they note the Tongue,
Or when its aspect proves it right, or wrong—
How then can Understrapper-Clerks declare,
What Minds' chief maladies and med'cines are?
For thro' each College scarce can two agree
What mental sickness, pains, and troubles, be;
Much less point out, to Sinners, or to Saints.
Right recipes for Spirits' cramp complaints.

Presumptuous Pilots! who, with Learning, blind,
Consult not Seasons—Climates—Tide—or Wind.
The use of Chart, or Compass, never know,
Or which way Nature's secret Currents flow;
Yet, impudently still attempt to clear
What Track untutor'd Sailors ought to steer—
Still make mere theory their paltry plea
Who never went one single knot at Sea.

Can they point out the Course to distant Parts
Who keep no Reckonings? nor e'er conn'd their Charts?
Ne'er tried to understand their Captain's plan
Nor, in His track, one single furlong ran?
Can they show how to shun shoals—rocks—or shelves—
Who ne'er got grounded—bulg'd—or wreck'd, Themselves?
But Sailor-like, on Land, in spoil or sport,
Spend all their pence, nor care for King, or Court.

What Soul would make such Mariners his guides,
To steer his Vessel safe, thro' treacherous Tides?
Where, not alone, the stormy Winds, and Waves,
May raise misfortunes, or dig watery graves—
Where Scylla and Charybdis wildly roar,
To stop his progress tow'rd the promis'd shore—
And secret Current—Sand—Rock—shifting Shoal—
Distract—endanger—or ingulph the Soul!

Can such point out the Saviour's perfect path?
Or teach poor Pupils how to 'scape Heav'n's Wrath?
Such lov'd Disciples of the holy Lamb,
Whose chief attention's but to clothe and cram—
Race—hunt—and gamble; Run to Operas—Plays—
Balls—Routs—Fêtes—Concerts—ev'n on Sabbath-days!

Did e'er one fathful Follower doat on Dress?
Seek Goat's indulgence, or Dog's gross excess?
Like Dives live, luxurious—deck, and dine—
And suck expensive swill, like sordid Swine?

Did They indulge in frantic Fiend's delight,
By urging Beasts, beyond their force, in flight?
Lash their lank sides, and pierce the spouting vein,
Till sinking, prostrate, on the sanguine plain?
On prancing Steeds patrole each fertile Farm,
To risque Limbs—Lives—and work their Neighbour's harm—
Despite of decency, and sober Sense,
Break down dead barrier—leap thro' living fence—
Destroying Crops, in part, like Maniacs, wild,
Then taking tenths of all the parts unspoil'd;
To murder Animals for sport, or prey,
More harmless, and less hurtful, far, than They!

Did They poor simple Females' faith trapan,
Their Vanity to feed, or Lusts to fan?
Or darken darkness with a Lie, or Oath,
To gain Men's persons, and their purses, both?

Did They, 'mid Crowds, frequent dramatic Schools,
To hear their Fellows stigmatiz'd as Fools?
Men branding brother Men as Dupes, or Knaves;
As Clowns, or Coxcombs; Tyrants, Tools, or Slaves?
Not with an honest, open, true intent,
To purge their foibles, or more faults prevent,

231

But to amuse an Evening's murder'd hours,
To laugh at Weakness—weep o'er prostrate Pow'rs—
Pow'rs, peradventure, making misery groan,
And mocking other's crimes, much more their own;
Despising every weak, and wicked Elf,
Compar'd with wise, prudential, upright, Self:
Spending their precious time in base abuse,
Neglecting Life's best End, and happiest Use,
Instead of counteracting all the crimes,
And monstrous trifling of these modern times?

Did they fair opportunities neglect,
To rectify mistakes, or crimes correct?
Each gracious ordinance of God despise,
And break His Rest with levity and noise?
Pursue vain fashion and procure vile fame,
Then mock at sin, and glory in their shame?

Did e'er their coadjutor, humble Paul,
Attempt to climb a Primate's princely Stall?
Did He in pomp, and Luxury, idly lurk,
And leave weak Underlings to do his work?

Did Timothy, or Titus, quit their charge,
To loll in idleness, and live at large;
And proud Archdeacon, or poor Dean depute,
While they enjoy'd rich rent, and fat first-fruit?

Did Whitfield, or did Wesley lounge at ease
Their pride to pamper, or their flesh to please;
And send their Understrappers far from home,
To find some field, or providential dome,
Where they might preach to ignorant Age and Youth,
Christ's gospel doctrines, back'd by moral truth?
Can any Christian, like these lazy Clerks,
While Conscience keeps alive Heav'n's holy sparks,
Appoint Inferiors to fulfil their trusts,
While they indulge their idleness and lusts;
From Primates, downward, to the very least,
Town-starving Curate, or pinch'd country-Priest?

These are the Shepherds prophecies foretold,
Who watch the Sheep, and strongly fence their Fold;
Not to secure flocks' happiness, or peace,
But, to devour their flesh, or shear their fleece!
Not entering in, by Jesus Christ, the door,
To nurse the feeble, and to feed the poor—
To tend the Lambs, or bear them in their arms,
Protecting all from prowling Wolves' alarms;
But climb to Office any other way
To make the whole, or any part their prey—
Like Thieves and Robbers, legally to steal,
Regardless of the Christian-Commonweal—
Aspiring still to some superior Post,
In spite of Father—Son—and Holy Ghost!

Behold them, white, or sable, wings, expand;
Like Magpies, Rooks, and Crows, o'er all the Land!
Devouring tenths of all kind Nature yields,
In Forests—Woods—cropp'd Meads, and cultur'd Fields—
Whate'er, from Providence, spontaneous flows,
And all to care and toil Creation owes—
When Woods or Forest's fall, or Meads are shorn,
Or labour'd clods produce their crops of Corn—
All that grows up from Rain—and Sun—and Sweat—
All Orchards bear, or Garden-plats beget—
The plough—the spade—the sickle—and the scythe—
Enlarging lazy Rectors' cruel Tythe.

Mark the proud Parson! fed on dainty fare—
Enlarg'd from labour and excus'd from care—
Anxious, alone, like each unhumbled, breed,
How he may propagate—clothe—fence—and feed—
To ascertain his rents, and hated rights—
To add new livings, and find fresh delights—
Alike on working days and days of rest,
In costly broad-cloth—silks—and beaver—drest—
Complete provision, fully fix'd by Law,
To clothe his carcase, and to cram his maw;
And, for his offspring, clear of care, and toil,
Amassing fortunes from the teeming Soil.
Whene'er his Reverence wanders round, on foot,
In aldermanic style behold him strut!
If he, in Carriage, or on Steed, approach,
His Person, and his Pride, load Horse, or Coach;
While, well-replenish'd with his Neighbour's store,
His Belly, boldly, travels on before,
Proud Courier-like! where'er he walk, or ride,
To tell his needs with notice to provide.

He lives in Paradise, at less expence
Than Adam, in his state of innocence;
Who was commanded His Domain to dress;
And keep, with care, that He might still possess.
Not with a flaunting, fashionable, Eve,
The benefits, as bounties, so receive;
Idling, each day, amidst his lawns and bow'rs,
Collecting chiefest—fairest—sweetest—flow'rs;
Or wandering, gaily, in each grove, and wood,
To gather every fruit, fair—choice, and good!

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On wine, and oil, and milk, and honey, feed,
Yet neither plant, nor prune, nor watch, nor weed—
But, heedless as a Pagan—Jew—or Turk—
Appoint some Hireling to his watch, and work.
Those Dupes thus doom'd to till the sacred soil,
Share little comfort for continual toil;
But labour, endlessly, with anxious care,
For scanty clothing, and for starving fare!
Still try to propagate all useful plants,
For self-necessities, and neighbours' wants,
To banish noisome broods; ply spades, and hoes;
Yet gather scarce one esculent that grows!
They press no cluster, tho' they prune the vine,
To nerve their frames, and make each feature shine;
But, while their hands their Master's vineyards dress,
Scarce earn fig-leaves to hide their nakedness!
They may associate with mere birds, and beasts—
On herbs and fruits, found wild, make summer feasts;
But, in the winter of their weary Lives,
With puny Offsprings pinch, and weakly Wives—
May sip the springs of Eden's fourfold stream:
Of Gold—of Onyxes—of Bdellium—dream;
But ne'er see Havilah's delightful Land,
Nor get one grasp of Pison's pleasant sand!

Such is the Rector's, such the Curate's, lot,
In lordly Dwelling, or in cribbing Cot,
These, for a sparing pittance, strive—and starve—
Those in proud ease recline—on plenty carve—
Grow red, and bloated with rich blood of grapes,
And share all Earth's delights, in all their shapes;
While these, weak milk-and-water-beverage quaff,
Tread out the corn, yet chew but straw and chaff—
Like labouring Cattle, every Season, seen
In endless duty—shabby, lank, and lean—
Those from each useful occupation loose,
Degenerate into sloth and base abuse;
Like fattening Oxen, doze, and drink, and feed,
In rankest clover, or in richest mead—
Rambling, at large, or stretching in their stalls,
Till Time's dread butcher, Death, unwelcome, calls;
And with resistless—sharp-wet—slaughtering knife,
Soon puts a period to such useless Life—
Thence to their graves each glutted Corpse consigns,
On which Corruption daily sups and dines—
While the loath'd worms thro' heart, and entrails, creep—
Make banquets on their brains while fast asleep,
And every moulder'd bone in atoms lies,
Till Christ's loud clarion calls the Dead to rise;
To show how gen'rous loans, thro' Life enjoy'd,
Were portions well improv'd—and well employ'd—
How all the great and gracious talents lent,
Were idly buried, or were basely spent—
Then will His sentence awfully decide
The endless lot of Poverty, and Pride;
That endless Blessing, or that endless Curse,
No Sovereign can prevent—no Pope reverse!
Meantime each Mortal who will watch, and pray
May ward off Evil from that fateful Day—
May husband, so, Will—Talents—Wealth—and Time—
That Virtue may avoid condemning Crime;
Which, carried on, by Christ's forgiving Grace,
Their Love must long to see the Saviour's face.
But—ah! how few, among deprav'd Mankind,
Can hope that Judge's face in smiles to find;
Or in His sentence look with certain trust
While here so selfish—impious—and unjust!

Could heav'nly Love establish partial plan,
To destine Man a Despot over Man?
Could Providence enforce as fix'd decree
One Soul should be a Slave, another free?
Much less that Millions of the human Race,
Should be excluded from Christ's saving Grace;
And when His Will recalls their temporal breath,
Consign their Souls to everlasting Death;
Or, infinitely worse, make all remain
With serpent Spirits, in eternal pain!
He who looks down on all with equal Eye,
That sway proud Sceptres, or, in dungeons die,
With all the numerous intermediate Ranks,
Which, for small doles, yield unreserved Thanks,
Or prodigally spend each ampler Loan,
Nor e'er the gracious Gifts, or, Giver, own!
Can He, with calm complacency, behold
Foul Scenes which Vice, and Villainy, unfold?
Or, with cold, heedless, unconcern survey,
Proud Hypocrites make honest Need their prey?
The hard oppressions practis'd, every hour,
On prostrate Penury, by Knaves, in pow'r?

Could He appoint each Potentate should reign,
With cut-throat Thousands in His haughty Train?
In Gold and Gems to swagger, strut, and shine,
While Misery dug materials from the Mine?

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With waste the products of the Earth consume,
While Want must urge the plough, and ply the loom;
Still reft of half their earnings too support
The domineering Dolts that crowd a Court?
That Nimrod Monarchs should so madly ride,
In supercilious Pomp, and trampling Pride;
Surrounded by their fawning, flattering, Bands,
To spoil the produce of the labour'd Lands;
While the sad Vassal sees, with watery eye,
Such noisy Centaurs his best hopes destroy!

Did He design a proud imperious Race,
Devoid of every Christian Gift, and Grace,
Should all His Church's wealth—pow'r—honour—seize,
To live in vicious Luxury, Lust, and Ease?
Grasp large Revenues for their sole delights,
Where thousands throng'd before for equal rights;
On which both Piety and Penury fed,
And Age and Infancy found needful Bread?
Claim tenths of produce from the manag'd sod,
The forest, fenc'd, and cultivated clod,
With all that graze the irrigated soil,
Without one moment's care or muscle's toil?
No! tho' awhile He suffer Fools or Knaves!
To cheat His Children, make His Offspring Slaves;
Distress a Rustic, or disturb a Realm,
He sits supreme at Providence's Helm—
Steers Earth's vast Vessel and commands the Crew,
With every individual full in view;
And will, at length, with retribution, just,
Condemn each Culprit who betrays his trust!

The moral Muse, thus deviating, long,
Discussing, warmly, maxims right and wrong;
Neglects the Object of her varied Lay,
Thro' Piety, and Politics to stray—
Leaves persecuted Crispin in the lurch,
To scan the State, and scrutinize the Church:
And, while she so survey'd Christ's Commonweal,
Wish'd Wit, and Pow'r were equal with her zeal,
That she might influence Freedom's common cause,
To fetter Tyrants, and reform their Laws;
And, with an ardour, like her sovereign Lord's,
Could cleanse His House with Her small scourge of cords.

The Cause of Heav'n still strengthen'd Crispin's heart,
To fill, for Conscience-sake, his duteous part,
Made him submit to many a task, unkind,
Caprice express'd, and Jealousy enjoin'd;
With numerous arbitrary Whims beside,
Compell'd by Passion, when propos'd by Pride—
Well-knowing it was God's explicit Will,
That faithful Servants Masters' tasks fulfil,
Till He stretch forth His providential Hand,
To bring out Israel's Race from Egypt's Land—
But when the despot Dame's commands infring'd
The moral rules on which His honour hing'd,
His conscientious Mind would, meekly, dare
To speak his scruples, and his doubts declare,
And, rather than kind Heav'n's behests abuse
The Creature's fiat, for Christ's Faith, refuse.

Thus did our Hero, when the Case was clear,
Withstand weak whim, or mandates more austere;
But, while he dared this duteous part perform
His Vessel was involv'd in many a storm.
A feeble skiff, in maddening Ocean moor'd,
With all his Friends, and Stock-in-Trade aboard—
His anchor and his cable, feeble hopes!
Made up of rusty iron, and rotten ropes;
Subject to snap with every squally breeze,
And forc'd, again, to try uncertain Seas;
Amidst wild waves, and secret rocks and sands,
Without a prospect of approaching lands;
With leaky bottom, and weak-boarded sides,
Unfit for conflicts with strong winds and tides;
And when the Pilot gain'd a prosperous gale
Still prone to urge too great a press of sail—
But Heav'n the rudder held, and show'd the rout,
Enabling him, each hour, to ride it out;
And thus, 'mid treacherous foes, and trying fears,
Kept the poor Crew at Sea, near sev'n long Years.

When blythe Scintilla, at her Dome, sublime,
To pass away her Evening's tedious time,
Form'd private parties, so, collusive, call'd,
When twenty—forty—sixty—Names were bawl'd,
By frequent summons, on dull Sunday night,
To put all frightful things, and thoughts, to flight—
Things of eternal—infinite—concern!
That all should show, in Life, as well as learn.
Thoughts Grace induces, in God's holy Day,

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On pious hearts, which simply watch and pray—
Thoughts all should seek—and, thankfully, receive;
Not quench the impulse, and pure Offerer grieve—
Promis'd for all, to furnish fuller joy,
Which Time ne'er taints, nor Accidents destroy—
Which Pomp should ne'er prevent, or Pride repel,
In splendid Circle, more than private Cell;
Pleasure ne'er drown, or Dissipation drive
From the frail heart of any Soul alive.
But such vain Triflers urge their strenuous toil,
The heavy hours, of Sabbaths, to beguile;
While with egregious nonsense and grimace,
They grieve kind Conscience, and the Day disgrace;
Expending precious talents, time, and breath,
To drown ungrateful thoughts of God, and Death.

Do They, who, thus, with mad, mistaken, Taste,
These desecrated Evenings weakly waste—
Still, with their utmost efforts, mutual, strive,
To keep their momentary mirth alive—
With fulsome flattery, circling round, to raise
Self-love's fix'd glow to Vanity's full blaze—
Or Pride, with idol-adoration, swell,
Which springs from Satan, and which points to Hell!
Do They experience permanent delights
Like those who spend their hours in holy rites?
Who elevate, with Love, their humble hearts
To Him who every gift, and grace, imparts?
All sinful Passions—Lusts—and Pride, repress,
And look alone to Him for Happiness?
Who prompt each Virtue—pious Vows renew,
And give all Honour where all Honour's due?
Do such the silent Night, and Darkness, dread?
The lone retirement? or the sleepless bed?
God's Omnipresence—Justice—Truth, and Pow'r—
The day of Death, and Judgment's awful hour—
Like those, with Wit—Rank—Riches—Birth—unblest,
Who thus profane the Eves of sacred rest?

Will such pursuits, 'neath fashionable roof,
With foolish laughter, keep such fears aloof?
Those thoughts, like Spectres, Fops, and Flattery, spurn,
But will they not in soberer times return?
Will not the dread of Death, and God, intrude,
In times of silence and of solitude?
Or, in sequester'd hours of nightly gloom,
Reflections on the Grave, and day of Doom?

Can They with flights of Wit, or force of Will,
Repel such thoughts—keep such reflections still?
Tear Conscience from her fix'd retreat within,
And quite ungraft all sense of guilt, and sin,
Make void Heav'n's Laws? all Virtue's dues disown?
And force the Saviour from His sovereign Throne?

Alas! such Follies not ev'n Fools suffice,
Nor yield the Spirit pure and genuine Joys;
But like lit thorns that crackle round a pot,
Just for a moment blaze, and then, are not;
So may such frail amusements flaunt awhile,
Inflame fall'n Souls—make sinful Bodies broil,
But soon such fuel with a flash consumes,
And mocks its furnishers with murkier glooms;
While, in each Mind, some rankling thorn remains,
To rouze remorse, and pierce with lasting pains!
But Heav'n's blest Worshippers, who live below,
Experience pleasure's, still increasing, glow;
Pure, genuine pleasures, while they sojourn here,
And bliss unbounded in celestial Sphere!

On such occasions Crispin had no call
To occupy an active post, at all;
Yet would his heart rebel, his Conscience burn,
To mark immortal Creatures' unconcern;
And, in the fervour of his faithful zeal
For Christ, and for the Christian Commonweal,
Oft urge on all the servile train around,
Their breach of duty, and his bosom's wound!

How could he countenance the daring deed,
That broke the Law, his Lord, and their's, decreed;
Or reconcile such conduct with the phrase
Of keeping holy Heav'n's appointed Days!

Contempt and pity, both, disturb'd his pow'rs,
At thus perverting Heav'n's most holy hours
Contempt, that Courtiers were no better taught,
And, pity, for their want of wiser thought;
Considering such blind Souls must die unblest,
For each bold breach of Heav'n's most high behest,
Should they their God and Saviour so offend,
Without repentance, till Life's fatal end.
The only plea pure Charity could urge,
To stop the sentence, and restrain the scourge,
Must be Christ's caveat o'er His murderers' Crew,
“Father—forgive! they know not what they do!”

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But how could this be argued, when the herd
Was headed, oft, by Guardians of God's Word?
Not its true Ministers; their hearts would dread
To find their Souls to such temptation led;
But those High-priests who rank with temporal Peers,
The Church's Chiefs! Christ's Household-Overseers!
These ought, by greater trusts much more engage
To guide and govern Heav'n's fair heritage;
And should, with shine, supreme, transcendent stand,
Like Suns, sublime, to light a cloudy Land—
Or, like fix'd Pole-stars, permanent, and clear,
Teach Christ's true Sailors how their course to steer.
And tho' too rich—too idle—and too proud,
To teach, by precepts, the profaner Crowd,
Yet should their sanctity, each Sabbath, shine,
To prove God's Mandate, and His Day, divine—
Not let their living, like their silent lips,
Spread o'er cold Consciences a dark eclipse—
Tho' not by Sermons, by Example, say,
“Remember Thou keep holy Heav'n's own Day!”

Had only common, paltry, Clerks appear'd,
In Playhouse oftener seen, than Pulpit heard—
Who, in the Fox-chase, more than Closets, toil,
And lay their Bibles by to study Hoyle—
Who flatter Folly—ignorant Dupes endure—
Catching all interests to obtain a Cure—
Presumptuously neglect Christ's public Courts,
For sacrilegious schemes, and private sports—
Mix with the idle—volatile—and vain—
In quest of Pleasure, or in hopes of Gain—
Pursuing both by flattery—folly—lies,
This ne'er had caus'd one symptom of surprize—
But for the sake of such low fame, and lust,
Gave Crispin's Conscience pain, and deep disgust.
How then did secret indignation swell,
Beholding Bishops point the way—to Hell!
Misleading Laics, and poor priestly Elves,
By wandering downwards tow'rd the gulph themselves!
Breaking that Law by levity and pride,
With which Man's countless mass ought all be tied!
Not separately confin'd to humble Cots,
To regulate, alone, mean Mortals' lots;
But high imperial Rule, subjecting all
Who wear a Crown, or occupy a stall,
As well as Boors, who to the Sceptre bow,
Or, at a Prelate's feet confirm their Vow!
A Statute paramount to all the pleas
Of Canons' Conclaves, or dread Pope's decrees!
Which constitutes a Part of that pure Code,
That circumscribes each reasoning Creature's road;
A perfect Part of that most perfect Whole,
Which stamps the Duties of each deathless Soul!
'Tis like all Heav'n's unfathomable Arts—
Like God, Himself! one Whole, compos'd of Parts!
One adamantine Chain! all Agents, Yoke!
Whose force is lost if but one link be broke!
Thus every Soul that breaks this single Clause,
Incurs the curse that lies on all its Laws;
And all that keep not every Clause entire,
Must meet Heav'n's frowns; may feel Hell's endless fire!
None but true Saints can hope the blest reverse,
Who look to Jesu's Cross to 'scape the Curse;
As Israel's legions, in their journeying state,
View'd brazen Serpent, to reverse their fate.
What hope, then, can such Culprits entertain
To shun the penalty, and 'scape the pain?
Who not alone on Sabbaths break Heav'n's Laws
But every hour infringe with numerous flaws!
Ev'n in their dull Devotion's public Parts
By cold affections, and with heartless hearts;
While not a true Believer, now, below,
But sees, and sorrows, o'er these Ways of Woe:
Nay, not a Saint, who now inhabits Heav'n
But mark'd, and mourn'd, on Earth, this fleshly leav'n!
Each, now, must find, tho' fix'd in bliss, above,
Some imperfections in his filial Love,
When looking back on blest experience, here,
And what God's Grace is still bestowing there!
Ev'n the pure Cherubim that chaunt on high,
Must feel some symptoms of their Love's alloy,
While, fill'd with wonder, each sublimely sings,
And hides his face with wide-unfolded wings!
How then shall those dire condemnation 'scape,
Who break Love's holy Bonds in shameful shape?
Who quench Heav'n's fires with sordid, selfish phlegm,
And spoil its Rest with puerile sports like them!
This is a theme demanding deepest thought,
Which Laymen may discuss, but Clerics ought—
Some small return for what they deem their rights,

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Dues, privileges, pow'rs—all dear delights!
A subject proper for each priestly place;
But Bishops, chief, should shun such deep disgrace,
While God allows them Life's uncertain Lease,
For present welfare, and for future peace—
To fix affiance in each doubting Mind,
Securing Heav'n's best gifts to all Mankind!
This is a most important paradox,
The Priesthood should explain to all their Flocks;
A paradox that ought still prompt their pow'rs
To studious toil, each Morn's and Evening's hours;
But most in days ordain'd, by Heav'n's Behest,
For Faith's reflections on its holy Rest—
Should knowledge—learning—reason—exercise,
To clear its judgments, and secure its joys!
Instead of mad frivolity and mirth,
And wit, and eloquence; all but little worth!
The God of Grace, with warmest ardour, urge,
With heavenly light their mental pow'rs to purge,
That each those Truths, and Mysteries, may discern,
All Pastors ought expound—all People learn!
By comments clear, that seeking Souls may find,
Full satisfaction for their thoughtful Mind;
Deliver'd from all doubt, and dreadful fear,
And feeling genuine joys, while wandering here;
With full assurance of eternal store,
When, with their Life, their labours will be o'er—
But by their blind misleadings all may miss
The way to earthly peace, and heav'nly bliss!
While views and visions of infernal dread
Must haunt their daily path, and dying bed,
For thus neglecting their eternal trusts
To feed their follies, and indulge their lusts!
Heav'n's Truths, and Mysteries, many a Soul can solve,
Whom labour, care, and poverty, involve—
Whose heads no learning bear; no knowledge boast—
Ne'er mix'd with cleric herd, or courtly host;
But constant Courtiers round God's gracious Throne,
Who makes to such His Truths and Mysteries known—
While King, and Priest, yea, ev'n prelatic Clerk,
Purblind with Pride, grope daily in the dark.
Not only this perplext poor Crispin's breast,
On days ordain'd, by God, for sacred Rest;
But more intense emotions hurt his Heart
When Pow'r compell'd to take an active Part.
On Sabbaths, oft, were splendid Tables spread,
That Sycophants, and Courtiers, might be fed.
Furnish'd with costly, and with curious, fare,
Where Crispin was oblig'd his lot to bear:
At side-board bound to take accustom'd stand,
As mighty Marshal of inferior Band,
Endeavouring there to dignify the Place,
With looks of Gravity, and airs of Grace;
Lest Pimp, or Parasite, with seeking eye,
Should mark a careless look, or limb awry,
And make some spurious criminal report
Before his Queen's inquisitorial Court.
This harrass'd, sore, his philosophic Sense,
But aching Conscience felt much more offence,
To see so many Souls' immortal Pow'rs
Urg'd hard to labour thro' those holy hours—
Such Pow'rs, all capable of bliss, sublime;
So sacrific'd to things of Sense and Time;
While all those mental Pow'rs should find employ,
To fit them for that bliss Heav'n's hosts enjoy!
Compell'd to occupy such carnal Posts,
In lieu of worshipping the Lord of Hosts;
Merely that Troops of Epicures might taste,
Pernicious pleasures, of an hour's repast!

Crispinus 'mid the common motley Crowd,
Fondly profane, and dissolutely loud!
Was forc'd to tread a tedious length of street
To get ingredients for the fleshly Treat,
Of choicest kind, but yet of cheapest cost;
While Heav'n's lov'd opportunity was lost,
Of joining thrilling Souls, in solemn Throngs,
To greet their God with thanks, and sacred Songs;
Or, with confession, holding conference, high,
With Him whose Goodness governs Earth and Sky!
But tho' poor Crispin's Body was withheld,
The Spirit's absence could not be compell'd;
For his devoted Soul, with warm desire,
Accorded well with each adoring Choir,
While, elevated high, his pious heart,
In every pray'r, and blessing, bore its part—
And let this consolation soothe the Souls
Whose sacred wish some Tyrant's will controuls,

237

That while the Mind, with sacrilege laments,
No sin's ascrib'd except the Heart consents:
Yet should each pious, virtuous, Soul avoid
Such ostentatious haunts of impious Pride,
Or from such scenes of Vanity escape,
Where Satan tempts in each seductive shape.

Nor did this Despot-Governess engage,
With Heav'n's behests, alone, base war to wage,
But forc'd the Bard, by parsimonious plan,
To break the mutual Ties ordain'd by Man.

A female Relative, to save her Pelf,
Disclos'd a scheme she realiz'd herself;
And, with a Sister's feelings, fondly taught
Where smuggled goods, with profit, might be bought—
But, chief, pure Coffee, might be purchas'd thence,
Fresh, as in shops, at greatly less expence.

To cloke this commerce, and the crime conceal
Cunning contriv'd to spread her specious veil,
By vending legal goods, for virtuous gold,
That needed not in secresy be sold—
Where every purchaser, if not too proud,
Could buy such bargains, in a common crowd,
As might securely curious gazers greet
On all the public pegs in Monmouth Street;
Or deck the pavement at the daily Fair,
Where Israel's tribes, in dirty troops, repair,
And every danger, every fear, defy,
Midst Tyrants of the Customs, skulking by.

There might be bought, expos'd for paltry gain,
The quondam trappings of the queenly Train;
There Beaux and Belles might make each beauty shine,
By decking backs, heads, limbs, for little coin,
And, thus bedizon'd with each royal Thing,
All fancy Self, Prince—Princess—Queen—or King!

There, thrown in splendid heaps—not hung on pegs,
The Hose which whilom press'd lov'd Princes' legs—
There, gayly flashing gold, or silver, flame,
What once fond hugg'd most sacred Monarch's Frame;
Each varied sort of silk, or velvet, Vest,
By clothing kingly body doubly blest!
Which, long reflecting Sovereign's solar light,
Had dazzled, while they drew, each servile sight!
Dear Linen, rich with aromatic dews,
Which pores of Potentates, alone diffuse;
And nameless robes, tho' bald, both sweet and fair,
Each cringing Courtier would, as nosegays, wear!
There, plac'd, with secret rapture, rich, were seen
Habiliments, once clasping Britain's Queen!
With curious darns, by regal fingers drawn,
Which rais'd their worth, to purchase, or, to pawn—
The flounces furnish'd with sweet-scented dust,
And precious metals, richer for the rust;
Which promptly might, at much remoter time,
Give greater brightness to each shred sublime!
There, too, each graceful garment might be found,
Whose envied foldings, erst, so fondly wound
Round lovely female Frames, of royal Race,
Not giving beauty, or bestowing grace,
But boasting fairer fame, and choicer charms,
From heavenly faces—necks and breasts—and arms,
With other sweet, and pure, celestial, parts,
Which win all clownish eyes, and courtly hearts!
And tho' some little tarnish might be trac'd,
Around the borders, or below the waist,
Yet all angelic Princesses transpire
Could only help to claim their value high'r—
And tho' some keen, discriminating, Eye,
Might here, and there, Economy descry,
The needle's labours, or proud pencil's touch,
No Lady deem'd one stroke, or stitch, too much—
While wrought by royal industry, and skill,
The Vesture's value was increasing, still,
In wonderous ratio! tho' the wardrobe, all,
Were one close patch-work, or one painted scrawl;
There Clothes were on shelf, or floor, or bench,
In which fierce York and Clarence scar'd the French;
Or other Princes shone, with warlike show,
Whose skill and courage frighted every Foe!

These once ordain'd, in happier days, to shine
On Prince, or Princess; Queen, or King divine!
And, like their Wearers, more than mortal view'd,
By Courtiers, they; both by the Multitude.
Now, like neglected Greatness, in disgrace,
Deeply degraded from the first embrace;
Which, when it can support mock Pomp no more,
Is turn'd, contemptuous, from the Palace door,
For ever banished from the smile of Kings,
And rank'd, as refuse, with inferior Things!

238

With grosser garbs, as they that wore them, must,
Like meaner Mortals all be lodg'd in dust,
So were these royal reliques doom'd to dwell,
In the cramp'd sections of a Smuggler's cell—
By filth emboss'd, and fleecy cobwebs bound,
Where various vermin hunt in hourly round—
Mix'd with foul frippery, ev'n of Sisters frail,
Like selfish Courtiers, all expos'd to sale;
So to abide, no longer blythe and gay,
Till some new buyer bring them back to Day.

Such situation still may be compar'd
To that shrew'd office, which, before, they shar'd;
To hide beneath their dazzling gold's disguise,
Slight peccadillos, such as courtly Lies,
Avarice, and Lust; Hypocrisy, and Pride;
And some few foibles, of like sort, beside—
Thus, now, they serve, as coverings, to conceal
All kinds of Knavery, under virtuous veil,
While, in antique, but courtly, pomp display'd,
They cover Villainy with shining shade,
Exhibited abroad, in brilliant heap,
All puff'd to chafferers, now, as choice and cheap;
To jilt the judgment by their gaudy glare,
And offering specious proofs of traffic, fair,
As legal curtains cloking lawless ware.

But, Crispin, Agent, in this plot employ'd,
By that fair Trader might not be denied,
'Twas now requir'd some written document,
From well-known Pen's full sanction, should be sent,
By trusty Bearer, craftily convey'd,
To stablish such a noble branch of Trade;
And, like Ambassadors, of brighter fame,
Still urge, with cunning craft, obnoxious claim,
Lest Foes of deeper skill should counteract,
And stop the progress of intended pact—
For, in such lurking traffic, always lies
Much room for doubt—suspicion—and surmise—
Lest mischief might the Vendor's views impeach
And level all to Law's opprobrious reach:
For oft the heart, which Conscience never curbs,
Some crabbed Statute cruelly disturbs;
And every contraband endeavour awes
By the stern aspect of some penal clause.
So compacts carried on, by courtly Foes,
Are full of treachery, and tricks, like those;
While, muffled up, in Cunning's mimic mask,
In spite of Justice, ply their specious task;
Making both Morals and Religion bend
To gain, by dangerous guilt, some dirty end.

That this advantage nothing might defer,
The manuscript must be supplied by Her
Who this clandestine Commerce long had plied,
To prove her skill, and save her pence, beside,
In types well-ascertain'd as soon as seen,
By the sharp glance of shamefaced Mrs. G---n.

Tho' different doctrines Crispin's Conscience held,
Yet, here, supreme Authority compell'd;
Which, for a moment, silenc'd moral saws
To fit him for the breach of binding Laws;
And, by those base credentials, thus contrive
To break the business, that such Trade might thrive;
Deputed as a Man of words, but wary,
To manage every apt preliminary;
Becoming, while he fill'd this office, so,
His smuggling Patroness's Plenipo.

When Crispin went, and hung the Signal out,
His awful Form suggested fearful doubt,
Whether he might not, from his sex, and size,
Be some insidious Traytor in disguise.
Negotiations, of that subtle kind,
Are mostly manag'd by some female Mind;
For, e'er since Eve perform'd her smuggling part,
Her Daughters are most dext'rous in that Art,
But more egregiously the Sex transgress,
In smuggling articles for fig-leaf Dress.
He well might Woman's panting heart appal,
His frame so formidably stout, and tall!
And, tho' few faces less bespoke design,
Yet all who deal in counterfeited coin,
Scan with a cautious, scrutinizing, care,
To shun each sly, insinuating snare;
And Women most suspect all mortal Elves,
Fearing those weaknesses they feel Themselves—
But, having circumstantial notice took,
With nicest scrupulosity of look,
And after many a speech—and many a pause—
While weighing Lucre with rash risque of Laws—
No longer led such Suitor to perplex,
With modest meanings, like the softer Sex,
Deign'd to insinuate, with soft words and airs,
She had, occasionally, sold such wares.

239

Thus, having wander'd thro' each winding curve
Of squeamish qualms, and feminine reserve,
And fully frustrated each prudish plea,
The immoral mart was, now, unfeign'dly free.

Audacious traffic! dark and dangerous Trade,
So near the spot where penal rules are made,
By Pow'rs combin'd of Commons—Lords—and Kings,
Prohibiting such untax'd, thriftless, Things;
All Subjects to coerce, low Rogues restrain
And give great Villains, only, hopes of Gain!

Tho' thus obnoxious, Crispin was engag'd,
And witless War, 'gainst Law and Gospel wag'd,
But, much embarrass'd, loads, illicit, bore,
By monarch-Magistrate's deep-guarded door—
Full well aware he'd poor excuse to plead,
In mitigation of the shameless deed;
While frail Employer's wealth might well afford,
With costlier legal cates to crown her board—
And tho' his Will complied, in evil hour,
To gratify such Avarice, Pride, and Pow'r;
Yet, he, like all Offenders, felt, within,
Conviction, sore, the constant curse of Sin!
He fear'd a full refusal might offend
A fellow-Mortal! much-professing Friend!
Tho', while he occupied a different post,
His Spirit had defied an armed host!

For several Seasons did this commerce last,
To chosen Friends affording cheap repast—
Still to the prompt Provider doubly sweet,
It sav'd some coin yet gave accustom'd treat.
But Crispin's breast, thro' all this tedious time,
Felt burden'd, sore, with consciousness of crime,
Till, knowing how his anxious heart was pain'd,
The deprecated practice Heav'n restrain'd—
In course of this accurs'd, illegal, Scheme,
Against all rule, both civil and supreme,
At length, unmeet for fashionable Dame,
A base, abominable, cargo, came;
A musty, filthy, mass—and far unfit
To offer Friends of Wealth, or Taste and Wit—
Ev'n far inferior to some paltry trash
Fair Traders cast away, with loss of cash.

Here was a dire dilemma! how could cost
Be now secur'd, and not the value lost?
Long lay the coarse commodity unus'd—
The knavish Vendor much, meantime, abus'd—
While Crispin oft was urg'd, with taunt austere,
By fair exchange his character to clear;
And Reason said, while he receiv'd his pay,
His Will was bound, and Duty bid obey—
But Conscience pleaded, paramount command,
The Laws of Heav'n, and of his native Land.

This was a thought that sway'd his pensive Soul,
Beyond a mortal Mistress's controul!
Resolv'd no more strict Justice to degrade
By thus engaging in this graceless Trade;
But all commands, with fortitude, refuse,
Which robb'd Society of social dues;
And firmly now defy a Despot's nod,
Who bade him thus wage war with Man—and God!

Among Delinquents; who, thus, lawless, deal,
So inconsistent with the common Weal!
The callous Conscience ne'er is over-nice
About the rules of Virtue, or of Vice—
For Earth's or Heaven's Codes but little care,
While they can safely purchase cheaper Ware;
Careful, alone, with all their wicked wiles,
To shun the punishment, and share the spoils—
Grasping at all their greediness can get,
For all is favourite fish that comes to net.
But how can Christians e'er prefer a claim
To gospel-grace, or own that noblest Name!
How hold a close communion, when alone,
With One to whom all frauds are fully known!
Whose piercing Eye the deepest plot can scan,
Which Cunning may conceal from moral Man?
How can they look tow'rds Heav'n's lov'd Mercy seat,
Or hope for pardon, tho' their pray'rs, intreat,
While their iniquitous clasp'd palms contain
Such unjust savings?—such ill-gotten gain?
Much less a blessing from Heaven's righteous Lord
Whose rank dishonesty deserves a Cord!

How can that being who is boundless Love,
And holds Heav'n's perfect balances above—
Whose hand the sword of Justice still suspends,
E'er view such vile offenders as His Friends?
How can such Conscience His pure Throne approach,
Whose treacherous tricks on civil claims encroach?

240

To Christ's tribunal daringly appeal,
And no remorse, fears, nor forebodings, feel,
But tempt the tryal of that awful test,
While counteracting Heav'n's most high behest?
Spoke thus, in thunder, from dread Sinai's heights,
“Man, like his own, shall hold all other's rights!”

How can such crafty Miscreants Neighbours face,
With calm composure, in a public place?
Confront a Fellow's look devoid of fear,
Convinc'd they cheat each honest creature there?
Or shake right hands, without the blush of shame,
While the left holds, conceal'd, that other's claim?

Let not Delinquents, thus, themselves deceive—
By such base practices both Parties thieve!
In each such secret, such injurious, job,
Each faithful Tradesman, thus, they foully rob!
While still is stolen, by such vile, peecant, plan,
Some property from every honest Man—
Thus all who basely join such unjust band,
Become vile Nuisances in every Land!

End of First Uolume.

CHAPTER 13th.

Man, individual Man, if singly left
Must feel his Mind of many a bliss bereft;
Must suffer endless fears, and pains, and woes,
From personal frailties, and from pow'rful foes;
And would from reasoning, form a riper plan,
Of mutual human helps, by massing Man.
Then, whatsoe'er became the full extent
Of combination, and assistance, lent,
'Twere needful to establish binding Rules,
For curbing Culprits, and confining Fools;
That each bold disobedience, and demur,
Which forms infring'd, might penalties incur,
Whether those compulsory rules arise
From general suffrage, framing mutual ties,
Or few, commission'd, with a full controul,
By all the Mass, might represent the Whole—
Each Soul that breathes, beneath such solemn Pacts,
Stands bound, explicitly, by all their Acts.

Here, then is drawn, distinct, a legal line
That must all Individuals' deeds define;
And Heav'n still sanctions all such social Laws,
Each Statute—Chapter—Paragraph—and Clause—
As firm as forms in holy Writ reveal'd,
Unless by like Authority repeal'd.
Thus all who claim the blessings Laws procure,
Must all privations, and restraints endure,
And none from personal Passion, Lust, or Pride,
Attempt to loose the knots those Laws have tied.

Such legal compacts must incur expence,
To keep due Order, and procure Defence;
And such expences must, or ought, to fall,
In just proportion, equally, on all—
And all who thus defraud, by dint of Art,
Depôt, appointed, of the smallest Part,
Whate'er their Wit, or Sophistry, may say,
'Tis pilfer'd from each purse of those that pay.

It matters not what monstrous Cheats are known,
Among mean Rascals that surround a Throne;
Or what base tricks, by barter, or by Trade,
Some Smugglers practice—who the Laws have made.
Tho' Kings be meaner than the meanest Clown,
And, for a trifle, sell a foreign Town—
Still, to supply false pomp, and fleshly sport,
Accept curs'd pay from foreign rival Court—
Or, like a cormorant, should a Sovereign seize
Enormous favours, or more monstrous fees—
Should shuffle off His shoulders personal charge,
And lay it on the Subjects' backs at large—
Should smuggle gifts, like greedy, graceless, Queen,
To perjure Peers—and dire Delinquent skreen;
While jointly, pillaging impoverish'd State
Place all at interest to accumulate—
With numerous millions find not half their fill,
But strive for millions more and smuggle still;
Nor give one guinea, from their mighty store,
To prompt pure Merit, or to help the Poor.

Should Princes grasp a People's golden stuff,
Nor find their fifty thousands near enough;
But still game—drink—and guttle—all they get,
And leave much larger sums, beside, in debt;

Which neither Friends, or Parents, reimburse,
But smuggle all from patient Subjects' Purse—
Drawn most in drops from Artists' mangled hands,
And Labourers' brows, who till the burden'd Lands.

Should haughty Statesmen, by some smuggling stealth,
Impound large portions of the Kingdom's wealth,
And, maugre common scandal and disgrace,
Smuggle their Pimps a pension, or a place;
Or Legislators' Avarice, Pride, and Lust,
Betray their Conscience, and their Country's trust;
And, by base tricks, with strong ambition, tow'r,
To smuggle greater Titles—Pomp—or Pow'r—
Yet famous Ladies never should refuse
To pay their part of tributary dues—
Should ne'er, by selfish tricks, defraud the State,
And lay on labouring Wights, the added weight—
Ladies! who publicly present their plea
To splendid—proud—and matchless, Charity!
Such must find Fame most heavily aggriev'd
Should Hinds and Artists simply say They thiev'd!
Or Penury, with few pennies in its fob,
Indignantly declare such Wretches rob!
Ladies! that love the meretricious Things
Which gaily glitter in the Courts of Kings,
Should ne'er contrive those petty streams to turn,
Which trickle in to help the Treasury's Urn;
And issuing out again make Grandeur shine,
While Kings and Queens, like Idols, look divine!
Such courtly Ladies, never, sure, should try
To make such silvery dews, in rills, run by;
Or to their private purse those drops divert
Which kill their Characters, or Honours hurt!
Productive dews! like pearly drops, run down
That gayly deck the Monarch's golden crown
And form the substance of the shining show'rs,
That yield His Courtiers kindly fruits and flow'rs!
Those worshipp'd crops each Christian sees, and sighs,
Yet no demands of Cæsar's dues denies—
Those idolized flow'rs, and fruits, of gold,
Ne'er from their Lords their bleeding hands withhold!
Tho' sweltering o'er such produce, oft he weeps,
Yet still with patience ploughs—sows—weeds—and reaps—
Bears to the barn—and threshes out the store—
Sells at the Mart—but his own Wealth's no more!
For, while his corn, and coin, with labour, waxes,
All sinks in bare Subsistence, Rates, and Taxes!

The Glory's none—and scanty are the Gains,
Enjoy'd by patient want with all its pains;
While Greatness, over-grown, and pompous Pride,
The produce of its toils, and cares, divide;
Yet never move one muscle for supply
Of ampler crops their Pride and Lusts destroy!

Tho' Ladies, thus, with manifest delight,
Filch from mixt Millions by illegal sleight;
Nor for the wants and woes of fellows feel,
Tho' righteous Heav'n commands, “Thou shalt not steal.”
Indifferent what is right, or what is wrong,
That separately concerns the swinish Throng—
But little anxious what is won, or lost,
So they can join the Joy—and 'scape the Cost—
But little care whose Load's increas'd, or eas'd,
So Pride's indulg'd, and prurient Lusts are pleas'd.
So they can foster Ostentation's flame
Engross the shine, and glory in the shame—
Each sacred Subject judg'd a bare-faced joke,
While Heav'n's prohibitory Rules are broke!

All heavenly Laws thus Pow'r and Wealth explode,
And fracture, by such Frauds the civil Code;
While, tho' all Traders—Artists—Peasants—Poor—
See grim Taxgatherers, daily round their door,
With untouch'd interest, King, and Courtier, 'scapes,
Tho' Laws, for Cheats, are chang'd, in endless shapes.

Great Monarchs have but little cause to grieve,
Who pay not mites while mints their palms receive—
Their Sons and Daughters ample dowries draw,
Without taxation or the letts of Law—
And while they pick their comfortable crumbs,
No contraband Delinquent sinks the Sums.

The Pensioner, and Placeman, much the same,
Come to the Treasury for their scarce-tax'd claim;
For pimping perquisites, and blushless bribes,
Nor care one fig for other cheating Tribes,
And they who gladly lend the grievous loans,
Beneath whose load each hard-ground labourer groans,
Demand, with small deduction, custom'd dues,
Regarding little other smuggling Crews.
But they who ne'er enjoy their new delights
To chear their eyes, or charm their appetites—
Who toil, continual, crush'd with cumberous weight,

To feed, and clothe, and gratify the Great—
Tho' their dull education ne'er defin'd
The rights that appertain to all Mankind—
And tho' their dead'ning habits ne'er declare
What ample pleasures King and Courtier share;
The pomp—the splendour—the indulgent ease—
All sensual Will can wish—all Pride can please—
The feasts of Fancy, and the jovial Joys,
That from their anxious thoughts, and toils, arise—
And tho' they seem to suffer all, with phlegm,
With neither nerves, or nous, alive like Them;
Their Souls are like, susceptible of cares;
Their Frames of misery, sharp and keen as Theirs—
And God will call Them to a reckoning, strict,
For all the cruelties their crimes inflict;
Pronouncing at His bar their dread deserts
For all Want's corporal pains, and mental hurts!

To tricks more treacherous, and of meaner kinds,
Such as must move contempt in candid Minds.
Was Crispin's Will unwillingly compell'd,
While each prompt impulse of his breast rebell'd;
Such pow'rful bent, implicitly obey'd,
Seldom deceives, and scarcely can degrade.
Shall servile Vassal, to a Tyrant bound,
Run rash Caprice's never-ending rounds?
By sad Necessity's strong fetters tied,
To wait on Arrogance, and work for Pride,
Still crouch to Jealousy's unjust command,
And break each civil, and each social band?
His weak Employer's whims ne'er counteract,
Or forfeit peace, or fly from slavish pact?

Suspicion was her Spirit's constant plague;
Her Fancy fill'd with freaks, and visions vague;
While Passion far from Sense, and Reason run,
Till her shrunk Frame look'd like a Skeleton.
A mischievous and everlasting Pest!
Which robb'd her heart of joy, her head of rest.
An Imp that still domestic peace disturb'd,
Which Wisdom ne'er controul'd, nor Conscience curb'd;
Nor supplication, serious, and devout,
Or pious fasting, strove to turn him out.
Minerva-like the frantic Fiend was bred
In the hot matrix of her teeming head;
In this, unlike, the moon-ey'd Monster's sight
Could ne'er distinguish what was wrong, or right—
Its utmost wisdom unimportant plot,
And still, close peeping, could not quit the spot.
A base Descendant of a different Race,
In whose crude composition none could trace,
By feature—form—complexion—word—or deed,
The least resemblance of celestial Breed!
Her close Companion in that warm abode,
Whether she wak'd, or slept, or walk'd, or rode;
Still squat, like Satan, at her Grandam's ear,
Whispering imaginary mischiefs there;
Imbueing, hourly, her productive brain,
With fancied injuries, false, and vile, and vain.
Imaginations, weak; or megrims, wild;
For Maniac only fit, or froward Child.
The Slave of Whim! weak Folly's trifling Tool!
Domestic, mocking, Menials' ridicule!
Investigating, daily, theft, or fraud;
At home her study, oft her talk abroad.
Her cabinet debates—her dozing dreams—
Contriving still to execute her schemes;
Some trick to trace—or Culprit's crime detect,
For falsehood—thievery—fraud—or vile neglect.
Full oft was clearest character arraign'd—
Oft pure simplicity with scandal stain'd—
And, frequent, Crispin bore the prompt expence
Of cruel anger for his calm defence;
While each atrocious deed, or base design,
Was found—form'd—finish'd—in her mental Mine.

Among the many plans that shaping Pow'r,
Engender'd, and produced, each procreant hour,
Begot and buried in the womb of thought,
Some finish'd brats, tho' frights, to birth were brought;
And Crispin was compell'd, as Accoucheur,
To help in bringing forth each spawn, impure!

One devilish bastard, undeserving birth,
A moral Monster! without wit, or worth—
Unfit for life—too loathsome for the light;
And carefully conceal'd from common sight—
'Twas nothing more than a deformed mass—
No creature could proclaim it lad, or lass—
Scowl'd with Dam's cunning wink, and Sire's curs'd squint—
Without one grain of Grace, or Honour, in't;
A dark, a dismal, and infernal Fiend!
And every Soul that saw it, shook, chagrin'd!

When Crispin spied it, first, he felt quite scar'd,
And offer'd every argument he dar'd,

To have it strangled, ere 'twas fully born;
But all his hints were bandied back, with scorn—
And, as the Demon was decreed to live,
He penn'd its hist'ry in plain narrative;
When, as he hated flattery, and fuss,
The secret story was related thus.

No One which knew the honest Butler, thought
That miracles, by Him, would e'er be wrought;
Or could suspect him of such strange design
As turning Water into perfect Wine—
Yet, to indulge his taste, and spare his purse,
'Twas thought he sometimes practis'd the reverse.
Thus his pure Mistress mus'd, like all Men, prone,
To sketch out characters, most like their own—
Suppos'd him skilful in the cunning Art,
From every bottle to purloin a part,
And, to escape the scandalous disgrace,
Of putting simple water in its place—
Then, that the matter might be fully tried,
Thus, her vext Agent! Crispin, was employ'd.

Within the precincts of proud London town,
Where herds drink other's healths their own to drown—
Like Syphons, such so often, and so long,
They near can realize the Key and Thong—
Thus, what with nutriment, and what with waste,
Each tongue becomes a connoisseur in taste;
While, drunk at others cost, no guzzlers grudge;
So every Common-council-Man's a Judge.

Among such Suckers Crispin had a Friend,
Who might some help in such dilemma lend;
Instead of acting in a Despot's aid,
Or carrying on such pimping, plotting, trade—
For, tho' a constant Friend to Freedom's cause,
He lov'd pure moral and politic Laws;
Nor was his conduct ever so absurd,
As butchering health with bacchanalian herd.
To Him the Bard's commission was consign'd,
Who felt his errand as a task unkind;
For, inwardly, his Mind was much appall'd,
Tho' to obedience, by his Duty, call'd.
With him, in poke, a full pint bottle took,
To hear each word, and watch each learned look,
While thro' the glass he cast his glancing eye,
And form a Sentence from each apt reply.

He bore his burden to the destin'd place,
And laid before his Friend the awkward case,
While, with extreme confusion, felt, not feign'd,
His humbling embassy the Bard explain'd;
And, deep embarrass'd, diffidently spoke,
Expecting censure, or satyric stroke.
He knew his conduct well deserv'd such lot
For thus engaging in the groveling plot—
A plot that quite o'erturn'd a standing rule,
So long establish'd in the Christian school;
That moral rule which comprehends the Whole
Of all that walk erect, with reasoning Soul;
And Crispin's Conscience, here, had found a flaw,
Tho' sad Necessity transgress'd the Law.

His Friend, who well his situation knew,
Convinc'd his sentiments were fair and true,
And, that such pimping conduct was compell'd,
His indignation, scorn, and wit, withheld;
While, with a delicacy meek and kind,
Such as befits a philanthropic Mind,
With that quaint archness hanging round his lids,
Which all austere severity forbids,
Ey'd the contents of the transparent flask,
With strict precision, to perform his task.
Not like a Quack his rash decision took
From one slight glance; one superficial look;
Or inadvertent, hasty, sentence drew,
By which the Patient years of pain might rue;
And, worse than instantaneous loss of breath,
Drag out a lengthen'd life of lingering death;
But, with humane benevolence endued,
And cautious care the blushing bottle view'd;
Nor with indifferent, or untender, haste,
Presum'd its ominous contents to taste;
But when he pour'd the purple treasure out,
He tried, and tried, with hesitating doubt,
Pass'd, with strong palpitations to and fro,
Then—pausing long—declar'd he did not know!
No verdict could have touch'd poor Culprit's life,
But might have introduced sad scenes of strife,
Of rooted jealousy, and dire debate,
And clos'd the climax with inveterate hate—
For thro' such climax condemnation rose,
Against suspected friends, or specious foes.

Mean-time her bosom with impatience burn'd,
Till Crispin from his embassy return'd;
And when he this uncertain sentence told,
In Fate's dread records by his Friend enroll'd,

How Disappointment prey'd on anger'd Pride,
To find a Casuist so the case decide,
Whose probity thus robb'd Suspicion's brood
Of such supply of rarest, richest, food!

Pride, in Mankind, for ever discontent,
Arm'd by fierce Anger gives full vengeance vent,
Or sinks in sullen silence, dark and dull,
Whene'er it finds its fond Opinions null;
And hates the Man who thus its wishes thwarts,
Whate'er his knowledge—judgment—wit—or parts.

No Patients, who, to Mayersbach e'er applied
To have their Water by his Wisdom tried;
No love-sick Nymph, to Hag, or Wizard, old,
Presenting palm to have her fortune told;
Or doubtful Soul, who-e'er to Delphos went,
To learn the result of some vast event;
With stronger agitation shiv'ring, shook,
Or show'd a more perturb'd, impassion'd, look,
Than, in her quivering face, and frame, appear'd,
When she the indecisive Sentence heard.
Her heart had entertain'd a strong desire
To find the Culprit both a Thief and Liar,
That she might have the lasting bliss, sublime,
To accuse him, daily, with his double Crime.
So furious was the force of sharp chagrin,
That Crispin shared some portion of her spleen;
For distant hints declar'd a lurking doubt
His mildness ne'er had trac'd the matter out—
That some conceal'd regard, or silly ruth,
Had warp'd his mind to huddle up the truth;
Or, the Delinquents kind regards to court,
Had skreen'd his perfidy by false report:
Thus, while this undecided verdict left
A fair pretence to prove the fraud and theft,
The procreant Demon found her full employ,
In brooding daily o'er this jealous joy.

She still resolv'd like system to renew,
By similar pursuit, with vengeful view—
Her Abigail, unwitting, must be weigh'd,
To try if She deputed trusts betray'd;
To see if selfish Lust would be allur'd
By some sweet baits her cunning had procur'd.

A plenteous portion of those luscious leaves,
Whose absence, Morn, or Eve, weak Woman grieves;
Which billowy waves, and wind's unvarying breeze,
Bring from the farthest Ind, or orient Seas,
Were justly balanc'd, to a single grain,
To put the project in a certain train.
These clos'd in unlockt canister of tin,
A savoury treat to tempt a Soul to Sin!
Plac'd obviously expos'd, in closet by
Which could not fail, each hour, to catch her eye,
In hope she might purloin the fragrant spoils,
Entrapp'd by her Protector's wicked wiles;
That She might have her heart's supreme delight
In vending daily portions of her spite;
Which, like a painful Abcess, closely pent,
Throbb'd till the putrid venom found a vent.

Here was a downright diabolic plan,
Well worthy Satan, murderous Foe of Man!
Who strove, with tempting Fruitage, to entice
A female Dupe to forfeit Paradise,
Such foul, insidious Artifice was worse,
And merited a more opprobrious Curse;
For tho' he thus endeavoured to betray,
'Twas Heav'n that hung the Apple in His way;
Not with a hope, like her's, well understood,
But from that ill, to bring forth greater good.

Her scheme was so contriv'd, in every part,
She rivall'd Satan in his subtilest Art;
But, like reward by Providence was dealt,
The Tempted's painful fate the Tempter felt:
In each the forfeiture was fitly thrown,
On Sin's malicious Manager alone.
In this a most essential difference lay,
Betwixt her simple plan, and Satan's prey—
Had each design completely taken place
She'd ruin'd only One—He, all the Race.
There flattery, with the fruit, in part, prevail'd—
But here the fancied scheme completely fail'd;
For, tho' the tempting fruit still daily stood,
And Abigail well knew 'twas very good;
The scales declar'd it neither more nor less
Than when first plac'd within the snug recess.

When proud Belshazzar, with his festal band,
Beheld with wonder the suspended hand,
Whose fingers, most miraculously scrawl
Mysterious types, athwart his palace wall;
He trembled o'er those oracles of fate,
While shocking words declar'd Him short of weight—
But tho' her tremblings much resembled those,
They from a very different interest rose;

For, when Crispinus pois'd the fateful stuff,
She shook to find the weight was just enough.
What raptures would have fill'd her ravish'd frame,
Had her experiment but proved the same;
Her looks had lit with transport had She found
One pennyweight was wanting in the pound!

Who but a Slave secur'd with links of steel,
Form'd with a Mind Love's living fires to feel,
Would not, when suffering proud Oppression's stroke,
With earnest ardour wish his bonds were broke!
Wish Providence would soon dissolve the chain
That link'd him with licentious fools, profane—
Had made him leap the legislative line
That should the compound mass of Man confine—
Thus caus'd him to comply with base behests,
Which Probity abhors, and Truth detests!
Unwilling Party in each wicked plot,
Which tends to sever every social knot—
Diffuse Confusion through Man's wretched Race,
And deal Distrust, and Spite, in every place;
Till, cruel Cunning, overwhelming Worth,
One Sea of Sin and Misery floods the Earth!

Tho' thus repell'd in both these paltry Schemes,
And finding all such doubts but Fancy's dreams,
Yet still the Demon, with undaunted face,
Involv'd her daily in some new disgrace;
Not only finding fresh, and specious, plea,
That Butler lapp'd the Wine—Housekeeper Tea—
But every Housemaid, every Footman, stole
The Bread—the Meat—the Candles—or the Coal—
The Coachman pillag'd Corn—the pilfering Cook,
To help her kitchen-stuff the Butter took—
And wiley Laundress well deserv'd a rope
For filching Indigo—and Starch—and Soap.

A simple Anecdote, in aftertimes,
My Muse may well recite in simple rhymes,
Still to poor Butler's character unkind
She still suppos'd her precious Wine purloin'd
When, to demonstrate bottles ne'er were full,
But his parch'd throat had had a pull—
To prove before his presence all was true
The cork, undoubting, tremulously drew,
Push'd down her finger far within the place,
To show her shrewdness and his deep disgrace,
Forced out the foaming Wine, o'er all her neck and face.
She took peculiar care none could purloin
Her number'd Notes, or calculated Coin,
But gave Invention amplest exercise,
To find fresh coverts for each precious prize;
Her Spirit suff'ring a perpetual chafe,
Contriving where to lodge those Lares safe.
Each corner of each Closet well was tried
Where she might sure her those household Idols hide;
And, to secure them from each Pilferer's pow'r,
Chang'd those choice places almost every hour.

To ease her memory, and all tricks detect,
Each separate sum specific figures chequ'd,
Lest some vile Plunderer, searching for such prey,
Should find the whole, yet filch but part away;
No weighing well how thieves small sums might steal,
Destroy the tally, and the crime conceal.

Sometimes the practice of this curious Part
Produc'd full trouble for hand, head and heart;
For when fresh whims had from her memory 'ras'd
The new asylum where her pelf was plac'd—
When anxious thought and study could not tell
The squeez'd and crumpled Papers' secret cell,
Nor could her peeping diligence explore
The hiding-place of such important store,
What wild distraction then her looks display'd—
Suspecting every Man, and every Maid—
Who, with unfeeling frolic, deem'd it fun,
While, raving round, her frantic footsteps run;
Searching each secret draw'r, with haggard eye,
While arch Attendants all stood simp'ring by,
And every blameless Soul about her chid
For stealing treasure harsh Suspicion hid.

On such occasions oft she'd cant and whine,
As tho' she little cared for Notes, or Coin,
Yet urging still this striking apophthegm,
That, “Tho' it hurt not Her, it ruin'd them!”
To give this argument its greatest force,
Religion still was made her Stalking-horse;
And thus brought home to every human Mind,
“All would be curs'd who robb'd a Friend, so kind!”

Before her minish'd Frame was full undrest,
And duteous Abigail retir'd to rest,
The bed was search'd beneath, with cautious care,
Each sheltering corner, and each cover'd chair,
Lest murderous Caitiff there conceal'd should lie
To pilfer Property, or Life destroy.
That wealth to guard, and Life, still valued more,

Alarum-bells were fix'd in every floor;
But chief beside Crispinus' couch was hung
The most vociferous, with stout iron tongue,
By clamerous call to press his prompt relief,
When restless Fancy should create a Thief.

If Hives of Wealth such cares, and curses bring,
The honey ne'er repays such painful sting;
And Crispin justly felt his heart rejoice
That Heav'n had chose for him far happier choice;
For tho' his best-lov'd Friends had scanty Fare,
They 'scap'd Wealth's curses, and its wearying Care—
Bless'd Providence, each day, for each repast,
Leant close on Christ, and look'd for Heav'n at last!

Some half-taught Mind, from this half-stated Case,
May think a Miser's management to trace;
But let me here correct that rash mistake—
She lov'd not Money for mere Money's sake,
But long'd for more than manag'd Farms afford,
To deck her Buildings, and adorn her Board;
And teeming Mines, when added, could bestow,
To furnish private shine and public show—
Yea, more than princely Income e'er supplied,
To satiate Vanity, and silence Pride—

From that foul Fiend not Crispin was exempt—
She knew him poor, and Pelf might Penury tempt—
For all her dry Benevolence decreed,
Kept not his Family from suffering Need,
Tho' strict Economy and constant toil,
Were wisely exercis'd, by each the while.
'Tis true he sometimes took such bits and scraps,
As must have cramm'd low Pimp's, or Pauper's laps.
For as all were well-meant for Penury's Race,
He found they could not find a properer Place.

Fames lying lips of liberal Bounty spoke—
Poor Crispin found, and felt, that all a joke—
Tho' in kind Greaves's Recollections found;
But all was built on Fancy's fairy ground;
For all her Liberality adjudg'd,
Was grievous pittance—and that pittance grudg'd!

To her sound Wisdom much might seem unfit;
Her politics all bore the stamp of Pitt—
Submission tallies not with ample store;
To keep Men humble you must keep them poor.

She felt amazement, and full well she might,
How Crispin's Income kept his matters tight.
She knew what Families must needs require,
For hire of Lodgings—Food—and Clothes—and Fire—
And, that those Friends might clothe—and drink—and eat,
Thought Satan's chousing tricks might make him cheat—
That Poverty might make the paltry Wretch
Put moral rules a little on the stretch;
Till Conscience, cauteriz'd by anxious care
To yield those Friends both more, and better, Fare,
More warmth, and light, till Want, still waxing bold,
Might steal her stores tho' not her notes nor gold—
For on the grants her hand, or heart, would give,
His Family might starve, but could not live.
Himself, tho' ne'er o'er-nice in meat and drink,
Was fond of Books, and she might, aptly, think,
While stores of Knowledge, now, were in his way,
His Mind might prompt to make a part his prey;
And Conscience, still becoming more relax'd,
Her stock of literature would oft be tax'd.
His past experience would most truly teach,
That, tho' such treasures, now, his hand could reach;
Yet, haply, in some unauspicious hour,
Caprice, or Passion, might withdraw that Pow'r;
And, should fresh Providence repeat his fate,
He'd find such cool reflection come too late.

Such wretched reasonings must in Minds arise
Whose fond affections ne'er can reach the Skies—
Which weakly hope to find substantial bliss
In such a frail and fickle World as this:
But when the Soul perceives all wanting weight,
As time approaches near the eternal state,
If Heav'n the heart has truer wisdom taught,
Such baseless visions vanish into nought.
The intellect that feels their trifling force
Derives no nurture from celestial source—
Such dull desires, and gross suspicions, grow,
Fed by foul fountains bubbling from below.

The sordid Frame, that such surmises fill,
Ne'er feels Love's thriving fires, nor Friendship's thrill;
Tho' plausibly it plead the poor pretence,
That bosom never knew such blissful Sense!

Souls that suspect, without some striking cause,
Are neither bound by Love's, nor Honour's, laws;
Their jealous judgments, casually declare,
What their own hearts, and inclinations, are.

No mind can weigh, or measure, Fellow-Elf,
By any standard but frail, sinful, Self!

And as its pure, or impure, views, prevail,
Will frame the measure or will poise the scale—
Will, when it feels pure philanthropic fire,
Make others heavier, and their standard high'r;
While Knaves will take off weight, or twist each Wight,
Till, like themselves, quite crooked—base—or light—
For every Parent, thro' all Nature, known,
Gives hues, and shapes, to Offsprings, like its own;
And every Object still appears to view
Like the stain'd Medium Mind's thrall'd eye looks through.

That such suspicions patient Crispin shar'd
His patronesses Eloquence declar'd;
For oft that favourite faculty display'd,
Her breast's most secret sentiments, betray'd;
Proclaiming with a proud intemperate tongue
Her own reproof, while figuring fancied wrong.
For thus she spoke—“His Wife's apartments search'd,
Much treasure might be trac'd which theft had lurch'd,”
And, tho' this accusation lay at large,
Books were chief objects of specific charge;
Remarking keen, but cautiously, that, “He
From such base fault, might, possibly, be free;
Yet would his Children, wanting good advice,
Not find their moral feelings quite so nice;
But when they left their little nasty nooks,
And loung'd, at large amongst her tempting Books,
The luscious Novels, and enticing tracts,
That warm the Fancy with their wanton facts,
Or lead the Mind, by lustful sentiments,
To meditate on vicious Love's events—
These, ne'er arrang'd in catalogue, or list,
Were more than their weak Reason would resist.”

This offer'd policy a fair pretence
To keep the persecuted Culprits thence;
Endeavouring hard his confidence to chouse,
To keep the blameless Victims from her House—
Yea forg'd still darker, falsehoods to condemn,
And keep their Friend and Father far from them.
Scarce e'er one wintry Sun arose and set
But he experienc'd some intemperate pet;
Which from a vile inveterate wish arose
To treat his Wife, and Family, as Foes;
While striking looks, and phrases, daily strove
To alienate a Sire's, and Husband's, love.
Her jealous Fancy frequent would suggest,
Those close attachments were too much caress'd;
When tattling tongues of servile Slaves would tell,
His love had led him to their humble Cell.

Nor all this satisfied her furious hate,
To drive his Children from her churlish Gate;
His Conduct, still, interpreted a crime,
Which gave his Family one moment's time;
And all attentions to a tender Wife,
Were fruitful causes of continual strife.
Her pestilential breath was taught to broach
Illiberal speech, with warrantless reproach,
In all the foul-mouth'd diction which defiles
The lips of Billingsgate, or broad St. Giles!
Diction which would gross Demirep degrade
In any tolerable way of trade—
What meanest prostitute, perhaps, might meet,
From filthy Nightman, as she traips'd the Street;
Or some abandon'd Nymph, from next of kin,
When just full-flush'd with Insolence and Gin—
What decent Courtezans would scorn to use,
To Sister-trader, in most polish'd Stews—
Would all the sinful Sisterhood disgrace,
In Jermyn Street, or more polite King's Place.

Such monstrous phrases did but ill befit
The tongue of Knowledge—Wisdom—Taste—and Wit!
Such Language Wit and Prudence must despise—
A shame to Wealth—and shocking to the Wise!
Such Words as ill comport with those pure lips
So wont to watch against ungraceful trips!
So long train'd up most pleasantly to ope
With apt comparison, or witty trope!
With lucid simile, so us'd to shine,
And manly eloquence, almost divine!
So seldom opening but with views to vent
Some friendly flattery, or court compliment;
Or to display, by self-applauding grin,
The knowledge—genius—wit—all hearts to win!
That mouth, so moulded into mimic shapes,
With simpering smiles, to greet a group of Apes;
Such as must every female Mind excite,
To imitate her tones, or prompt their spite—
Might make ev'n Bramin's gravity grow bland,
Or cold Archbishop break the tenth Command!
Ought such sweet mouth, stretch'd with Æolian storm—
Lose its fond blandishments and beauteous form,
Distorted and enlarg'd like gulph profound,
To vent such Sentences, with vulgar sound!

Such as might startle clamorous Neighbour, near,
And shock coarse Cook's, or Washerwoman's, ear!
Such sordid speeches as were never spoke
By London's lowest rabble, but in joke!
Were ne'er pronounc'd, before, by Wit and Taste,
In Spite, or Spleen, or Anger's utmost haste!
Never before in Passion, or in Sport,
By keen Admirer of a polish'd Court;
Much less exprest by literary Pride,
Where Phœbus and his Progeny preside!
Such epithets would meet contempt and scorn
In humblest Votaries of the Muses born!
The meanest Minstrel of the tuneful Train,
Would feel such phraseology profane!
His Fancy's flights would, instant, startled, stop;
The Pen, with trembling, from his fingers drop;
And black Ink blush, as conscious of a crime,
Should he record such ribaldry in Rhyme:
But should he, shameless, labour to rehearse,
In vocal accents such vile, doggrel Verse,
When Venus and her vilest Nymphs were by,
With flaming faces every one would fly—
Ev'n Bacchus, with his drunken Crew, retire,
Abuse the Bard, and loath his blackguard Lyre!
What then must Father—Friend—and Husband feel,
Whose bosom always beat with wedded zeal,
When hearing her base calumny accuse
His beauteous Consort, and her virtuous views?
Nor could his Offspring or Himself escape,
Her black abuse, in every varied shape—
While witnessing the Wrath, with Outrage roar'd,
Against a Saint, his Soul almost ador'd—
Thus breaking down all binding Institutes,
Form'd to distinguish Men from lawless Brutes!

Not only, thus, his conduct was arraign'd,
And Her, most priz'd, on Earth, intensely pain'd—
Not only, then, his tenderest heart-strings torn,
But day by day fresh crucifixions borne,
For Prejudice had so absorb'd her Soul,
No longer subject to divine controul,
But Pride—Caprice—and Passion—so possest
The stormy mansion of her boiling breast,
That oft she blam'd the Bard, in wicked Whim,
About the Being crucified for Him:
Yea, worldly-wisdom fix'd affection so
On Pomps and Pleasures of the State below,
Her Soul would Sin's false blandishments prefer,
To Christ's free Love, tho' crucified for Her!

Crispinus found Suspicion's pow'r increase
As Conscience clos'd with that bless'd Prince of Peace;
Malevolence encount'ring heavenly Love,
While Pride with Piety continual strove;
And base Oppression aim'd a desperate blow,
When he was found unchristian Custom's Foe—
For Fashion's hostile flags are still unfurl'd
When genuine Wisdom wars against the World—
And Persecution's poniard quits the sheath,
To stab each Soul that soars o'er Brutes beneath.

When first her subtle intellect perceiv'd
His humbled heart pure Gospel truths believ'd;
Still fresh offence, and mad surmises, grew,
As practice warranted profession true,
And on his head and heart with fury fell,
The more his footsteps left the track to Hell.

She needed not an Argus' hundred Eyes,
While Wealth could multiply her watchful Spies;
Nor had she cause to dread a dearth of Ears
While promis'd favours influenc'd hopes and fears,
And prompted Parasites to diligence
In spying real, or suppos'd, Offence,
Who would, like Pimps, around superior Courts,
Convey to Dupe supreme their dark Reports.

By close attention, in their crafty way,
They possibly might hear the Culprit pray;
And, like Chaldee's assassinating Troop,
Make his religion, and pure practice stoop
Till every prompt devoir, and rite, divine,
Were offer'd up before her sovereign Shrine.
Pimps heard, perhaps, his raptur'd tones aspire
In thanks and praises to his heavenly Sire,
And secretly report, or she suspect
Her temporal Interest suffer'd some neglect—
Or when his Spirit, with aspiring wing,
In pure Affection's flights, presum'd to sing,
What Justice—Truth—Love—Gratitude, would claim,
In honour of the dear Redeemer's Name;
Some genuine Psalm or Hymn, of holy Joy,
Whilst listening Sycophant was lounging nigh,
Whose eager tongue would pantingly repeat,
What Phrenzy seiz'd him in his lone retreat.
Might sometimes represent him so absurd
As wasting time o'er what's well call'd Christ's Word—

Not only conning scraps on those blest Nights
That Heav'n demands of Man, as sacred Rites
Which dissipation spends in wearying sports,
Cut off from Operas, Plays, and crowding Courts;
But plies long lessons in those useful hours,
With all the promptness of his mental Pow'rs,
Which, in her Business ought to be employ'd,
And not by Superstition so destroy'd
With meditation studying every part,
To plant some portions in his head, and heart,
That he, with gloomy look, and accent gruff,
Might frequently relate the tiresome stuff,
When chearful freedom, or some sprightly speech,
Supplied some opening for the fool to preach.
They might, at length, each circumstance relate,
How oft he tried to read, or preach, or prate,
When left to winter on the dreary plain,
With numerous members of her menial Train—
How he coax'd Housemaids—Footmen—Sempstress—Cook—
To hear long Lectures from that stupid Book,
With comments, vended by Dissenter, vile!
In vulgar Tongue, and low, familiar, Style,
Till he almost persuaded each poor Elf,
To be a silly Christian, like Himself—
Which, if accomplish'd ne'er could recommend
To higher Place, or make fall'n Man a Friend.

The more his Mind engag'd in such pursuits
The more she fed him with her bitter fruits.
Not only gave his feeling Soul offence
By urging all her Tools to insolence;
Nor only damp'd his bosom to behold
Her Friendship, once tho' warm, now cutting cold,
But supercilious, irksome hatred rose
To higher pitch than o'er profanest Foes;
By Names, and treatment, his true honour torn,
Which prov'd at once her pride, contempt, and scorn.

No harmony can ever long exist
Where Soldiers under adverse Leaders list;
For while opposing Chiefs their pow'rs engage,
Each bosom bubbles with infernal rage,
Till bursting forth, with violence and brawls
All truth—humanity—and justice—falls:
So 'twixt the earthly and the heavenly Broods
The fondest Friendships turn to deadliest Feuds.
Earth's Demon's daggering the celestial Race
With cruel Calumny, and deep Disgrace—
While Christians only show their shining arms
To strike injurious Vice with just alarms;
Or startle proud Impiety with awe,
Which breaks or banishes Heav'n's holy Law—
Aim no fierce blows to make blind Worldlings feel,
But slightly pierce with tender hopes to heal;
Just probing gently, every rankling wound,
To search their sores, and make each ulcer sound;
While pouring in specific balsams, pure,
Which can, alone, complete a lasting cure.
They simply prove, to Honesty and Sense,
How Christians ought to strive, in self-defence—
While Foes, for Pow'rs of Darkness, fiercely fight,
They wield their weapons pure for Pow'rs of Light,
As justling objects urge their jealous Love,
Shadows below, or Substances above.

No cordial Love, or Friendship, e'er can dwell
In princely Palace, or in sordid Cell,
Where inclinations clash from day to day,
And different interests work a different way—
Nor can Companions in one path proceed,
Unless the line get previously agreed;
Whether the track they travel clearly go
To bliss, above, or banishment, below.

Such was the direful Case where Crispin dwelt,
Where all those Pow'rs were found fell Darkness felt.
Still 'twas his lot, while there he kept his post,
To war with Wealth's high, formidable, Host!
While feeble were the pow'rs he dar'd oppose,
Against that might, and multitude of Foes!
Where'er Simplicity's weak front appear'd,
Her warlike standard Ostentation rear'd;
And Falshood put on Probity's disguise,
To battle Truth with blustering troops of Lies.
High Pow'r and Influence issued sly commands,
To raise recruits among domestic Bands:
While Prejudice engender'd deep disgust,
When Conscience thwarted Vanity and Lust—
Soft smiles, and friendly favours, were denied,
Proportion'd to the Bard's abuse of Pride;
While Cunning exercis'd both Wit and Whim,
To fix foul stigma, wrongfully, on Him.
When Truth appear'd, Hypocrisy would try
To rob his Spirit of its promis'd Joy;
Inflicting, strongly, her chastizing rod

For talking too familiar of his God.
Conscious all Pow'r belong'd to Him, alone,
And Man had none which he could call his own;
He suffer'd not his daring tongue to say
I will do this to-morrow, or to-day,
But still referr'd to His transcendent Will,
To furnish strength all duties to fulfil.
But grave Hypocrisy, grown a prim Prude,
Deem'd such pure freedom impious, rash, and rude;
And seem'd so fearful of that unknown Friend,
“It made her startled hair all stand on end!”

From such emotions Wisdom would have thought,
Her Heart was stricken by what Moses taught—
That such deep deference thro' God's Grace was given,
From His known Love and Truth to hope for Heav'n—
Or partial knowledge made her Spirit sad,
And fear profound, such Liberty forbad.
Does this respectful reverence purely spring
From clear conceptions of Heav'n's holy King:
Or was it knowledge of His holy Law,
Or firm Affection kept her Heart in awe?
No! her condemning Mind dislik'd to hear
The dread omniscient Being dwelt so near;
Or, like old Athens, to avert His rod,
Gave ignorant worship to an unknown God!

How could she deem Him like Earth's temporal Pow'rs,
Where each a People's peace, and wealth, devours;
Suffer not such low Subjects near their Shrine,
To tender truth, or offer dues divine—
None but few Favourites boasting titl'd birth,
With Wealth, and Grandeur, dug from abject Earth;
Or those that clearly plead some special claim,
From riches—honours—Influence—or Fame—
Nor those permitted near their Seat—sublime,
But with restrictions both of Place and Time;
Nor there—nor then—the smallest favour craves,
Or plea present, but cringing just like Slaves,
As tho' unworthy each attention shown
From Fellow-mortal perch'd upon a Throne;
While Kings, themselves can boast no better Stem,
But each draws all he hath, from Heav'n like Them.

Not so that Being whence all others flow,
Angels, above, and mortal Men below;
Whose Pow'r and Glory's infinitely high'r
Than all Earth's boasting Kings, or Heav'n's bright Choir;
Yet He imposes no peculiar Forms
On those whom fear awakes, or favour warms;
Or, who by sense of Sin, and Misery, mov'd,
Approach with hope to have their Suit approv'd—
All but mere Mockers; who, like Courtiers, come,
With ceremonious, and unmeaning, hum,
In false, or flattering terms, their God to greet,
Or cold, or false, request, for Christ unmeet!

Such foul Dissemblers ne'er must hope to share
Ought but the sad reverse of mimic Pray'r;
While Heav'n's great God each simple Soul approves,
When Christ's true Spirit pure emotion moves.
Ev'n earthly Kings who o'er each Subject swell
Their own imperial Offspring ne'er repel,
But woo the peerless Progeny They own
To throng, without reserve, around Their Throne—
So each adopted Child of Heav'n appears
To spread before their Prince fond hopes, and fears;
Nor deem His institutes impose restraints
On lowly Sinners more than lauding Saints—
Yet spurns all pray'r, in frail, self-seeking, fits,
From Scribes—proud Pharisees—and Hypocrites!

Thus Christians mark how Majesty, divine,
Distinctly, draws one universal line,
Accepting rich, and poor, and Age, and Youth,
Who worship Him in Spirit, and in Truth;
But setting every spurious plea aside,
Presented by base Passion—Lust—or Pride.
Unlike the Conduct of mere mortal Kings,
Whose highest Favourites, hung with Stars and Strings,
Must, thus bedeck'd, at aweful distance bend—
Not hail them, Father! nor salute them, Friend!
Nor, while they lowly bow, once look above,
Or feel a sense of ought but selfish Love.
The Poor—in Raiment mean, must ne'er approach,
One prayer to utter, one complaint to broach;
But still, for ever, at a distance keep,
And, still, midst want and tatters, work, and weep!
Kind Heav'n pays no respect to pomp and show,
The diamond's glitter, or the ruby's glow;
Nor will more pleas'd the Prince than Boor, behold,
Tho' clad in silk and silver, pearls and gold;
But meet apparel for the mental part,
The holy ardour in the humble heart—
The simple, and sincere—the mild, and meek—
His perfect Spirit condescends to seek;

Which copy Him who came from realms above,
A Pattern pure, of Holiness and Love!
Who left those realms of everlasting light,
To shew Heav'n's character to human sight.
Not here selecting, while in lowly guise,
The worldly-wealthy, worldly-learn'd and wise—
Chose not his Friends, or Ministers of State,
From proud High-priests, or those mis-call'd the Great—
But Men despis'd, or poor, whose hearts He knew
Were fashion'd humble—honest—just—and true.
Nor did His Greatness—Glory—Pomp—display,
To make them Subjects of tyrannic sway;
But made His lov'd Companions every hour,
The gifted Partners of His Grace—and Pow'r—
To share His cup—participate His meat,
And sit, like Equals, at His temperate Treat—
Ev'n rustic youthful Fisherman might rest
His harmless head upon His princely breast!
But Pow'r, upon that Bosom, tho' divine,
Or Pomp, or Pride, ne'er covet to recline!
They hanker more to rest their recreant heads,
With brute-indulgence, on adulterous Beds!
With pamper'd Profligates would sooner sit,
To share their Flattery, Foolish, filthy Wit
Than hear soft soothings of celestial sound,
Where Wisdom, Goodness, Grace, Faith, Love, abound!
Would sooner join in lewd, licentious, Songs,
Than virtuous Hymns from evangelic tongues!
Much rather try their speech in impious Toast;
Make beastly Lust, or Blasphemy, their boast,
Or mock remarks on Heav'n, and Truth, restor'd,
Than mix in blessings, at some humbler Board!
Rather with Prince, or Potentate, reside
Whose Wealth might raise their Riches—Pomp—and Pride,
Than with that high, that holy, heavenly Pow'r,
Who deals to Kings, and Courtiers, all their Dow'r—
Much less with Need, and Self-denial, live,
Which Arrogance and Greatness nought can give;
Nought to indulge Ambition's base desires,
Or feed Lust's, Pride's, or Passion's, lawless fires!
But would, in kindness, carnal things withhold,
Intemperance—Tyranny—and graceless Gold—
All that would weaken Worth, or strengthen Strife,
Or furnish vain frivolities of Life;
All that would heighten Fashion—Folly—Lust—
But lay Self-preference prostrate in the Dust!
All that would pamper Vanity and Pride,
Feed flames within, or gild a gay outside—
All that would make vile Flesh forget its fate,
And steal Affection from ye heavenly State;
Still urging on the Heart all strong restraints
That fence the footsteps of ascending Saints!

But their blest Prince possesses wealthier Worth
Than all the haughty Potentates on Earth!
Not only all that fluid Ocean fills,
And countless Cattle on Earth's Plains, and Hills—
Nor only all its furnish'd lap unfolds—
All Gems and Ores its hidden bosom holds;
But all the thousands that compose the throngs
Of numerous Nations, and of untold Tongues,
With all their mental pow'rs, and corporal might;
Ev'n all their Sceptres, and their sovereign Right!
Yet He His best-Belov'd but rarely lifts
To risque the dangers of such dazzling Gifts,
But making most oft sharp experience feel
Of pains and sorrows for their future weal—
Of mockery—spite—yea, every shape of Woe,
His human Soul sustain'd for Man below,
To purge their Spirits from foul earthly leav'n,
And fit for liberty, and bliss, in Heav'n!
Not only Crispin felt this lot forlorn,
In suffering, for his Saviour, hate, and scorn,
But each Believer liv'd alike abhorr'd,
Who lov'd and reverenc'd his redeeming Lord—
Those most who cherish'd most that glorious Guest,
And copied His beloved example best!
And why? when Lives, oppos'd, Mankind compares,
The Christian's heavenly Conduct libels Theirs!

What mad infatuation warps the Mind
Of Riches, and of Rank, among Mankind!
Which, with oppressive malice madly deem
That purest Spirits merit least esteem!
That all the carnal World's corrupted Crowd,
Prefer the foolish, profligate, and proud!
Despise the Souls that spurn all graceless Gain;
Chastise each act unchaste, or speech profane;
Who Christ, and all His Children truly love
And look alone for wealth, and bliss, above!
What Frantics! thus, to give their God offence,
And counteract all rules of Common-Sense;

Through ev'ry change to make such silly choice,
Against Self-Interests—Reason's—Virtue's—voice!

Who but the foolish World's most arrant Fools,
The Foes of Truth! false Custom's thoughtless Tools!
Midst masses, vast, of corruptible Meat,
Could hope to keep such matter sound, and sweet,
For festal Treats, at some far distant Day,
By putting all preserving Salts away!
Yet such is Wealth's, and Wit's, preposterous Plan,
In scouting what secures the mass of Man—
With scorn discarding each celestial Soul,
Whose antiseptic pow'rs preserve the Whole!

Will Characters, unchristian, left at large
As well all binding dues and debts discharge?
More strictly civil, social, ties attend,
Of lasting Lover? or most faithful Friend?
The moral duties of domestic Life,
Of Master? Servant? Father? Husband? Wife?
Submit more simply, with obedience, mild,
As earthly, and as heavenly, Parent's Child?
Than the religious principles of such,
Who think they scarce can love Mankind too much,
Except they set the frail and sinful Race,
In Self-existent's—full-Perfection's—place.
They, who, with all imparted Strength, oppose
Their Pride, their fleshly Lusts, and hellish Foes;
Endeavouring, daily, with their utmost Might
To act each part that Conscience construes right.

Will e'er unbridled and unbroken Steed,
In pastures rich, or poor, more peaceful feed
Than the hack'd Horse, when tether'd to a spot
Whether the herbage, near, be sweet, or not?
Will he be less inclin'd to break his bound,
To taste forbidden pastures, tempting round,
Than the tame Drudge by long experience taught,
And hourly lessons, to look up for nought—
But bare indulgence of his watery draff,
And feeds of scanty verdure—straw—or chaff?

Would it be estimated wise in Men
To drag wild Creatures from their native den,
And thus, with all their savage habits, house,
Amongst goods, chattels, children, and dear Spouse?
Let loose, to range at large, in every home,
To fetch and carry, and to guard the Dome,
Instead of Dog's domesticated Breed,
The friends of Man, by Providence decreed;
Which, ne'er pure watchfulness nor labour, spare
To keep the Things committed to their care—
Might not sound Sense imagine those, let loose,
Would break their bounds and practise wild abuse;
At last, sore issue of each sad event!
Make rash Employers wretchedly repent?
Meantime 'twould much amuse each wicked Wit,
To see their Keepers daily scratch'd and bit.

Doth not the Master, or the Mistress, know,
Who keeps wild Beasts for profit, or for show,
Their untam'd Nature nothing can restrain,
But constant discipline, and binding chain?
And would not Wisdom their fond folly chide,
Who this neglected, or laid those aside?
The docile Monkey, the Baboon, and Ape,
Tho' they approach, most perfect, human shape,
Are yet so mischievous, and full of lust,
No prudent Person would such Creatures trust,
But all such Brutes in proper boundaries fix,
To show their grave grimace, and antick tricks.

Had Naaman, the leper, ever found,
By searching irreligious Syria round,
One little Maid of ought but Israel's race,
Whose heart would feel for his affecting case;
And wish him, in the Name of God, to go
Where Heav'n's true Prophet would relieve his woe?

Could Potiphar, possest of common Sense,
In pagan Slaves repose more confidence,
For conscientious probity, and truth,
Than in the upright, pious, Hebrew Youth?
Could he deposit ample stores, untold,
Of costly garments—jewels—grain—or gold;
Or leave his lovely Consort more secure,
With wishes warm, and principles impure,
Among idolatrous and beastly bands,
Than in an Israelite's religious hands?
With stupid worshippers of wood and stone
Than one to whom the living God was known?

If personal approbation, or disgrace,
Give Servant favour, or expel from place—
If recompence, or punishment, in time,
Compel all duty, and restrain all crime
Or Fear be Nature's most impulsive Law,
Then every heart some seeing eye must awe—
Some sanction'd precepts, some resistless pow'r,
Enforce the danger, and insure the dow'r.

Can then an absent eye, or hand, controul
The inward workings of a sinful Soul?
Impress the selfish heart with sacred fear
Unconscious an inspecting Spirit's near?

What will the covetous affections tie
When Minds imagine no Observer's by?
What can the sordid Inclination sway
When Souls conceive all eyes are far away?
What mightier motive e'er subdue Desire,
Depress fond Pride, or put out Passion's fire;
Stifle each foolish wish, and greedy gust
Of grovelling Vanity and graceless Lust?
What shall withhold the Appetites, and Hands,
From dread infringements of divine commands,
Where pure Morality was ne'er imprest,
Nor blest Religion rules the humbled breast—
Where Conscience ne'er inflicts, or fears, the rod,
Of an all-powerful—ever-present—God!
Ne'er warns the Spirit Justice will repay
All frauds, and falshoods, at a future day!
That every wish which stirs, in close retreat,
Must stand its trial at His Judgment-seat;
Except the Soul, well-taught, in time, restrain,
Ideas vicious—volatile, and vain;
Each vagrant motive, and each gross regard,
And hope a final—full—and rich reward!

The crafty cunning of the human heart,
By reason and reflection taught false Art,
May shape its projects, so reform each plan,
As oft may trick Eyes—Ears—and Minds, of Man;
Till such fall'n Spirit, gracelessly, forget,
That God will, after death, demand each debt—
Still in uneducated, natural, State,
Regardless of its end, and future Fate!
The christian Soul conceives far different view—
Heav'n-taught in all that's righteous, just, and true!
Beholding Deity omniscient, still,
He labours, hourly, to perform His will—
Still marks Him present with his mental eyes,
And slays each Lust, as Faith's free sacrifice;
Not only bridling Body's outward Acts,
Which oft break primitive, baptismal pacts,
But every thriftless embryo thought, betimes,
Before it quickens into actual crimes;
Checking its growth, before it fully reach
The ripeness of resolve, or shape of speech.

Which of the twain, in this enlightened Age,
For servile Office, would Self-love engage?
Which Worldly-wisdom raise, o'er household hosts,
To occupy its most important posts?
Would Avarice, to its obvious interests blind,
Adopt the careless, and most dangerous kind?
And, acting quite contrarient with itself,
Put, in such hands, its Person, Pow'r, or Pelf?
Yea! stronger motives, fonder interests, force,
May sometimes influence carnal Wisdom's course,
May let some lov'd advantages be lost
Sooner than find more fond endeavours cross'd.

When keen contentions war within the heart,
And different Passions take a different part,
Reason retires from such infuriate rout,
And lets the stronger force the feebler out—
Thus when such Wisdom with Self-love contends,
And those fond Cronies keep no longer Friends—
When Vanity with virtuous Fame contests
The empire of such bold ambitious breasts;
Or Ostentation draws the sword on Sloth,
Reason must use her Sense to silence both—
Her regal office, rightly to fulfil,
Must sway, persuasively, the wavering Will,
That every Passion to her Pow'r may bend,
And Selfishness attain its favourite end.

No crook'd, contracted, objects can comply
With others, tall, and straight, when standing by;
Nor can one dirty creature e'er endure
To come in contact with a thing that's pure.
How can grim Ugliness e'er hope to hide
Its foul deformities by Beauty's side?
Impiety and Vice appear, in sight,
Near Virtue's, and Religion's, blaze of Light?
So Fashion's impious, proud, Employers, fear
To foster saintly, humble, Servants, near;
As Serpent's ne'er affect the harmless Dove,
Nor Dogs—Wolves—Foxes—Sheep, or Lambkins, love;
Unless to lure, or hunt them, as their prey,
Or fright them, with fell terrors, far away;
That their sweet innocence may ne'er be seen,
Contrasted with such savage lust and Spleen.

CHAPTER 14th.

Long did Crispinus duteous tasks discharge—
And proud Scintilla's train, and pomp, enlarge—
Her pow'r support—her property protect,
And none accus'd of crimes, or lax respect,
Obedient bending to each harsh behest,
Yet less and less he mark'd his cause caress'd.
Still cutting Taunts, and Petulance, conspir'd,
And full, at Friends, their light artillery fir'd,
While many a cruel Scheme, and wicked Whim,
Were, like mask'd batteries, levell'd all at Him;
And levied forces, with their lighter arms,
Disturb'd his days, and nights, with new alarms.

He thought such acrid, hostile, conduct strange,
Yet ne'er predicted thence the destin'd change—
Feeling his heart was faithful, true, and just,
And, careful, still, to execute his trust,
He ne'er imagin'd Mischief could be near,
Felt not, nor fancied, either doubt, or fear;
Nor deem'd disaster ever could arise
From what gave Justice claims, and conscience joys.

No glorious prospect of augmented store
Could disappoint her Fancy as before—
Nor, as before, to stir her subtle Soul,
With specious plea, a sly Supplanter stole,
To skulk about the place with specious art,
Till taught to plan and act his compound part,
Who, with a shabby Partner, could not shift
To fill Crispinus place when turn'd adrift.
At home, when Crispin view'd the servile Host,
He found no rival who could fill his post—
No empty Puppy of her treacherous Train,
His multifarious tasks could e'er sustain—
While, to her narrow schemes a constant Slave,
He strove each economic sous to save.
Thus, looking round, with philosphic eye,
He saw no prospect of expulsion nigh;
No hook where Jealousy could hang a doubt,
That Cruelty, so soon, might cast him out—
That he, like any Demon might be drove
While bent to imitate blest Hosts above.

Had he been conscious his base heart conceal'd
Atrocious tricks, or Vices, which, reveal'd,
Must stamp a stigma on his noisome Name,
And hold him up to Time's perpetual shame—
Or had he perpetrated devilish deeds,
O'er which a Christian's Conscience burns, and bleeds;
And, ruminating o'er each foul offence,
Had fear'd some judgment from just Providence,
Condemning Conscience had foretold disgrace,
With lasting loss of Patronage, and Place.
Then might his heart have felt prophetic dread
Of heavy vengeance hanging o'er his head;
Of poverty, and shame, and pain, and woe,
Embittering all his hours, of Life while here below!
But how could he expect such dire desert,
Who wish'd from Earth, all evil to avert?
How doubt, or danger, e'er disturb his Mind,
Who sought the happiness of all Mankind?
Who ne'er contriv'd perfidious plot, or plan,
Against the interests of one mortal Man;
Not even his greatest Enemies, much less
Against his cruel, once kind, Patroness!
No! he besought the God his heart ador'd,
And, as her highest good, His Grace implor'd
To fill her, here, with Faith and Hope, and Love,
And guide her Spirit, safe, to bliss above!

Borne down with trouble, and harsh taunts, he bore,
His heart would oft, his present lot deplore,
And, spite of threaten'd woes, from thorny want,
Again for glad emancipation pant;
No longer forc'd fair Liberty to stake
But hazard every ill for Freedom's sake.
Freedom, with want of bread, were better, far,
Than thus, with plenty, wage continual War—
Better than stoop a voluntary Tool,
And learn harsh lessons in a Tyrant's school—
Better to wear out Age in endless Work—
Than bear the stripes of arbitrary Turk—
Better to leave this labouring, anxious, Life
Than live in Scenes of endless hate and strife;

For not alone the Ruler of his hours
Convuls'd his Spirit by her vengeful pow'rs—
His nerves still harrass'd with new toils and cares,
But sought to trap his heart with soothing snares—
Still practising the Serpent's cunning wiles,
With winning Words, and soft familiar smiles,
His caution to relax, his lips unfold,
Some truth to broach, or tale, before, untold,
And each clear sentiment, or secret hint,
Firm, in malignant memory deep imprint,
To shape impeachment at some future time,
And make each cast of Mind a monstrous crime;
By waspish Wit, and cunning, cruel, Art,
Form'd into feather'd shaft, or poisonous dart,
To fix each barb in his tormented breast,
By spiteful Passion, or by rancorous Jest.
Nor only thus She exercis'd Her pow'rs,
To stab his heart in those ill-fated hours,
But mov'd her Myrmidons, of either Sex,
By impudence to teize, or Art to vex
The sensibilities that sway'd his Soul,
To thwart his thoughts or virtuous views controul,
Till gross audacity of conduct grew
To heights which savage Nature seldom knew.
Not only was a desperate, foreign, Dupe,
Selected from the male unliveried Troop,
Meet instrument of every foul offence,
For murdering manners, or insulting Sense—
The Tool of Passion—Slave of Lust and Pride—
Of every Virtue—all Religion, void,
Except pretence to stupid papal plan
Which saps the Morals, and the Sense, of Man
Vers'd in all vile impiety of speech
Which circles, in night-cellars, rarely reach;
And conduct, so abominably base
As well might flush the brassiest blackguard's face:
By craft encourag'd in such service, vile,
With partial favours, and applausive smile;
Which, when he found himself no more caress'd
In fits of spleen, and penitence confess'd.
Nor this malicious Agent, only, urg'd,
That Crispin's patience might be amply scourg'd,
And his firm fortitude completely tried,
A dauntless female menial, thus, employ'd;
One who all decent sentiment might crush;
Might make a gambling-house, or brothel, blush;
With foul effrontery modesty defy,
And daunt all truth with dark, audacious, lie,
To grieve his Spirit, and his pow'r engage,
With matchless impudence, and daring rage!

Scintilla's secret, Machiavelian, aim,
Was, Crispin's wakeful feelings to inflame,
That Word, unwarranted, or Sentence rash,
Might lay him open to her waling lash—
Some sentiment, imprudent, might escape,
Which skill could hammer into twisted shape;
Or some intemperate, unintended, Act,
Might serve to slacken long-experienc'd pact;
That Cunning might contrive some apt pretence
To drive the persecuted Culprit thence:
But calm reflection kept his bosom still,
In meek submission to his Master's Will,
Whose Providence had fix'd that hapless Place,
To grieve his heart and exercise His Grace;
His Faith, and his Affection's pow'rs to prove,
Then from those Tears, and miseries, remove.

When that conjecture struck the dubious Bard,
He shunn'd aggression—fix'd a double guard—
From principle, and prudence, circumspect,
No relaxation suffer'd—no neglect—
With watchful diligence constrain'd his lips
To keep his tongue from all offensive trips—
With scrutinizing care each charge survey'd—
With greater accuracy told, and weigh'd;
In each department to prevent abuse,
And leave impeaching Spleen without excuse:
For, tho' his comfortless experience, there,
Was ever mortifying—oft severe—
Yet was his daily sustenance ensur'd,
His clothing, couch, and shelter, all secur'd.
But small emoluments would ill afford
His absent Family a starving board;
While countless articles much more require,
For lodging, raiment, furniture, and fire.
His poor Dependents found but scanty fare,
From all his self-denying Soul could spare;
Whose fond affections never would deny
All his confin'd finances could supply;
Small gains, mock-majesty, with grudgings, gave,
To recompense a poor, insulted Slave!
Much less could strict economy renew,
The needful dress, for such connections due,

From those revenues that her narrow Soul
Deem'd ample wages, with an added dole;
Tho' they, with endless industry, the while,
United nightly to their daily toil,
To ease his anxious care, assist his need,
To educate, and clothe, and fence, and feed.
He never found their cravings could be fill'd,
With dribbling drops her hollow heart distill'd;
Or fatten'd on the crumbs their wants could find,
From sorry morsels from her selfish Mind—
Ne'er hop'd one Individual's frame to fence,
With the fam'd fruits of her beneficence;
Or one lank limb with decency to shrowd,
With all her heart his toil—care—zeal—allow'd.
He ne'er once wish'd his Family were fed
With heedless bounty, or with idle bread;
Nor, from pert views of Vanity and Pride,
To deck, with finery a frail Outside—
With beastly luxury to drink, and carve,
And let poor Piety, and Virtue starve—
With ostentatious ornaments to clothe,
Which simple Souls, with true Religion, loathe—
But that their youthful Frames might duly thrive,
And, in old Age, kept more than half-alive;
While Wife and, Children cloth'd in comely dress,
Might honour Husband—Parent—Patroness;
But not appear in ragged, squalid Case,
Their shame-faced Friends, and Family's disgrace.

Here, for a moment, pause, while I relate
Rare deed of goodness in their abject state;
An act of bounty Affluence ne'er can boast
While Wealth, superfluous, feeds its hungry Host!
Conceal'd by those concern'd; here, penn'd, to show
How far Philanthropy's kind pow'r can go.
An Act beyond the bounds of proud pretence,
The poor parade of blythe Benevolence!
An Act to shame the shining Rich, and Great,
Who boast Mines—Manors—on their vast Estate—
And show sham feasts, and benefits, abroad,
That Children may be charm'd, and Dupes applaud;
Or those that Hospital, or Almshouse, build,
That each Fool's mouth may with mock Fame be fill'd—
An Act all idol-eulogies to stop,
And make vain Statues of vile Donors drop!
An Act far nobler than the noisy deeds
Of hypocrite Professions publish'd meeds,
Which ne'er in heavenly Registers exist,
But blazing bright, alone, in earthly list!
Past pure Beneficence's common claim;
And Might most Christians' cheeks suffuse with shame,
While calculating large remaining store
Blushing their bounty had disburs'd no more!
One solitary instance, so sublime,
In all the long-revolving tracts of Time
Appears, display'd in Truth's historic Page
In any Nation, or in any Age—
One faithful Fact recorded in that Book,
Where Wealth—Pow'r—Pomp, and Pride, but rarely look;
Produc'd their doles, and bounties, to contemn,
By One more pow'rful—rich—and great—than Them!

Thro' London-town, one Autumn's even-tide,
Compell'd to wander, Providence her guide!
Crispinus' Daughter trod her weary way,
Which Labour's constant calls forbad by day—
Not to exhibit her attractive charms
And draw admirers to an harlot's arms,
Which wild nefarious Fancy might surmise,
And malice dar'd assert with dauntless lies;
Malignant Falshood! which She dared assert,
Who felt a Fiend's delight in other's hurt.
She scorn'd all carnal sport; all cursed pelf!
Thus, injuring others to undo herself
By moral, pious, Parents, better taught,
To spurn such practice and constrain the thought—
Still, with a virtuous, vigilant, intent,
On commendable business solely bent,
To find such useful, honest, pure employ,
As yields the offspring hope, the parent joy!

'Twas this kind Individual's hap to meet
A decent Stranger wandering thro' the street,
Who stopp'd her steps, and bow'd his body low,
And then began a bitter tale of woe!
A tender narrative of hapless loss!
Of cruel troubles! and of trials cross!
With many a grating circumstance of grief,
Soliciting, polite, some small relief.

But she alas! had nothing in her charge,
And Pity long'd to tender something large!
She felt, with pain, intense, an empty purse,
In such sad case, an aggravated curse!
What could she do? she, pensive, stepp'd before,

Leading the Moaner to her Mother's door;
And entering in, where Neatness cover'd Need,
To tell the tale—the Plaintiff's cause to plead—
She needed not to act a specious part,
To search the secrets of her Mother's heart;
Nor practice eloquence of look or speech,
The ready feelings of that heart to reach;
She only sought the simple truth to show—
Conscious all Want could spare her Kindness would bestow.
Ah me! my Muse ne'er can, in rhyme, recite
How Sorrow choakt all Charity's delight!
What mixt emotion struggled to repress
The modest Matron's painful wretchedness!
How Disappointment her meek heart dismay'd;
When her sad look her starving stock survey'd;
Sighing to see her treasur'd hoard so small,
For one poor silver piece composed it all!
Her eyes, averted from the store,
Were drown'd with tears to mark it was no more!
Yet this, when weighing the disastrous Case,
And, hoping Heav'n might soon the sum replace,
While her warm Soul, with fine sensations glow'd,
Her eager heart, and ready hand, bestow'd!
That heart, ne'er, after, felt a niggard grutch,
Or deem'd Humanity had done too much—
Ne'er once repin'd o'er that penurious Need,
Which might such Prodigality succeed;
Nor felt reflecting Consciousnesss recoil,
With selfish fears at future care and toil;
But, when she found the poor Complainant fled,
And calm Reflexion cool'd her flurried head;
Tho' she'd imparted all the pence she had,
She felt afresh her troubled bosom sad,
That no solicitation urg'd to eat
Some chearing morsel of her choicest meat!

Mark this, ye Misers! this plain tale compare
With what your character, and conduct, are!
Look back o'er all your Life, with blushing shame!
Contrast them with this kind, this dow'rless Dame!
O'er all your multiplying heaps repent!
Consider whence, and why, such wealth was lent!
See in each pile a complicated crime!
Weigh well their uses, and redeem the time!
Look round and read, with arguments mature,
What Industry, and doitless Worth endure!
Your bounties might remove unnumber'd ills
Could Kindness influence your froward Wills—
Would Sympathy apply her prompt relief,
To lighten loads of aggravated grief!
But bosoms, dead like Your's, can never feel
The rapt rejoicings o'er another's weal!
Your iron hearts o'er misery never melt,
Nor feel the thrillings her pure pity felt!
Your cold conceptions ne'er can once declare,
What sweet delight such happy Spirits share!
Nor can your sordid Souls this boast believe,
“'Tis greater joy to give than to receive!”
Could your awak'd affections once o'erflow
With rapturing pleasure such soft Natures know,
No more your breasts would that rich bliss resign,
For hapless ponderings o'er your canker'd Coin;
But gladly all the gather'd heap impart,
For those rich transports that expand the heart—
And Gods of gold indignantly despise,
To share such social, sympathetic, joys!
I urge you not, in Need, like Her, to live,
Nor like her your last scrap of coinage give—
Not your last Sixpence on the Poor to spend,
And starve; or stint Yourselves, to feast a Friend—
But not to hoard and idolize your wealth—
To risque your Soul, and hurt your Body's health—
Not like an Elwes, with a million mass'd,
Live Wretches, loath'd and die with want at last;
But learn, like Her, the proper us of Pelf,
And love each needy Neighbour as yourself!

All ye that feel the philanthropic spark,
This pure, this unexampled, Matron, mark!
No more Your vast beneficence to boast,
Tho' Vanity may feel a numerous host!
No more Your mighty charities proclaim
Who clothe a few for ostentatious fame!
Thro' social channel Deity design'd,
To spread pure happiness amongst Mankind.
But do You, Worldlings! who proud wealth possess
Thus labour to diffuse full Happiness?
Do You like Her endeavour to fulfil,
This equal Maxim of Your Maker's Will?
Do You, round all your ample, rented Lands,
Strive, thus, to strengthen all the labouring Bands?
Or from Your teeming Mines' revenues, large,
As well Your duties, and Your debts, discharge?

Your breasts with such consuming conflicts burn,
In such full bounties Heav'n's free loans return;
And at Compassion's unresisted call
With gladness give Necessity Your all?
On weeping Penury all that Wealth expend?
To God, ungrudging, all Your livings lend?
On base Indulgence ne'er one doit bestow,
But pour your ample Pelf on Want and Woe;
Till Bounty, thus, of minted means bereft,
And not one solitary Sixpence left,
The force of fellow-love still strongly feel,
And proffer part of Need's remaining Meal?

She had no rich resource—no heapy hoard,
To clothe her callow Brood, or crown her board—
No irrigated grounds, nor mines, immense,
To make her mindless of such prompt expense;
But constantly compell'd to reimburse
Her household spendings from poor Crispin's purse.
He had no perquisites to spend, or sport—
No sinful sinecure from Camp, or Court—
No Church emoluments from whence to draw;
No fees from Physic, and no bribes from Law;
Nor could he grasp one grain from tricks in Trade,
Where oft, by Bankruptcies, much Fortune's made:
He only had poor Salary to spend
To answer every right and useful end;
With what fond Children's fingers could create;
And mangled hands of his industrious Mate;
Who yielded her short Wealth, and wish'd to share;
With Want, the small remains of needful fare.

Hide your diminish'd heads, ye rich and proud!
Who stalk, like Titans, thro' the shrinking Crowd;
Or swell, aloft, on moving thrones, and throw
Contemptuous glances on the Throngs below!
Your haughty hearts depress, nor proudly dare
With Worth unparalleled, like hers, compare!
Pique not yourselves on pelf, or vast estate,
Nor think that gold, or glebe can make You great!
Let not mean Pride or Prejudice mislead,
To judge too harshly of Man's humbler Breed!
Let not your Bodies tho' if more nobly born,
Push by poor Brethren with contempt and scorn;
While all the parts of your corporeal frame
Are dust, like theirs—and must decay—the same!
Nor let your Minds, which constitute the Man,
And, like low Equals first from God began,
Like them for good or evil thoughts—words—deeds—
At length receive their everlasting meeds!
You never know what Merit you may meet,
'Mong multitudes, in Towns, in every Street!
What Piety, or Virtue, on the Plains,
Among the mass of simple Nymphs and Swains!
Your Souls perceive not what superior Worth
May dwell with lowly looks, and humble Birth—
How oft You pass sublimer Spirits by,
With supercilious air, or heedless eye!
How many, more than You, might claim respect,
Tho' treated by Your kind with cold neglect!
Of Education, and of Wit devoid
No pomp, or splendour, deck a gay outside;
Nor one external charm the World to win,
Still every Christian Grace may glow within—
While they may gain, from God's impartial pow'r,
A better title, and a brighter dow'r;
And hope, in future, from His sovereign Grace,
In happier Kingdom, some superior Place—
With fairer frames, and robes of richer hue,
Than e'er His Providence bestow'd on You!
Your Pow'rs percive not how true Wisdom warms
Some Hearts, enshrin'd in most forbidding Forms!
What sentiments, sublime, some Spirits feel
Which plain attire, and passive looks, conceal!
What Graces may elude your ignorant eyes
Beneath deep-blushing Modesty's disguise!
Chaste Charity, firm Faith, and heavenly Hope,
May 'scape Your Penetration's utmost scope!
High Courage, and true Fortitude, be found
Where Meekness and Humility abound!
Clear Wit, and solid Sense, may rest unseen,
Close cover'd up with unassuming Mien,
And shrowded by a soft and suasive Air,
The Mind may, hourly, heartfelt dangers dare;
For godly Fear can keep that Spirit down,
Which would not dread Earth's fiercest Despot's frown,
While conscious guilt could that gall'd Courage quell
That boldly dar'd, before, Death, Heav'n, and Hell!

Who would conceive, inspecting Crispin's Spouse,
Within whose Heart those heavenly Virtues house;
Her simple manners, and her accent meek;
Her tranquil temples, and her chearful cheek;
Sweet lip, and soft serenity of eye;
That underneath such loveliness could lie

Heroic courage! firmest fortitude!
Which dar'd withstand oppressive Tyrant rude!
Yet would that Heart with tenderest motions melt,
When thus the force of Sympathy was felt!

Ye supercilious Maids, and haughty Dames,
Who boast Your Beauty's fascinating flames,
And deem not choicer Charms can ever dwell,
Or higher Virtues, in such humble Cell!
Recline your crests, and all your honours give
To this fair Heroine of my narrative!
You who, with grandeur 'dizen'd, proud and vain!
Extort false worship from Your servile Train;
And, as You roll in State, or trail along,
Expect prostrations from each thoughtless throng!
What are Your rights? Your fancied Worth from whence,
To silence Reason, or to ravish Sense?
And what are all your high conceited claims?
Rest they on Riches? or mere noisy Names?
On boasted Beauty?—or on gaudy glare?
And may not brighter Merit boast its share?
Is there no value in a virtuous Mind
That loves, and longs to succour all Mankind?
Do you possess the sympathetic Heart,
That feels, for all Mankind, like friendly smart?
Those prompt emotions which her Soul impell'd
To yield the little all her treasury held?
With such uncertain hopes before her eyes
When Providence would furnish fresh supplies?
Would You your graceless Vanities forego
To mitigate a Stranger's wounding woe?
Your worthless, weak, fantastic frippery doff,
And venture Fashion's vex'd sarcastic scoff?
While Pomp look'd on could Pity's cause prefer,
And dress in plain simplicity like Her;
That, with the surplus, You might Penury feed,
A free-will-offering for Your Neighbour's need?
Would You resign Amusement's dear delights,
And thus communicate Your utmost Mites?
To One such matchless charity extend,
Who prov'd no plea of Family, or Friend?
Or, as Acquaintance, could advance a claim,
Of neither Neighbourhood, or Sex, the same?
An utter Alien, never known before—
And, haply, might accost her eyes no more—
Yet was the sight so sad; the tale so told;
Her heart could not one single sous withhold!

Oft has the Writer, ere her praise was penn'd,
Felt all his faculties profoundly bend,
With real reverence, at her saintly shrine,
Discovering Goodness bordering on divine!
Which, thus, could Nature's selfish bent controul,
And fix such feelings in a human Soul!

You, possibly, on mark'd occasions, may,
Some slighter symptoms of like love display—
Some slender portions from your purse dispense
To stifle painful Pity's fond offence—
On list beneficent subscribe your Name,
To buy frail particles of scatter'd Fame;
Or, lest your acts might lose all flattering laud,
With babbling breath spread your own praise abroad.
But she such christian conduct strives to hide,
And all her deeds of love are still denied—
Not labouring with her self-complacent lips,
Your scanty, partial, bounties e'er eclipse;
Endeavouring to destroy your puny praise,
On its fall'n ruins her own fame to raise;
Nor, with one quaint conceit, or cold address,
Sneers at your feign'd, fictitious, Tenderness.

You feel your Souls with real sufferings fill'd,
As charms decay, and Love's devoirs are chill'd,
O'er Beaux, or Apes, when ag'd, intensely sigh,
Or weep when Parrots droop, or Lap-dogs die—
Find mimic Misery's pains and griefs, engage
Your finest feelings, from the tragic Stage—
But seldom Sympathy's prompt proofs are shown,
By heart, or eye, o'er genuine Misery's moan!

Do You one darling Lust, or Wish deny,
To furnish Merit with a meet supply?
One Superfluity, in pity, spare,
That pining Want Wealth's superflux may share?
Do you lay by loose Gluttony's wicked Waste
That Sickness may some savoury fragments taste?
E'er fond, rapacious, Appetite refuse,
That Need may pick its providential dues?
E'er sordid sensuality restrain,
And Riot's refuse offer, free, for Pain?
Do You vile Pride, and Vanity, repress
And turn the needless cost to Nakedness?
Your craving calls indulg'd soon swallow more
Than Lands, and Trades, and Commerce, could restore!

Do you damp Ostentation's flaming fire
To raise starv'd household Slaves' low incomes higher?
Your Pomp's expences calmly circumscribe,
To yield more comforts for the Artist's tribe?
Or rein in Vanity's expansive rage,
To help the labouring Hinds with better wage?
Let Pow'r austere Authority relax,
To lighten Labour's pond'rous Rent and Tax?
Compassion Domes of needless Pomp divest,
That Care, in comfortable rooms may rest?
One lavish dish deduct from Luxury's board,
That Drudg'ry may delight o'er strength restor'd?
Let Wealth no longer wish increasing Coin—
Let Fashion sinful Finery resign,
And strip those Toys by all but Folly loath'd,
Till Childhood, Age, and Want, be comelier clothed.

Would guiding thus astray the golden stream
Diminish God's regard, or Man's esteem?
Thus scattering portions of superfluous Wealth,
Impair your happiness or harm your Health?
Would active Spirits droop, or Strength decline,
Did you, each day, with less indulgence dine?
Or blushing Beauty suffer larger loss,
While Temperance purg'd away the Body's dross?
In spite of pampering dainties and delights,
With which you daily load your appetites—
In spite of pomp that decks your sleek outside,
Your silken trappings, and your plumey pride;
Maugre each gaudy tint and glittering toy,
Her artless hues, and habit, far outvie!

Can you unfold that unaffected grace
Which forms her sweet simplicity of face?
That symmetry, and clear complexion, shown
To every eye, and bosom, but her own.
Can all your skill, with artificial hues,
Like her fair native dyes delight infuse?
Yet would she spurn at all that impious praise
Which, in her Mind might selfish fondness raise—
Lest she, like You, God's favours should forget,
And rob the Donor of His righteous debt—
Adoring idol Self, which Self allures,
As tho' the work, and worship, all were Your's!

Can Your egregious Garb wake pure desire,
Like her unornamented, neat, Attire?
The perfect model of that pristine Mode
Which Peter sketch'd in apostolic Code—
A Christian mode which still most strongly tends
To make the Males Admirers—Females, Friends—
A maxim modern Preacher proves most clear;
But Fashion's followers have no ears to hear.

Her comely coif, and graceful garments, plain,
Would make strange mixture with your motley Train,
Yet, tho' so singular, and simply worn,
Might pass You all unmark'd, or mark'd with scorn;
Or, Envy Dress and Beauty both impeach,
Tho' neither Art's, or Fashion's, fooleries reach.

But let not Envy suffer false alarms,
Nor dread the challenge of her choicer Charms;
She's far too poor—industrious—duteous—chaste,
To love Your Haunts, or emulate Your Taste.
Too poor to pledge Your wild expensive Sports,
Or join Your mobs, and mimicry, at Courts—
Too much immers'd in toils, and duteous care,
For your frivolities her time to spare—
Too wise to ornament a mass of clay,
That suffers constant, tho' unseen, decay,
To hunt for eyes, and win some worthless heart,
While risquing danger to her deathless part—
Too chaste her charms to trick, with vicious view,
To catch applause, or kindle lust, like You,
And, thus, while seeking unjust, carnal joy,
Let nobler interests all neglected lie!
Needless are all such jealousies or fears;
She ne'er with hurrying Indolence appears—
With Pomp ne'er bustles, 'mid mad gabbling groups,
To nose out notice from train'd flattering troops
That form frail Circles of the vile, or vain,
In Folly's Temples, offering rites profane!
Ne'er trails the streets, with meretricious mien,
Seeing, with envy, and with envy seen;
Committing, every day, the double crime,
Of murdering Reason, and destroying Time!
Ne'er imitates, like You, th' Athenian Race,
Roaming, with restless feet, from place to place;
To seize, with curious ear, some scandal, new;
Repeated, fondly, whether false, or true;
But urg'd abroad, like Noah's wandering Dove,
Soon finds her Ark, and Family of Love!
There, like domestic Tortoise, learns to live,
Content with what the heavenly Agents give!
Clad in clean robes, with meagre morsels fed—
She helps, each day, to earn Dependents bread;

While, blest with Offspring fair, and amorous Mate,
Still Faith looks forward to a better State!

Thus one septennary more was nearly spent,
With little profit, and with less content—
No plenteous heaps of property acquir'd
To make Crispinus honour'd, or admir'd;
Or, with emollient virtues, to asswage
The pressing evils of approaching Age—
Tho' large possessions ne'er supply the pow'r
To bribe off Death's approach one transient hour;
Or win, one moment Time's attentive eye,
To stop his steps, or pass possessors by—
Obstruct his running sands, or blunt his scythe,
That Eld might look like Youth, serene and blythe—
Make strength of intellect, or nerve, remain,
To baffle fierce attacks of grief, or pain;
Yet might they round off Misery's shapen'd points;
Or wipe off poison with which Needs anoints—
Might skreen from wintery storms of Life, at last,
When health no more can buffet with their blast;
And colour o'er the clouds, with varying ray,
Which dim the skies tow'rds the dull close of Day.

But should Rapacity, or Fraud procure
Wealth which ne'er can Heav'n's scrutiny endure,
It gives to every grief redoubled load,
And adds more horrors to Death's dreary road!
Like poison pour'd, thro' every throbbing vein,
Still heightening all the pungency of pain!
Death, with more terror, strikes the harras'd heart
When gold, ill-gotten, barbs his desperate dart!
While Conscience deeper prints each darkening crime,
In surlier furrows, on the front of Time;
Who, with full terrifying traits of face,
Leads on that Despot with still-quickening pace!

This ne'er was Crispin's mortifying lot
To quake o'er Gold iniquitously got;
Whose puny Salary, perquisites, and all,
Would ne'er suffice for Need each quarter's call.
No chearing residue his purse retain'd,
Should Providence unwonted sums demand—
The current Year no coinage could put by,
Whether himself, or friends, might live or die—
In pain, or sickness, no reserves of Wealth
Could offer aid, to 'stablish ease or health—
But, like the emblematic figure, found,
At heads of Almanacs, in circling round,
The gaping mouth was never known to fail
In swallowing up the Year's contracted tail.

From him wise Heaven withheld superfluous pelf
To fix his full dependence on Itself;
And while the strict restraints its Code contains,
Prohibited attempts at graceless gains,
Kind promises, by Mercy interspers'd,
Humility, and Hope, and Patience, nurs'd;
And help'd his Spirit, still, to rest content
With what its Love unmeritedly lent.

That God whose Goodness all our lots ordains,
And thus cast Crispin's pleasures—hopes—and pains;
With one vast glance—one universal view,
Looks all His Works, and Providences, through!
Whirls each great Globe about in rapid race,
Thro' trackless paths, o'er boundless plains of space!
Whose Wisdom, Goodness, Pow'r, impel, and guide,
Their constant courses thro' the viewless void;
And balancing each blazing solar sphere,
While subject Orbs revolve their varied Year!
Whose mandate this huge mass of Earth obeys;
In annual rings rolls all its nights and days!
Who weighs its Mountains—bounds its billowy Mains—
While zones of sand each raging tide restrains!
Still all its bound innumerable, breeds,
Like a kind Father, forms, protects, and feeds!
Assigning eaeh unalienable rights
From wond'rous Whales, down to diminish'd Mites;
While every Creature feels His full decrees
From ponderous Elephants to puny Fleas!
Without whose will no Animalcule dies,
Or lightest mote in lucid sunbeam flies;
But looks on Man with more peculiar care—
Metes all his moments—numbers every hair—
And, till that Goodness gives the destin'd call,
No life can leave—no filament can fall—
Nor mean, nor mighty, thro' the number'd hosts
Can claim their portions, or can quit their posts!

He thro' existence, Crispin's lot had cast
And predetermin'd all the portion past;
Had mark'd him out, among the human Race,
To feel these conflicts, and to fill this place;
And, now, by high, invincible behest,
Mid providential darkness, dispossest!
As when a Wanderer, hapless perils o'er,
Had pitch'd his tent upon a distant shore;

Call'd by the rich Possessor of the Soil
Some sterile tract to till, with Care and Toil;
Plenty, and Peace, and Friendship's feasts to share,
In lieu of Love, and recompence for Care;
But, when the barren, inauspicious, plain,
Confounded every hope of golden gain,
He daily suffer'd undeserv'd disgrace,
Till Pride and Passion drove him from the place.
And thus by Selfishness, and Folly spurn'd,
Back to his Friends the Traveller return'd—
Awhile he labours in his native Site
With much misfortune, yet with much delight!
But, as, at best, Man's Wisdom blindly gropes,
Oft quitting solid bliss for baseless hopes—
Again seduc'd by Friendship's fair disguise
On fickle, faithless, promises relies;
In blandest forms by Fallacy array'd,
Allur'd again, to leave the sheltering shade—
Forgetting shipwrecks; disregarding shocks;
On secret shallows and on sunken rocks;
And, deeming every temporal danger past,
Disdain'd the billows, and defied the blast!
Engaged again in same Commander's crew,
But where all scenes, and services, were new;
With like Protectress borne from port to port,
Even cares were comforts; all his labour sport;
Till sordid Selfishness, Caprice, and Spleen,
Which chas'd his Household from the former Scene,
Abridg'd his pleasures, and destroy'd his peace,
While threatening to contract his monthly lease—

Here, tho' Economy no coin could hoard,
He strove to fill all offices aboard,
And trusted, while unconscious of a crime,
He, there, might spend the remnant of his time;
Or, pension'd by that patronizing Friend,
In some snug Cove Life's venturous voyage end;
Should heav'nly Wisdom first withdraw her breath,
And leave his dolorous Muse to mourn her death.
But still her Pride, and Passions' headstrong host,
Which drove him, first, from her inclement coast,
With pert Contempt, without imputed Cause,
By breach of civil and religious laws;
With Frantic's rude, ungovernable, rage,
In the cold Winter of declining Age;
From station so conspicuous headlong hurl'd
To seek assistance from a friendless World!
So unprovided, and in Life so late,
Such was poor Crispin's persecuted state!
In sixth decennary, midst distress, and Eld,
From house and home by Patronage expell'd!

What was the foul, unpardonable offence
That justified the haste which hurl'd him thence?
Did he betray his delegated trust?
Was he profane? licentious? or unjust?
Could proud Employer's jealousy suggest
Some certain—true—indisputable test,
To prove base practice, or deep mischief meant,
Clearly to vindicate the strange event?
No! nought was urg'd to sanction such a deed
Which made his character, and conduct, bleed;
Except attempts to prove, by passion, strong;
His Reason and Religion both were wrong;
This differing from the World of Wealth so wide,
That puffing up his heart with impious Pride.

These bold opinions were but feebly built
On Fancy's fogs, not on firm ground of guilt—
Not on rank Bigotry, reduced to proof,
Or whimsies, lifting up the Mind aloof,
Above Truth's level, for he rightly knew,
What to dead Sinner, and live Saint, was due.
By heavenly truths could, manifestly, trace
The full demerits of Man's desperate Race,
With reference to a Judge, supremely just—
His Body destin'd back to mouldering dust—
His Soul deserving far severer doom,
Eternal punishment in endless gloom!
His reasoning pow'rs were clearly taught to scan,
What Man could merit in respect of Man;
Could by his labouring diligence discern
Those maxims which the wealthy loathe to learn;
That Riches, Titles, Privilege, or Birth,
Confer no claim to genuine Wit, or Worth,
Nor can to Heirs, or Successors, ensure
A pious Spirit, or one Virtue pure.

His Wealth's the greatest to whom God hath given
The key to all His treasures, hid in Heav'n;
And draws unbounded sums by Faith and Pray'r,
Without impoverishing one Fellow-Heir.
He may the most exalted Titles boast;
Who ranks alike with all the human host;
Who wears, inscrib'd, the Christian on his brow,
And well performs his whole baptismal vow.

He may pronounce his Privilege the high'st,
Who feels full interest in the cross of Christ;
And, by the Spirit's pow'r may, clearly, claim
His God's adoption by parental Name.
His birth's the noblest whose bright Sire, above,
Imbues his Soul with full Faith, Hope, and Love,
And sues most frequent, to that perfect Source,
To give them energy, and guide their course—
Implores conceptions adequate, and right,
Of that blest Fount of boundless Truth and Light—
Yields Him all honour, with a child-like Mind,
And begs more happiness for all Mankind!

He knew each honour that so proudly springs
To swell Self-love, conferr'd by earthly Kings,
And all appendages that grow from dust,
May heighten Pride, and minister to Lust;
May make base Passions rise, above controul,
But add no weight or Wisdom, to the Soul—
Infuse no principles of Faith, or Hope,
Nor give to godlike Love a larger scope—
No true Ambition stir—no pure Desire
To copy Christ, or seek their heavenly Sire—
But make each earth-born Wish more grossly grow—
Affections fix on vanities below—
Make hope cast anchor in this nether Clime—
Faith look, alone, to Things of Sense and Time;
Till beastly pleasures so each Soul debase,
They spurn God's Spirit, and all offer'd Grace;
While courtly Custom acts pert Folly's parts,
And Fashion fascinates their hapless Hearts,
Still rooted deeper in their earthly lot,
Till Death and Judgment—Heav'n—Hell—God's, forgot!

Could Crispin, then, exalted notions frame
Of one who scouted every christian claim?
Deem'd Faith and Piety but feign'd pretence
Mere cloaks to cover every foul offence?
Yet tho' despis'd and spurn'd for christian zeal,
He wish'd her wiser—sought her genuine weal—
While She, with every Foe, receiv'd full shares
Of pious ardour, in his daily prayers.

He saw her weak, and wild, pursuits with pain,
While suffering insult—scorn—or cold disdain.
Sigh'd while she walk'd the broad and beaten road,
Abusing each bright talent Heav'n bestow'd.
Beheld, with sorrow, ev'ry ray divine
Grow daily dimmer still, with Life's decline.
Saw Passion, Lust, and Pride, their Pow'rs enlarge,
While cold neglect crept o'er each christian charge.
Saw Charity assume a mere outside
To flatter Self, while Duties were decried.
Like Misers, reach at more—like Maniacs, rave—
Himself still treated like the vilest Slave—
Suspicion's optics turn'd, with twisted view,
And acts, and words, all ting'd with umbery hue.

His Spirit, while it pitied, still despis'd
The schemes her craft, or cruelty, devis'd.
He felt his Heart with shuddering horror shrink
To see her dancing on Destruction's brink.
Talents, Weal, Time, for nobler business lent,
In idol Pomp, or Dissipation, spent.
Sense chasing shadows—Age consuming Years,
In spite of Conscience, and Reflection's fears;
Still giving Vanity augmented range,
Without one chearing hope of heav'nly change.
Her wanton Ostentation wasting store
Tho' Death was hourly hovering round her door;
Offering the sacred gifts, at Folly's shrine,
Which Heav'n advanc'd in Wisdom's works to shine.
Large loans of mental wealth all thrown away,
Tho' Judgment might be dreaded every day!

His throbbing breast could scarcely brook the blame
That hurt his feelings and defiled his fame—
The calumnies that Spite, and Cunning, cast,
To wound his bosom, and his honour blast—
Yet conscious Rectitude would calmly spurn,
While Piety forbade each base return.
His manly Mind no faithless fears betray'd,
His Soul, while Conscience shrunk not, ne'er afraid!
His honest Heart no diffidence appall'd,
But on his Persecutor boldly call'd
To bring against him some substantial charge,
Which Wit might mould, and Eloquence enlarge,
Full fix'd on clear unquestionable fact
For this fresh rupture of their friendly pact—
Explicit proof sound Judgment might approve,
And well might warrant such a rash remove.

He frequent pass'd a retrospective view,
And keenly scrutiniz'd his Conduct through—
New analyz'd each action, scann'd each word,
To see if ought was wicked—weak—absurd—
Turn'd Memory's treasures accurately o'er
To mark what trespass lurk'd amongst her store—

What crime Self-love might seek to smother there,
Which her acute perception saw so clear;
Yet, after all, his intellectual eye
Could no condemning word, or deed, descry,
No cause of Anger—Scorn—or Discontent—
Much less her exemplary Punishment.

Thus arm'd, and fortified, his honest heart,
Resolv'd to act the upright Hero's part.
While Conscience, with a Christian's force, defied
Her Prejudice, her Passion, Spite, and Pride.
The troops of Prejudice that throng'd the field—
With all the weapons Passion's pow'r could wield;
The transient strength which churlish Spite inspires,
And Pride's more permanent but feebler fires—
With all their virulence and base abuse,
While Truth could no convicting plea produce.

He tried Conjecture's trackless region round,
To judge what phantasms Fancy might have found—
What Game the glances of her Hawks might trace,
Or Greyhounds view in visionary chace—
What shapes Imagination might have seen
To stir the poison in her heart of Spleen—
What Spectres mad Suspicion might behold
Pilfering her property, in goods, or gold—
What magic jaundic'd Jealousy might use
To rouze her wrath, and his fair fame abuse,
Extorting word, or action, indiscreet,
To lay him prostrate at her trampling feet—
What secret schemes her Malice might invent
To twist his conduct, and destroy Content;
Or plots and plans her Hatred might create
To stab his fortune, or to fix his Fate.
How hypocritic Art, with stale pretence,
Might frame some figment to curtail expence—
Prompt some proud speech which might offence afford,
Deserving banishment from bed and board,
And yield some plausibility to boast
His base behaviour push'd him from his post.

Tho' cold Economy, and dark Dislike,
Long look'd for Opportunity to strike
Some deadly blow to make his Credit bleed,
To spare expence in stipulated Meed;
Yet bare-faced Falshood was compell'd, at last,
To speak the sentence when the verdict pass'd.
All previous promises were set aside—
Her head Humanity was forc'd to hide—
And, lull'd by Cunning's opiates, Conscience slept
While Truth and Justice bent their necks, and wept!

But let fair facts, depicted by this Pen,
Make both those Graces lift their heads agen.
Let Truth declare, when from her dreams arouz'd,
Why Age was wounded—Honesty unhous'd—
Why Charity discharg'd a Slave so poor,
And shut against a Friend her frowning door!
Why Worth, acknowledg'd, and in Life so late,
Was turn'd adrift, and Grandeur clos'd her gate!
Let Justice tell, why, after Eighteen Years,
Part spent in troubles—most in anxious fears,
When forced Compliance bore some sinful part,
That oft his conscience pain'd, and pierc'd his Heart,
The whole in care and toil—the chief in strife
Clipp'd from the best, the noblest, part of Life;
And near the third of that contracted span
By Heav'n allotted, now, the time of Man!
The only third, by Providence's dow'r,
The force of thought, and energy of Pow'r.
The antecedent part prepar'd for Youth
To plant Experience, and to store up Truth—
The latter portion, of his shadowy days,
Activity declines, and strength decays;
While each frail pow'r of his compounded frame
Grows hourly more exhausted—cold—and tame!
His withering Body, stiffening, still with rust,
Presents a spectacle of deep disgust,
Among the mocking progeny of Wealth,
Who honour nought but Beauty, Youth, and Health—
His barren intellect, become inert,
In vain hopes patronage, or pleads desert;
But, suffering human Nature's hapless lot
Expects to be by all—but God, forgot—

That was the Space when Crispin might have made
Some efforts, fair, in Study—Toil—or Trade—
Have gain'd some Glory—Consequence—or Coin—
To smoothe the rough descent of Life's decline;
The sharp asperities of Time's drear slope
So faintly lighted by the beams of Hope!
Where Age, from higher expectations hurl'd,
Meets little comfort from a cruel World!
But, when sore press'd with poverty and pain,
With Sickness's and Sorrow's wasting train;
No earthly Friendship chears, supports, or guides,
But down to Death's lone lodge, forsaken, slides!

Should Truth and Justice, here, their plea suspend,
Or, weak with wrongs, and base oppression, bend—
Should both be silent till the end of Time,
Confute no calumny, confront no crime,
Yet will an awful season soon arrive,
When Justice will not wait, nor Truth connive,
But, maugre false distinctions, form'd on Earth,
Which appertain to high, or abject, Birth—
The honour'd, or obscure—the Rich, or Poor—
The titled Courtier, or ignoble Boor—
Howe'er their deep distress, or grandeur, strike
Their sovereign Lord will judge them just alike!

Crispinus ne'er set up a spurious plea
His heart from human weaknesses was free—
From frailties or from faults, exemption claim'd,
O'er which the shuddering Christian shrinks asham'd;
But which the Worldling and the reckless Wit,
Without compunction carelessly commit—
Bold aberrations from the right-lin'd path,
Which every moment merit righteous wrath—
Incessant sins against a holy God,
That call for scourgings from his chastening rod!
Nor did his tongue with proud applauses boast
He fill'd quite faultless, his important post—
Ne'er fail'd, in perfect strictness, to fulfil
Each precept of his wild Employer's will—
No! he confest most frankly how he swerv'd
From Heav'n's behests, and endless Death deserv'd;
And, deviating from Duty, might incur
Some frowns, or slight remonstrances, from Her—
But what could shape inexpiable crimes,
In Crispin's conduct?—modest Man of rhymes!
So cruelly his happy hopes to crush;
Still, every accusation calmly hush,
With exclamation, weak, yet dar'd deride
His humble Penury, and impeach for Pride—
And, thus, defying Justice—Truth—and Sense,
Preclude all honest aims at Self-defence!

Was it Humanity's or Mercy's hint,
That thus would positive Impeachment stint?
Was it remembrance of some small desert?
Or, lest fine feelings, haply, might be hurt?
Alas! he sadly felt, from Year to Year,
His Tyrant's tender mercies most severe!
Who 'mid familiar talk, with baited tongue
Would hook out secrets, with vile views to wrong;
With base design entrusted truths to blab,
And, mask'd with friendly smiles, and flattery, stab!

Did Heav'n, to such, no tenderer Mercy show,
Than their base hearts, on Fellow-fall'n, below,
How would their Soul sustain its misery, here,
From deep despondence, or foreboding fear?
How dreadful after death must judgment be
When Deity proclaims His last decree!

Such arbitrary Despots truly plead
The annual Wretch receives his annual meed;
Nor can one crime to Conscience e'er attach,
Should Tyrants such depending Dupes dispatch;
Nor future reckonings make their Minds afraid
While warning's tender'd, and their stipend's paid.

This might be pleaded with the subject Bard
To quit his quarter's debt, and then discard;
For He no more could legally require,
Than such small remnant of small yearly hire:
But, did no circumstance, distinctive, stand,
To bind his Patroness with stronger band?
No special caveat to his cause append,
To wake the Woman, and to fix the Friend?
No secret sanction of a closer kind
Than those that common Boors, and Courtiers bind?
No incidents connect with Crispin's case
But such as Whim might rend, or interest rase?
Such as mere servile Slaves to bondage tie
Which Despots' pow'r each moment may destroy?
Each calm preliminary quite forgot,
Which form'd each fastening, and which knit each knot?
The many well-wound literary strings,
With labels hung, that hinted better things?
The faithful records fair, in written form,
Replete with promises, and wishes warm?
Strong intimations—smiles—and tropes—
Twisted, and twin'd, like silken, silvery, ropes,
Wreath'd around his eager heart, with countless coils,
Till fully tramell'd in her artful toils.
That heart, which, after, suffer'd more regrets
Than all the meshes of those magic nets.
And do not those deponents still exist,
An interesting, long, but useless list?
Unfolding objects, by their fictions gay,
Which might more tutor'd breasts than his betray?
A pow'rful Patroness! a faithful Friend!

Peace! Plenty! Transport! without bound, or end!
And was not oft her fascinating tongue
With Flattery's soft insinuations hung?
Distilling from her lips in saccharine drops,
To nourish Hope's imaginary crops?
While breathings, fond, like balmy zephyrs flew,
To cherish expectations, all untrue!
Tho' Memory, false, may furl up all the facts,
Which constitute such fair, but fickle, pacts—
Tho' every verbal document's denied—
By Passion blurr'd, or blotted out by Pride—
Tho' heaps of prompt epistolary store
Such mimic Friendship recollects no more;
Yet will their inky characters remain,
Among Mankind, a still-enduring stain.
As proofs of treachery—or striking flaws
In Love's—Truth's—Equity's—eternal Law—
Still stand, inscrib'd, with all their lying scrolls,
Recorded, clearly, in Heav'n's deathless rolls
And at the Day of retribution stand
As base deceptions, on sinister hand.

But should Wealth's, Wit's, Fame's, Fashion's, brilliant blaze,
Conceal such marks, like Sol's meridian rays;
Some hazey medium may soon intervene,
And all such secret blemishes be seen—
Some philosophic lens assist the sight,
By clipping off those locks of dazzling light;
While telescopic tubes the parts extend
To prove what blackness may with brightness blend;
And shew, while shining hot, and soaring high,
Such splendours cover spots of darkest dye!
While He, and They, with all their brilliant beams,
Must soon expire with pantomimic dreams!
His radiant disk become, like sackcloth, dark,
Nor ever more emit one splendid spark,
But all their transient glare be turn'd to gloom,
In sable, sinking, to eternal tomb!
But could such base Delinquents, here, escape,
Deep shrouded in some dupe-deceiving shape,
Each sigh and groan attentive Heaven hears,
And bottles up such Sufferer's briney tears,
To form a tempest, and a flood, at last,
Each Tyrant's trusts to drown, each Despot's hopes to blast!

Should Justice, here, some argument maintain,
Against old Age, and Poverty, and Pain,
Yet Charity might, sure, some smile afford;
Still intercede to sheathe her threat'ning sword;
And Clemency's and Mercy's pleas prevail,
With Tenderness, to turn the sinking scale;
While Pity's dews, dropt most from Females' eyes,
Might give the beam a much more gracious poise.
Had mere Humanity, in female form,
Impress'd by kind accustom'd wishes, warm;
With palpitating heart, and pearly eye,
Amid such attributes of Heav'n, been by,
What had her conflicts, her convulsions, been,
When viewing such a soul-dissolving scene
As Crispin, and domestic Friends, display'd,
When, to their dwelling, he the news convey'd—
When first his bosom bore the swelling load
To his blank Family's forlorn abode—
When, with a quivering pulse, and visage pale,
His breast o'er-burden'd with a torturing tale,
Compell'd his dangerous message to relate
To a mute Daughter and a dying Mate!

There, trying months that tender Mate had lain,
Consum'd with constant sickness—grief—and pain—
While anxious care—misfortune—fear—and woe,
With weight combin'd had laid their Victim low!
Lamented much, by every faithful Friend,
Who dreaded, daily, to behold her end!
Like a fair Flow'r, smit by untimely storm,
Retaining nothing but its faded form;
With such remaining charms as just to tell
What once its beauties were before it fell!

His pining Daughter, with attentions pure,
Had watch'd—pray'd—wept—and labour'd, for a cure;
Till, with hard toil, and anxious care, decay'd,
She seem'd the shadow of maternal Shade!

Another Daughter, and beloved Boy,
That, a sore Sorrow—this a secret Joy!
The one a Wife; just join'd with cruel curse,
Both much depending on poor Crispin's purse;
While he was now depriv'd of every pow'r
To furnish either with a needful dow'r!

He, worn with cares, and persecutions, felt
His painful heart, his very spirit, melt;
While with a trembling step, and frantic fear,
His feeble frame approach'd her pallet near.

Oh! what a dire dilemma here arose!
Worse than e'er Crispin wish'd his fiercest Foes;
Worse than he wish'd false Hypocrites, or Pimps,
Or even fated Hell's infernal Imps!
To ease his heart was no expedient found
But what endanger'd still more desperate wound;
That Daughter's spirit now so deeply broke,
It scarcely could sustain one added stroke!
Her strength he fear'd must fail beneath such weight,
And find her Parent's long-expected Fate!
Yet radiant Reason, 'mid this murkey Night
Shot thro' his shuddering breast one beam of light;
Her youthful Mind perchance might pierce the gloom,
And comfort Fancy with much milder doom.
Might see Hope's image, thro' her misty tears,
In rainbow raiment, softening all her fears,
And, while she chas'd the shades with chearing rays!
Present some prospect of much happier days!

Thus, while his heart, in sad suspense was hung
O'er the harsh story, faultering on his tongue;
How undesirable were doubt, and dread,
For the dear Partner of his breast, and bed!
He fear'd the reliques of her Life should fail
At full recital of his fateful tale;
When, all at once, with palpable surprize,
The baleful prospect spread before her eyes!
She had no heat to thaw her freezing heart—
No softenings for her Soul—no tears to start—
No strength to combat the combin'd attack,
And summon her departing Spirit back—
But, like a taper, ready to expire,
That holds its feeble blaze of fluttering fire,
Long hovering o'er the wick, with trembling doubt,
Lest some small puff should put the sparkle out:
So o'er her fair, emaciated, frame,
Her Spirit hung with long-suspended flame;
Thro' pain and sickness ready to depart,
And leave thick darkness deepening round his heart!

Imagination mark'd, with sorrowing sight,
The near approach of that Egyptian night!
Beheld black-featur'd Fate, beside her head
Bend down to cut Life's filmy final thread;
And, in the ready ear of murderous Death
Urge Heav'n's behest to loose her lingering breath!
He, vengeful Tyrant! he, Assassin vile;
Skulk'd in a corner, near her couch the while,
With ebon bow, continually bent,
To mark the moment when her pow'rs were spent,
Then, instantly, to launch the loosen'd shaft
And, on its wings, to Heav'n, her Spirit waft!

He could not beg to keep her back from bliss,
And wither longer in a World like this—
Nor let Self-love desire a lengthen'd date,
To bear the frequent buffetings of Fate—
Could not when gone once wish her back again,
To wrestle hourly here with woe and pain!
For what were Crispin's prospects, now, below,
But wearying poverty, and pain, and woe!
Yet how could his perturbed bosom spare
The tired Companion of his toil and care?
How could his melancholy Mind resign,
A Soul, so perfect, and a Frame, so fine!
His fixt affections wish'd no other Wife
With which to pass the poor remains of Life;
Nor could his feelings find another Friend
Whose love would soothe his heart, or ease his End!
And now of Honour, Hope, and Home, bereft,
She was the only Friend his Fate had left;
Except their offspring, for his Life afraid,
Who all look'd up to him for friendly aid!

What horrors did his vanquish'd heart convulse
Lest the dire fact should fix her panting pulse!
Lest haggard looks, or voice's quivering sound,
Should give her wavering Soul the severing wound!
Should hurry to its home her matchless Mind,
And leave him nothing but a corpse behind!

There stood he, like some tall, and stable Rock,
Doom'd to sustain dread Ocean's harshest shock.
Surrounded by some smaller clinging clifts,
Against whose breasts each billowy danger drifts;
Asking protection from each whelming wave,
But fear their Parents fall should prove their grave—
Or, like an aged Yew, on desert wild,
Of half its faded honours now despoil'd;
Its hoary head, and withering branches, bare,
Conflicting with each blast of brumal air;
With one long-wedded Consort drooping by,
Seeking support from sworn connubial tie;
And some few Saplings Providence had left,
Of numerous others by that Pow'r bereft,
Now, round their mournful Sire, all silent, stand,
A sighing—sorrowing—miserable Band.

Where could He turn! there was but one Resource,
One Arm that could restrain the Tyrant's force—
One Pow'r alone with whom his prayers could plead
To shield from whelming Woe, and shameful Need.
That Pow'r he earnest press'd, each passing hour,
To lend him longer, still, his darling Dow'r,
And thro' Life's tides the surest track to show
To shun blank Want's sunk rocks, and shoals, below!
There, he, thro' Time's bleak storms, his anchor cast,
To stem the billows, and withstand the blast!
Cast it, with confidence, within the veil,
For future happiness, and present weal!
Depending on that Captain who could steer
His feeble Bark thro' danger, doubt, and fear!
Whose heavenly flukes his fragile Vessel held,
While sad necessity his speech compell'd—
For He, whose hand supplied some pleasing Hope,
And fixt his Soul with Faith's ethereal rope,
Averted from his Mind consuming smart,
By pouring cordials thro' his Consort's heart;
Bestowing help, in Mercy, which withstood
The depredations of Hell's baleful brood!
With perfect Love, His Providence, at length,
Her health establish'd and restor'd her strength;
Fear's language turning, and desponding lays,
From sighs—groans—tears—and pray'rs, to thanks, and songs of praise!

But what were all his earthly prospects, now?
Which way was he to turn? or when? or how?
A thick, impenetrable blank, throughout!
A land of darkness! of despair! or doubt!
All melancholy dread, or dim surmise,
Where'er he cast his view, below the Skies!
There, tho' Heav'n's shining Kingdom Nature shrowds,
His Faith look'd up and pierc'd her murkiest clouds!

Where'er on Earth weak Understanding turn'd
His chearless breast each object chill'd, or burn'd.
No grateful tree, or hopeful flow'ret grew,
To promise him fair fruits in Reason's view.
If any flowery, fertile, tract, was seen
With blossoms garnish'd, or with herbage green;
Each tempting spot was all preoccupied,
By Imps of Plunder, Dupes of Pomp and Pride—
By Labour's Offspring—Sons of thought and toil,
Which tend the Counter, or which till the Soil.
No space appear'd, throughout the loaded Land,
Where Trade could stretch, or Culture could expand,
To furnish covering, and to offer food,
For Crispin—tender Spouse—and hapless Brood!

Where'er on Man he turn'd his mental Sight,
No view was better'd—no one object bright!
On every side his anxious eye beheld
His hopes all wither'd—each prompt wish repell'd—
While every pregnant scheme, and procreant care,
Brought forth dead Birth, or perish'd in despair!

It furnish'd his torn heart but fickle joys
To see his Consort from her sick-bed rise;
Her frame still feeble; bosom full of fear;
To wander with her Mate she knew not where;
In Life's decline, with toil to seek support,
So long encourag'd in frail Fortune's Court!

The rich and pow'rful Friends he once could boast
All fled from hostile Earth's inclement Coast;
Or those that Fate had left had long forgot;
All judg'd him long safe-lodg'd in joyous lot—
Deem'd him well-blest with Patronage and store,
And thought of Crispin, and his Muse, no more!

Death's ruthless darts had robb'd the banish'd Bard
Of Friendly Lyttelton, and faithful Ward!
Shenstone, to youthful Memory ever-dear!
So wont to chear his heart, and charm his ear;
And many more, who favour'd Crispin's cause,
Had fall'n, before, by Heav'n's resistless Laws!

One, who, in Shenstone's constellation, long
Illumin'd morals both by Prose and Song;
And still, with youthful fire, in hoary Age,
Defies the Despot Death's tyrannic rage;
With fond exulting confidence declar'd
Vanessa's bounty, still, poor Crispin shar'd,
In proud extent, completely to preclude
All changes Time attempts, or chances rude.

Alas, how little his kind Heart could know
A Friend, affianc'd, oft becomes a Foe;
Or, with a Soul so philanthropic, deem
One free from crimes could lose ev'n Wit's esteem!
How little did his honest Soul surmise
A Friend could Faith, and promises, despise!
On what attenuated threads are hung
Declar'd Attachments of the courtly throng;
Much less how little Poets may depend,
On famous—fashionable—female—Friend!
How such blind vanes revolve with every breeze—

How soon such bosoms flame—how soon they freeze—
For when his dazzling dream beheld the light
Poor Crispin's hopes were sunk in endless night!
When his humane, expanded Mind suppos'd
The Bard in ease, and affluence, din'd and doz'd,
He press'd with anxious breast, a sleepless bed,
And toil'd thro' cold, and dirt, for daily bread!

Who would have guess'd her Conscience could forget
Free promises impos'd a binding debt—
That, when so broken, would incur no blame,
Nor forfeit particle of courtly fame!
Who would suppose Her Patronage could fail
Whose Kindness was become a public tale!
That long-form'd Friendship, rashly could refuse
Humanity's, and Mercy's, decent dues!
A prompt Protectress from engagements fly,
And Hospitality's last helps deny!
The charming Type of Charity, itself,
Relinquish Character to spare its Pelf!
That fam'd Economy would Profit spare—
Discharge true Diligence, and scoff at Care—
Prompt Faithfulness with all its fruits, forego,
And vengeful Pride lay virtuous Victim low!
Who could conceive such Tenderness would strive
To strip, and torture, any Slave alive;
Much less its Vassals who had labour'd, long,
Promoting riches, or preventing wrong,
Still infinitely less those faithful Friends,
Who made her happiness their mutual ends!
That She should spurn with spite, such deep distress,
Whom Poets compliment, and Priests caress—
Whom virtuous Courts invest with faultless fame—
Give Ostentation Love's pure gospel Name—
Ev'n Wit itself perceives no blot or blur,
But sees each pure accomplishment in Her;
While Pimps, and Paupers, with her bounties blind,
Conceive her sweet, and good, and great, and kind;
And would each Wight as Fool, or Friend, condemn,
Who deem'd Her weak, or, peccable, like Them!

What strange astonishment such Fools must feel
When told her Heart was hard as temper'd steel;
Or that her artificial shine, when shown,
Was but the splendour of a polish'd stone—
That all her Virtues were but Vizors, bright,
To keep her carnal sentiments from sight;
And all her Charities but cheats to hide
Unbounded Vanities—Caprice—and Pride!

Ye Sons of Song, ah! be no more misled—
Ye ignorant Boors, in Court, or College, bred—
Ye cheated Wits her charming mask behold
All Tinsel's glare, instead of native Gold—
And Ye who shreds of Ostentation share,
Who think that all was frank which seem'd so fair;
Strip off her specious Tenderness, and State,
And mark her Character in Crispin's Fate!
No more mere outside blandishments believe,
Nor let mock Charity your Minds deceive.
Suppose not such professions fully prove
That social motives all such actions move;
But know Beneficence with heavenly veil,
Eludes each eye, true Kindness to conceal;
Each eye but His who must the pow'r bestow,
And give the feeling heart its friendly glow.

O Thou that vaunt'st thy selfish Virtues, proud,
And lov'st to lead frail Fashion's courtly Crowd;
Boast Sensibility, and Truth, no more;
True Love, or Pity, for the suffering Poor;
Nor aim to occupy superior Niche
Among the pious, patronizing, Rich!
Affect no longer fondly to retain
Soft sympathy for Poverty and Pain.
Thy Soul's too sordid, and too hard thy Heart,
To fill the Friend's, or Patroness's part!
Thy Mind's too fickle, much too frail thy Will,
For fostering Art, or well-rewarding Skill;
Thy selfish feelings Pity's pow'r to know,
Or yield Asylum, long, to Want, or Woe!
In that false Heart no genuine Friendship's found,
Which stabb'd so deep, so undeserv'd, a wound—
No Sympathy e'er swells that boasting Breast
That can discard a Vassal so distrest—
Nor ever Love in that dead Bosom dwell,
Which mocks at Misery lodg'd in lowly Cell!
As well their Friendship savage Beasts might boast,
Which tyranize o'er Nature's harmless Host;
As well might boast soft Sympathy they share,
While sacrificing part a part they spare—
As well might Leopards, or wild Lions' Dams,
Which from the frighted Folds purloin the Lambs;
Or steal the straying Kids from native Rocks,
Proclaim their Kindness for the living Flocks—

As well might cruel Cats, 'mid murderous joy,
First persecute their prey, and then destroy;
And tho' inflicting fear, and woe, the while,
Look round for praise, with self-complacent smile—
Still hope for fame throughout the torturing strife,
For lengthening out the sufferer's wretched Life.
As well the Eagle might enlarge on Love,
That, from his Mate had torn a tender Dove—
The screaming Kite; or skulking, keen-ey'd, Hawk;
Of Mercy—Sympathy—and—Pity—talk,
That spare no Parent of inferior Throng;
No Bird of Passage—nor poor Son of Song!
The Blackbird—Linnet—Thrush—alike, betray'd,
Or Nightingale, that glads the leafy glade;
The sprightly Lark while piping o'er the plains
Or simple Redbreast, chaunting wintery strains!

But not the Bard, alone was won by guile,
Seductive promise, or delusive smile;
But those who better knew the World, were bit
By cunning wiles, and fascinating Wit.
Domestics practising far higher Trust
From like deceptions felt as deep disgust;
By schemes of dark dissimulation caught,
Who future affluence from her favour sought.

Among the group successive Tutors, twain,
Were added to her hir'd domestic Train;
Instructed well in learned classic Lore,
And furnish'd, fair, with scientific store,
Court, Camp, and College Arts; a proper Pair,
To form the Mind of dear, adopted, Heir—
To execute a long-projected Plan,
Of a mere Animal to make a Man!
To take the Talents of an active Ape,
And turn them into senatorial shape.
A mere Automaton in fleshly form—
A Soul, with selfish wishes only, warm—
With dim Ideas his Fancy stock,
The various offices of Man to mock;
Till memory stor'd with magazines immense,
Might cover Subtlety with cloaks of Sense—
His Habits form by Fashion—watch his Health—
And fit him fully for the walks of Wealth,

Each undertook his honourable charge,
To mould his manners, and his Mind enlarge.
The first intent was certain to succeed,
His form well-fashion'd for Art's mimic Breed;
His Mind well-fitted for those little Things
That furnish Courtiers, and that flatter Kings;
At Birthday-balls, and Levees, shap'd to shine,
And make weak Monarchs dream themselves divine.
With Coxcombs cope—with Females flirt and flaunt,
And with fond raptures fill his doting Aunt;
The latter must, maugre endeavours, fail;
No Art can stretch the great Creator's scale;
This strong behest restricting all below,
“Thus far, but nothing farther, Thou shalt go.”

The first, a Foreigner, in Arts well-skill'd,
With which the Minds of Courtiers must be fill'd;
The forms of flattery—politesse—and pride—
Leaving but little room for ought beside.
A Man, consider'd by the World well-bred;
Hume, in his heart, and Herbert in his head—
Well-read in wild Rousseau, and vain Voltaire—
Of Bible-knowledge show'd but scanty share—
Knew Gospels—Acts—Epistles—just enough
To judge these Falshoods—rate those wretched Stuff!
Weakly, on Revelation, wreak'd his Wit,
As, for mere Fools, alone, or Madmen, fit.
Thus Morals were but small, Religion less—
More sedulous to flatter, dance, and dress—
Like Bute to bow—like Chesterfield to chat—
And nice manœuverings of the head, and hat.
Mock lordly Air, and high heroic Mien;
Such as in Courts, and sanguine Camps, are seen;
Long practising, before, like apish pranks
In humblest office of War's foreign Ranks.
Of Liberal Sciences, in part, possess'd,
With which few Commons, fewer Peers, are bless'd.
Much skill'd in learned Lore—more modern French
Than all the Treasury-Board, and Bishop's Bench.
But, chief in fashionable Follies vers'd,
By which base Vice, and Vanity, are nurs'd.
Completely taught the Great, and Rich, to greet,
With spaniel cringe, and compliments most meet;
With perfect ease, and elegance, and grace,
Whate'er the Person, or where'er the Place;
But every real sentiment conceal,
With apt Hypocrisy's still-varying veil.

Such were the Arts, and Sciences, enjoin'd
To be most press'd upon his Pupil's Mind;
To make him complaisant, or pert, and proud,
To shine in Courts, or senatorial Crowd;

Or, with the sails of Fancy, all unfurl'd,
Run his wild Course amidst a carnal World.
His Pupil's Lessons, neither wise nor nice,
Increas'd his knowledge in the schools of Vice,
And often to the haunts of Folly flew,
To put in practice those base Arts he knew.

The Teacher was, awhile, most amply paid
With hopes, from promises profusely made;
With hopes of great, and permanent, regard,
And promises of long, and large, reward,
But soon his Faith the sad deception found,
That thus had charm'd him o'er enchanted ground;
Like that frail Meteor whose bewitching fire
Soon flies, and merges Followers in the mire;
So promis'd Patronage was never sped,
And Hope's false visionary vapour fled!
When the prompt Scholar had the pattern caught
And well digested what the Tutor taught—
Had follow'd thro' the custom'd Tour of France,
And learn'd to plot, and pimp, and dupe, and dance—
The Master's months of usefulness no more,
Professions—smiles—and flattery—soon were o'er—
And quick discharg'd, credulity to curse,
With feeble fame, and unreplenish'd purse!

A decent, dapper Parson, next, was nam'd,
For far more moral work, and Wisdom fam'd—
To teach the long-establish'd sober, saws,
Of national Religion's holy Laws;
And thus restrain, with postulates of truth,
The vagrant ramblings of lascivious Youth.
Whether their influence had a full effect
In bridling Vice, or hindering base Neglect—
Whether their pow'r withheld the Learner's lips,
From sometimes making customary trips—
Whether they stopp'd his eager Appetites
From oft indulging Dogs', or Goats' delights;
Or so their sovereign efficacy felt,
He ne'er at shrines of earthly Venus knelt:
Or that his Teacher proper pattern show'd,
By conduct sanctioning the sacred Code;
Whose juvenility might yield surmise
He felt not senseless, yet, to social joys.
Such confidential facts, if clearly true,
The Bard, now grown obnoxious, never knew;
Or, if trusted with such nauseous News,
'Twas ne'er deem'd worthy of his modest Muse.
Such paltry tales, might, probably, afford
A subject fit for fashionable board—
Might serve to bandy, sportively, about,
In polish'd rabbles, at a Sunday's Rout;
Which Crispin would have deem'd a daring crime
A vile pollution of his virtuous rhyme!

This calm Instructor chiefly was concern'd
To teach the Languages himself had learn'd—
To store his Pupil's intellect with tools,
So frequent misapplied by Fops and Fools;
That he might properly ideas pen,
To shine, thro' Life, among the greatest Men;
Or play learn'd, eloquent, and witty, pranks,
Among St. Stephen's mobbish, marv'lling Ranks;
Till he became, perchance, a brilliant Peer,
And shone the greatest of the great-Ones there!
But, to obtain these fascinating hopes,
He must adopt his Aunt's emphatic tropes;
Her Art acquire, her Eloquence imbibe;
To emulate that fam'd sophistic Tribe—
That confidential Pedagogue, divine,
Must store his Mind from Learning's golden Mine—
Thro' all its puzzling labrynths to trace
The veins of Knowledge—Wit—Sense—Grammar—Grace.
There he must grub thro' wonder-working ground,
Where Wit, and Wisdom can, alone, be found.
Must meditate within those magic Cells
Where every Art, and every Science, dwells—
Whose plastic Walls mere Ideots may inspire,
With clear conceptions and poetic fire;
While inbred beams, devoid of outward aid—
Teach every intellect true Logic's trade—
Keep Judgment clear, lead purblind Reason right,
And yield weak Understanding heavenly light,
Lounging at leisure, on each classic Soil,
Prevents all study, and precludes all toil.
There not one high, or affluent, Student, need
Hear Lecture, or dispute—or write—or read—
For that pure Air, those blest Collegians breathe
Pours Genius—Wisdom—Wit—on Blocks beneath—
Sheds true Divinity, on each, full share,
And makes them pious without thanks, or pray'r!

This Priest, like his Precursor, in the race,
Soon totter'd in his pedagogic place,

And, like the courtly, ministerial Kind
Compell'd, by proud Authority, resign'd.

He, too, had listen'd to the Syren's lure,
And thought each smile sincere; each promise pure;
Depending fully on the fickle Dame
To form his Fortune, and to fix his Fame;
But, like his learned Brother, he was mock'd—
His fame and fortune shorten'd—feeling shock'd—
And, with strong emphasis, like him, exprest
The inward workings of his troubled breast.
The former, prone to dwell on dark belief,
Accus'd of deep chicane his quondam Chief;
And swore that sooner than he'd tamely stand
To ask a favour from her faithless hand,
Or youthful Traytor, whom he taught, in vain,
A pistol ball should pierce his throbbing brain.
The latter was a Man of gentler make,
Who deem'd a dread Eternity at stake—
A Churchman, skill'd in each mysterious Creed,
Who durst not doom his heart, or brain to bleed,
Or so to pledge the Life his Maker lent,
Tho' doom'd, like him, to lasting discontent;
Yet dar'd his temper'd sentence thus declare,
“The Lady's conduct was not strictly fair!”

Nor only these experienc'd painful cost
From Favours, by Caprice, or Passion, lost;
But various others, of more humble Rank,
Found Faith, like April show'rs, or shadows blank;
Amidst fair promises foul falshood pain'd,
And, when discharg'd, like harshness all sustain'd.

But none like Crispin, poor, abandon'd, Bard!
Could think his case so singularly hard—
None had been call'd such confidence to find,
Such friendly hope, or promises so kind!
None so expell'd by unexpected stroke—
Each rapturing compact so abruptly broke!
Each dazzling hope so suddenly destroy'd,
And left at large in such a dreary void!
Not one, so weaponless, such wars to wage,
With hostile hosts, in want, and weary Age!
So loaded with a weak and sickly Wife,
To tow along thro' all remaining Life;
And unprovided Progeny assist,
Whate'er misfortune struck, or comfort miss'd—
While not a single friendly Soul was found,
To ease his heart, the whole horizon round!

He once had wealthy Friends on every hand—
Ev'n Lords and Ladies, near his native Land;
With Science, Wit, and Taste, on every side,
By Love, or Pity, to his interests tied.
Some kind connections Time had worn away;
And some Occasion suffer'd to decay—
Some Death had levell'd with his desperate lance—
Some snapp'd the bond by choice—and some by chance—
Those left relax'd their kindnesses and care,
Well-pleas'd to find his prospects look so fair.

What were connections now? all sudden torn
But a lov'd Wife, with lamentation worn,
And Children, who, like her, with sorrow rent,
O'er Parents wept, compell'd to strike their tent;
Now, press'd by Penury, Age, and deep Distress,
Again to wander thro' Earth's Wilderness!
His pleasant prospects, now, all instant close—
No spot appear'd where they could hope repose—
No near Asylum offering, safe and warm,
To fence their bosoms from the beating storm!
No distant shelter could their eyes behold,
To find a skreen from Age's heightening cold;
Or where, by heavenly Love, of Life bereft,
Each heart at ease, leave those that Love had left!

Their hearts with intellectual terror struck,
And disbelieving what the World calls luck,
Where'er they look'd for help, from human aid,
Oblivion spread impenetrable shade—
All earth appear'd one universal blot—
By Friends forsaken, or by Friends forgot!
On every side they saw, with startled glance,
Their hopes withdraw and horrid fears advance!
Where'er Imagination's mirror turn'd
Despair's black figure in its focus burn'd;
Which, with a melting force, dissolv'd, like fire,
In their drear beasts, each object of desire,
Without one particle of pleasing light
To guide their way thro' gross remaining Night!
No golden gleam the landscape could illume
But all lay buried in Egyptian gloom!
No spark but Revelation's lucid beam;
Which points out views beyond vain Time's extreme;
And that pure Spirit's supernatural ray
Which leads Believers on to endless Day!

Tho' that mild ray may reach the Soul's distress,
The Mind may comfort, and the Bosom bless;

Yet while Faith, Hope, and Love, the Spirit feed,
They yield no substance for the Body's need.
That rightful office Reason must fulfil,
By teaching Judgment—well-directing Will—
Still looking round, with Understanding's eye,
To mark where Probability's best prospects lie.
Not, now, to hazey Air, or grassy Ground,
Where dew still falls, but no fresh Manna's found;
Nor, when the wasted strength of Nature fails,
Hope Heav'n will furnish, now, fresh flocks of Quails—
But Man must study, and by labour, strive,
To feed the Flesh and keep the Frame alive;
For, tho' the Soul still blessings asks,
The Body must perform its proper tasks,
And not expect from Faith, or fancied Worth,
The mouth supplied, by miracles, on Earth.

CHAPTER 15th.

What way could Crispin's lingering footsteps lead,
Himself and Family to clothe and feed?
What could he do; or whither could he go,
To fence off present want, or future woe?
How should he find some small, but social Cell,
Where each might hope with competence to dwell?
Some simple hut, or unassuming shed,
Where Providence would deal out daily bread,
With necessary raiment, just to fold
Each frame from shame, and shut out cruel cold?
Where constant labour, and believing care,
Might hope to earn enough, if none to spare?
Far from the scenes of sinful fraud and strife,
With all the shuffling tricks of treacherous Life.
Excluded from Mankind's continual rout,
With all trifles which would tempt without;
Still begging God to guard the works within,
And keep the poor Inhabitants from Sin—
To give each Body health; each Spirit peace,
Till all the ills of Time, and Sense, would cease!

He turn'd his full attention, first, above,
To the pure Source of Wisdom—Pow'r—and Love—
Imploring that pure Wisdom, Love, and Might,
To teach—and keep, acts—words—and reasonings, right,
To seek out fair success, yet not offend
That Father! Saviour! Comforter! and Friend!

Thus while he humbly bent before that Throne,
To ask His Love to bless, and His alone;
To beg celestial oil, and sovereign balm,
To heal his heart, his fears and cares to calm—
That Pow'r which suppliant Peter sought, to save
Himself, and trembling Friends, from watery grave—
That Wisdom, which, with all-sufficient Will,
Pronounc'd his peace, and bid the storm be still!
He, to each heart, that Comforter bequeath'd,
Whose pow'r, before, o'er pristine Chaos breath'd;
Composing every rude intestine storm,
And fram'd each beauteous Ball in fairest form;
That Spirit spread like influence o'er each breast,
And hush'd wild fancies, and weak fears, to rest!

Experience found his breast must bleed afresh,
Should he confide, again on fickle flesh;
And now had chas'd each fond fallacious charm,
Of hoping help from any mortal Arm.
He fear'd a fresh attempt might fare still worse,
Inflicting, stronger, Heav'n's recorded curse—
Might make his Soul, immortal, more a Slave,
Or doom his Body to untimely grave;
Entailing on his Tribe, throughout all time,
The cursed dregs of such a daring Crime!
His Soul and Body, both, had suffer'd twice,
By so engaging in such grievous Vice;
And should he, shamelessly, engage agen,
He'd meet keen scorn from all reflecting Men.

No wealthy Worldling, now, would e'er engage
A Servant, in the Vale of hoary Age;

Who, soon, from Frame impair'd, and mental Pow'rs,
Might want a Workhouse for his final hours.
A Man dismiss'd from honourable place,
With striking symptoms of deserv'd disgrace—
Whose late Employer's conduct clearly prov'd
Some grievous fault, in him, such harshness mov'd;
For tho' deep silence no worse sentence dealt,
It prov'd how far her peace, and interest, felt—
And none would dare to try in place of trust,
One so unskilful—faithless—or unjust!

He could not, now, alas! in Life's extreme,
Attempt again the agricultural Scheme;
His first dismission must demonstrate, still,
Some wicked Conduct, or some want of Skill.

He might have urg'd the issue, once again,
Of that pure Practice on his native Plain,
But providential bars combin'd their force
To baffle and prevent such view'd resource—
And had blest Providence unbarr'd the door
He could not enter, now, for want of Store.

One old experiment he might have tried,
Which lack of Coin could never have denied;
Once more with constant care, and toil, to teach,
Some puny Younglings rudiments of Speech.
This could require but little pow'r, or purse;
But all his lov'd Companions prov'd averse;
Unwilling he, again, should so degrade
Imagin'd merit, by that petty Trade—
And he not prompt his Penury to expose,
To vex his Friends, or gratify his Foes.

Another occupation oft had caught
His ruminating Mind's excursive thought;
A parallel employ, but high'r in growth
That held out profit, and pure pleasure, both,
By which if blest of Heav'n, toil might obtain,
With daily diligence, an honest gain;
Sufficient simple raiment to afford,
And furnish Self, and Friends, a temperate board;
While mere materials in his trade might find
Meat, and amusement, for a thinking Mind.
A noble—useful—intellectual Trade;
Which would no worth, or dignity, degrade.
A fair—expedient—well-adapted Plan,
To suit the mortal, and immortal, Man.
Superior far to all those foul employs
That merely help, thro' Body, beastly joys—
That gratify the Soul with sensual gust,
Enlarging Sin by satisfying Lust—
Or what conduce to deck the fragile Frame,
Which oft, instead of sheltering, heighten shame;
Or rear such fabrics round it for defence,
As open signs of Folly more than Sense;
Of Ostentation—Vanity—or Pride—
Which Wisdom's offsprings pity, or deride.
This was a Trade that serv'd to train the Soul
For checking sordid Sense, and Time's controul—
Subordinating Body's carnal claims,
And lighting up the Mind's immortal flames—
For counteracting all Man's earthly leav'n,
And helping Spirit on its way to Heav'n.

'Tis true this Trade produces poisonous meats,
As worthiest things call forth most counterfeits;
While heavy curses hang o'er cruel Cooks,
Who mix base drugs to make high-season'd Books.
But Ignorance ne'er should seek to purchase Food,
Unskilful to distinguish bad from good;
But call forth Friends to search the mental Mart,
Well-learned in rules of literary Art,
Whose Judgment might discriminate, with care,
And cull out wholesome from unwholesome Fare.

What Folly 'twere to range each lawn and bow'r
To pluck each plant, or fascinating flow'r;
Each wholesome wort, with deleterious weed,
And on the sordid sallad fondly feed:
Far sillier than the silliest bird, or beast,
Who choose each herb and fruit that form their feast,
Without one varied want, or vicious wish,
To find indulgence from a dangerous dish.
But 'twould be madness far more desperate, still,
Should curious Folly, coupled with Self-will,
Push to Apothecary's showy shop
For unselected dust or smiling drop,
And like an obstinate, conceited, Clown,
With greedy gulp drink every potion down;
Not caring to consult some Man of skill
Before he swallow'd compound draught, or pill.

Kind Providence doth now, as Heav'n did, first,
Ere Man with Pride, and Carelessness, was curst,
Before him place some fascinating prize,
For Freedom's—Duty's—Reason's—exercise;
To try his heart, and strength, and talents, here,
In patient Circumspection, Faith, and Fear;

And whether from affection, he'd obey,
In hopes of better fate some future Day:
But ruin'd Man, Imagination's Wretch!
Strains all his faculties to utmost stretch,
To seize, with eager grasp, each mental toy,
That offers but a moment's maddening joy—
To drive Reflection from the sordid Mind,
And leave her, in each baffling chace, behind—
Still stifling Conscience when she meekly calls,
To speak of past, or warn of future falls;
And fain would hint how far they render nought
The lessons faithful Friends, or Pastors, taught,
When urging each in Duty's paths to plod,
Or spoke the presence of an anger'd God.
But those Intruders oft the Soul pursue
Till Worldly-wisdom, to its Tools untrue,
Impels each proud, profane, and frantic, Elf,
To seek ingredients for destroying Self.
But tho' such instruments might soon be found,
To waste frail Life, or strike a fatal wound;
Such Death will ne'er annihilate the Soul!
Or fix the Body to a final Goal—
This must come forth to meet more dreadful doom—
That, void of grace, be plung'd in deeper gloom—
Woe, without mitigation—end—or pause—
For breaking Heav'n's, and Earth's, blest, binding Laws!

Crispinus might have shown some special Claims
For joining lists of literary Names—
Have stated fair pretence to join that Flock,
For adding something to its trading Stock;
And, now, had treasur'd up some latent Store
To raise that Stock a little trifle more.

This was a properer claim than most could plead
That now connected with the bookish Breed;
For many mix'd who had but poor pretence
To Learning, Art, or Science; Wit, or Sense;
Much less that Genius which might well produce,
One work for Children's choice, or Infant's use:
Their only Learning, and their only Art,
To act their cunning, selfish, plodding, part;
Their Science, Sense, and Genius, all brought forth,
To gain more Money, without Wit or Worth.

Two mighty, dangerous difficulties stood,
That block'd the path to Crispin's purpos'd good,
Which must, by strong attempts, be over-got,
Ere he would ascertain his dubious lot.
The first a Situation, fair, and fit,
Where he might vend the Works of Taste, and Wit,
Arts—Science—moral and religious Rules,
Or trash, and trumpery, fit for Fops, and Fools—
All useful articles which Learning needs,
And Genius, to perform Wits wonderous deeds—
An Habitation fitted for defence,
With purposes of Trade, at small expence;
And situated well, by some Street-side,
Where human Creatures pour, in plenteous tide;
While, as the crowded current glided on,
His Nets might, now and then, entangle One;
By Heav'n provided for his lawful prey.
To help his poverty each passing day.

Luxurious living, and egregious glare,
Form'd no petition in his daily pray'r;
He only ask'd of Heav'n to grant enough
Of this frail Station's perishable Stuff,
Himself and Friends to shelter, clothe, and feed,
And shut out painful Shame, and pressing Need—
Not to encourage Pride, or Pamper Lust,
But, still Christ's providential care to trust.

With sorrow oft he saw how ample Wealth
Destroys the Soul's repose, and Body's Health—
Prompts Vanity and Pride; and, what's far worse;
Incurs, by every Vice, Heav'n's heaviest curse!
For what is Wealth? or what is temporal Pow'r?
But fleeting trifles of a transient hour!
Which fill, with foolish Lusts, the sordid Soul,
And make it mock at Conscience's controul,
Till Death dissolve the luting, and unfold
All's dross within, and not one grain of gold;
While Pow'r and Pomp—Wealth—Titles—Influence—Fame—
By base abuse, all end in Pain and Shame!

In Wisdom's hands, to Mortals, thence, might rise,
Both temporal pleasure, and eternal joys;
But in the hands of Folly frequent end,
In Earth, or Heav'n, without a single Friend—
And oft their poison so perverts the Heart,
They furnish present sorrow—future smart—
Such fretting troubles, here; such future woe,
As gracious Need's ne'er doom'd to undergo!

Crispin, with anxious heart, tried every Street,
In hopes of tracing out such snug Retreat;

Still begging God to go before his face,
And guide his footsteps to a proper place,
Where he might watch and strive, by toil and care,
The boons of His bless'd Providence to share—
When after many a long, and weary, rout,
The providential spot was pointed out;
And he, attended by his little Band,
Got full possession of the gracious Land;
Where, after doubts, and fears, and dangers, past,
He pitch'd his temporary tent at last;
Emancipated from the Despot's pow'r,
Who had so hurt his heart in earlier hour!

But still that Habitation stood below,
Beset by many a fierce, or envious Foe;
Tho' not enclos'd by Canaanitish Kings,
But countless Insects arm'd with hostile stings—
Where every hour some conflict must be fought,
By persevering pains, and patient thought—
Some strenuous effort, every instant, tried,
With human malice—perfidy—or pride—
To gain or guard, the covering, fence, and food,
Of Self, sick Consort, and dependent Brood.
Such Situation, likewise, would require
Some small expence for furniture, and fire;
And, tho' secluded from all Pomp, and State,
Finance must furnish many a rigorous Rate;
For cleansing all external Filth away—
For succedaneous lights at close of Day—
Rewarding Watchmen for half-hourly yell,
While wandering, heedless, round his little Cell—
Must liquidate, in time, his Water-tax,
Tho' Fire's ne'er lit, and Cleanliness relax—
And, tho' scarce keeping Bailiffs from his Door,
His Poverty must still supply the Poor;
Nor them alone, but those demands increas'd
By Luxury's calls at frequent Parish-feast:
Beside the yearly, yea, the daily, drain,
Which Princes, Placemen, Pensioners, maintain;
While scarce a Creature Man hath given a name
But Priest, or King, put in some partial claim.

The unassuming, shabby, dirty, Dome,
Which Providence had fix'd for Crispin's Home,
Whate'er his clothing, furniture, or fare,
Must heavy annual impositions bear;
And, howsoe'er his Family was clad,
Or fenc'd, or fed, all Taxes must be had;
Squeez'd from his toil and study, to support
The lazy Loiterers that compose a Court.
His puny, ill-provided, Shop, beside,
Must help to heighten Luxury—Pomp—and Pride—
However mean, and meagre, were his lot,
And whether Trade produc'd one doit, or not;
While every outer Door and Window's view'd,
And, where celestial radiance dar'd intrude,
In cells for toil, for study, rest, or sleep,
All—all, must pay for kind Apollo's peep—
As if bounteous beams, when found abroad,
Incurr'd no pains, or penalties, for fraud;
But seen in meanest Mansion, round the Land,
Must instantly be seiz'd as contraband—
While every vagrant troop, or gypsey train,
Which prowls at large, and pilfers all the plain,
His brightest beams, at full extent, can use,
All free from toil, and maugre Cæsar's dues;
As tho' the vilest of the rambling Race,
Enjoy'd some Pension, or some courtly Place.
Each scanty peck of Coals, which Labour buys,
Must yield full portion of a fix'd Excise,
For spurious Offspring, of lewd Monarch, laid,
By honest Care, and Toil, and Penury, paid—
Yes, ev'n the tiney rushlight's twinkling Ray
Must for its paltry, casual, kindness pay—
Each cotton Burner, and all blazing Oil,
Must feel a Levy for their sunny smile—
As if our Politicians felt a spite
Against the being of abhorrent Light;
Resolv'd, by fine, to persecute, each spark,
Whose nature still reveals what's vile and dark;
It's very essence fitted to unveil
What every Scoundrel studies to conceal.

Nor obvious articles, alone, like these,
Suffice to furnish Courtiers countless Fees;
Nor little luxuries round the breakfast-board,
Sufficient Stipends for such Troops afford,
But all that springs from Forest, Mead, and Field,
Must perquisites to Priests, and Princes, yield;
With bribes for all those mercenary Throngs,
That prop their Pride, and sanction all such Wrongs.
The savoury Salt that makes his morsel sweet,
Must feel a fine, to help the Statesman's treat—
From every drop of artificial drink,
Some oozings must in straining Treasury sink,

To run again, in rills, throughout the Isle,
As beverage for the Idle—Vain—and Vile!
All instruments of Health, and Cleanliness—
Each part, and decent ornament, of Dress—
To keep him comely, temperate, strong, and pure,
Some Custom—Tax—or Duty—must endure;
To clothe and deck the Courtier and the King
With costly, fine, and fashionable, Thing.
The hairy helmet for his aged head—
The sandals that secur'd his tender tread—
With every rag that wrapp'd his fading Frame,
Aforetime felt some grievous courtly Claim.
The hop'd intended, literary Crop,
To fill the shelves, and flooring of his Shop,
Must heavy, customary, burdens bear,
Antique, or modern—good—bad—foul—or fair—
Whether materials white, and purely plain,
Or what poor Printers innocently stain—
Where Wisdom brings forth fruits, which bless the soil,
Or Clowns, or Coxcombs, with bad rubbish, spoil—
What with foul inky show'rs Profaneness shades,
Or daring Infidelity degrades,
By scattering base abominable seeds,
To propagate a poisonous race of weeds—
What, with sublimest landscapes, Poets paint,
Or what vain Wits, vile Tales—Songs—Sonnets—taint
What Saints, with proper sentiments, employ,
To thrill the Soul with sweet, religious, Joy;
Or blest Morality's pure Truths engage,
To mould each Sex's Mind in Youth and Age:
All—all—in part, supplying some resource
For Fallacy's prompt Tools, or Troops of Force—
To all that levy, or collect, each Tax—
To princely Harridans, or priestly Hacks—
To those that proudly spend, or, pertly, sport;
That grind the Country, or that gild the Court;
With all those useless—lounging—impious—Hosts
That throng in Camps, or thunder round the Coasts.

He had, besides, to combat with the Trade—
With all that whisper'd—scoff'd—or felt afraid;
For every Dunce this obvious inference drew,
That, when commercial Market opens, new,
Whate'er commodities the doors unfold,
All tempted Customers that quit the old,
Seduc'd by cheapness, goodness, or address,
Must leave the Profits of the former less.

He hop'd not one Opponent e'er would yield
And leave him Master in unfoughten Field—
He ne'er imagin'd Jericho would fall
By sounding one ram's-horn around the wall;
Or his weak mandate, mark'd with added frown,
Could keep the Sun, one hour from going down—
His Storehouse, free from labour, could be fill'd
With Corn, from Farms which other Culturers till'd;
Or Babylonish robes, or gold, could gain,
When righteous wrath had proud Possessor slain.
He ne'er expected an uncultur'd Crop—
That Heav'n would Wealth—or Food—or Vesture drop;
Or any other Good, from Grace, would rise
Except he put his Pow'rs in exercise.
Still, tho' right Reason might prescribe right Rules,
No Man can work without his proper Tools.
Without materials Mind may stretch, and strain,
And Sense and Understanding strive in vain.
In vain all Genius—Knowlege—Learning—Skill—
With all the active Pow'rs that prompt the Will—
No Art can manufacturing feats attest,
Till first of Matter, and apt Tools, possest.
The Farmer might possess a fertile Soil—
Be ready to exert each thought, and toil—
Implore each moment providential meed,
In vain, till Heav'n bestow some proper Seed.
In vain the Miner knows his own Freehold
Contains rich strata of rare gems, or gold,
His native Wisdom ne'er that Wealth can win
Unless by gold enabled to begin;
Or Creditors, possest of competence
Are prompted to supply the first expence.

Such were the circumstances Crispin found
When first he occupied that spot of ground—
His Will was ready—Knowledge quite enough—
Had he possest the pure metallic Stuff;
Or found sufficient influence to succeed
In loans from letter'd Friends to favour Need.

Small was the Sum, alas! Misfortune left,
When of his place and prospects, both bereft;
And while lov'd Consort on her sick-bed lay
That small resource was frittering fast away,
By costly lodging, join'd with dainter cate,

Ere well-restor'd to convalescent state—
At length the puny pittance, that remain'd,
The greedy Doctor's different items drain'd.

Meantime his quondam Friend, and Patroness,
To make her cruel Conduct strike the less;
Or, smit with deep remorse at each rash Deed,
Completely conscious of his pressing need,
To hide necessity, or help in Trade,
What dupes might deem a mighty tender, made;
Sent to his Cell by apt High-steward's hand,
Who manag'd most affairs in Mines and Land;
A bounty she might mean to blind his eyes,
And seize his Heart with pleasure and surprize—
To make his Mind all grievances forget
And feel a full discharge of Friendship's debt—
To cancel claim for every promise past,
And tie his tongue, and pen, whilst Life should last.

His injur'd heart with indignation, swell'd
When he the sly insidious bait beheld;
With fix'd abhorrence his firm Spirit spurn'd,
And back, with strong contempt, the bribe return'd.

Nor this loath'd Dole, alone, did he refuse,
A Dole, unworthy of the meanest Muse!
But late, in after years, his Heart and Soul
Above mean Selfishness, or Pride's controul,
Could from pure principles of Truth refuse,
A Gift that might have graced sublimer Muse.
An offer equal in computed Coin,
But far superior in its pure design,
A virtuous Tender! from a noble Band,
That honours Britain's Lyre! and Britain's Land!
Combin'd to bless the humbler tuneful Train,
That Merit may not vex, for Friends, in vain.
Not offering bribery, with intention base,
To silence sufferers in such cruel Case;
But, on true Worth fair benefits bestow,
For helping Want, and weakening Pain and Woe!
How could Crispinus, with a Conscience clear,
His heart imbued, by Grace, with Godly Fear,
And glowing warmly with pure love of Man,
Accept the Bounty, though he bless'd the Plan!
He deem'd that numbers of the Muse's Throng,
With higher Worth, and happier pow'rs of Song,
Might pine in penury, yet more Merit plead,
Borne down by dread, and worn with weightier Need;
While knowing such Finances must be found
Still circumscrib'd within a narrow bound—
With such disinterested, virtuous view,
Far from the golden dow'r his hand withdrew!

Ten golden guineas, once, in former time,
His Heart and Conscience could not count a Crime;
But felt his head approve—his Heart expand,
When he, full glad, held forth his eager hand.
That was the Gift of Grace, and Love, and Truth,
And tender'd, freely, in the time of Youth;
When each new Year his beauteous Partner bore,
Adding fresh burden to the Year before.
Then those exhibited extatic charms,
And eas'd his Mind of many harsh alarms—
Infus'd fresh hopes, and thrill'd through every nerve,
To think what useful purpose each would serve—
Imagination shap'd continual schemes,
And fill'd with figures odd her airy dreams,
While Fancy flew around with golden wings,
And coin'd conceptions of substantial Things:
But prudent Reason in the rear pursued,
Correcting all their views, and visions, crude;
And while she rectified those various pranks,
Sent Gratitude to Heav'n with praise and thanks.

Advanc'd in Age, Experience, well advis'd,
Intrinsic Worth with more precision pois'd;
When, well-adjusting their specific claims,
He weigh'd the different Donor's genuine aims;
The one, like filmy motes, or baubles, bright,
Design'd to intercept, or dazzle sight;
The motive, subtly, to deceive the Mind,
To banish Truth, and make the Judgment blind:
The other, Money, of substantial make
Put in the scale for Heav'n's, and Virtue's, sake;
From views more pure, for honest Penury meant,
To purchase comforts, and procure content:
That, real Wealth, with special pow'r endued,
To raise the rapturing gust of Gratitude!
'Twas gold all gather'd from a friendly Mine,
Not for mere show to make each Giver shine,
Not aim'd to purchase panegyric lays,
Or pay for trumpeting a Patron's praise—
It grew not, where, with grief, and anxious care,
Deep sighs, and groans, disturb'd the ambient air;
Nor dug from sordid Pride's degenerate soil,
Moisten'd with tears, and mattock'd up with toil;
But, free from selfish views, or false pretence,

The bounteous dole of true Benevolence—
Bright was its lustre! clear of all alloy!
A gracious Gift! diffusing genuine Joy!
This was mere counterfeit—of different mould—
All polish'd brass—not one pure grain of gold—
Design'd to silence both his tongue and pen,
And pay the price of Liberty agen—
A paltry recompence! a base douceur!
A veil to cover all offences o'er.
To render every obligation void
And make the Sufferer seem well satisfied—
A crafty bribe to stifle all complaint
And make such Hypocrite appear a Saint!

Could Crispin's Mind so meanly condescend
To palm such prize, and call a Foe a Friend?
No! his high Spirit, 'mid such dark dismay,
His gold all gone! his Friends all far away!
He still felt Fortitude, and Courage rise,
To spurn the Giver, and the Gift despise!
His honest Heart, contemptuous, nobly scorn'd,
With Coin, and Cunning, so to be suborn'd;
But, deeming Truth, and Justice, both abus'd,
The tempting treasure, with a frown, refus'd:
Resolv'd, whate'er his future lot might be,
To keep from all such Friends, and Favours, free!

When his fix'd sentence was at first receiv'd,
And his torn breast with trembling horror heav'd,
In spite of all his dangers and disgrace
When Perfidy had forc'd him from his Place,
A latent vow, involuntary, stole
From deep recesses of his inmost Soul,
That, whether Life should short, or long remain,
He ne'er would enter her proud gates again.
Ne'er, tho' opprest with penury, pain, or grief,
Seek solace there, or look for frail relief.
Much rather would he seek some Cot, obscure,
And lasting Labour—Want—and Woe—endure—
Leave, early, every morn, recluse abode,
And toil, incessant, in some turnpike road—
With willing strength, axe, hoe, spade, ploughshare, wield,
In other's woodland, garden, grove or field—
At even-tide, in rain, or frost, retire—
To ply his Craft beside his friendly fire—
Or, if that strength should fail, in fond retreat,
Turn sounds, and cyphers into drink and meat.
Immr'd, in Town, sustain much sorer Need,
In murkey cell, endeavouring Friends to feed,
Expos'd, each day, in tatter'd, squalid, coat,
When streets with wintery floods run all afloat,
With scrubby broom to sweep away the dirt,
For every Coxcomb, Slattern, Fool, or Flirt;
And take, at each extreme, alternate stand,
In hope, and patience, with worn hat in hand,
And still with piteous tone, and craving cry,
Imploring halfpence from each passer by—
Much rather, than recover'd Freedom lose,
Would run on errands, or enamel shoes—
To keep Himself, and Family, alive,
With constant diligence a dust-cart drive—
Still more degrading, in contemptuous plight,
Explore obscene receptacles by night;
Or, if kind Providence conferr'd the pow'r,
Proclaim Time's footsteps, twice, each passing hour—
Procure a Barrow's moveable Freehold,
And, 'mid the rinsing rain, fierce heat, or cold,
With worn-out voice, and weary-wandering feet,
Cry mixt commodities thro' every street;
Or any other lawful calling join,
Rather than Liberty's delights resign.
And, when he found his health and strength depart,
Accept some Hospital, with willing heart—
Receive some pinching payment, once a Week,
Some happy Almshouse, or kind Workhouse, seek,
And there still combat punishment and pain,
Gladlier than sacrifice Free-will again.
But, should it prove his providential lot
To lose his Family, and leave his Cot,
And be in Hospital or Almshouse fix'd,
Or, with mean multitude, in Workhouse, mix'd;
There would he feel his Heart inflamed with Joy,
And find his faculties complete employ,
Among the numbers of Immortals, there,
By labouring to infuse religious fear—
To tell how Man was form'd, and how he fell,
And how all impious conduct leads to Hell!
How each proud Heart and Spirit grew deprav'd—
And how each sinful Soul might still be sav'd—
Tell the glad tidings of redeeming Love!
How its blest Author intercedes above!
How His free Pow'r Heav'n's holy Spirit sends,
To make His bitterest Foes become His Friends;

And fit each ready Mind of meanest Race
For proper subjects of that blissful Place!

This, and much more, did Crispin's Mind revolve,
And, on right Reason, fix his firm resolve,
That sooner than he'd sacrifice his Will
He'd Life's low'st honest offices fulfil.
Would sooner suffer sickness—pain—and need—
Be rob'd in rags—on dirty fragments feed—
Than his lov'd Liberty again forego,
For all Wealth's courtly Bondage could bestow!
Sooner than for the sake of hapless Ease,
Be bound proud Tyrants, and their Tools to please.
Sooner blank Penury's endless ills abide
Than what vile Slaves endure from Despot's Pride.
Sooner than let his liberal Mind submit
To turncoat Portland, or tyrannic Pitt;
Or e'er become a patient, plodding Ass,
Or Protean Parasite, like drunk Dundas:
Yea, ev'n the galling griefs low bondage brings
Than cringe to churlish Chiefs, or, cruel Kings!
Conscience proclaims that Life a constant crime
That, thus, devotes to Creatures Strength, and Time;
Or prostitutes the Heart, with Spirit's Pow'rs,
To Fame or Flattery, for degrading Dow'rs!

What Soul, immortal! would its Rights resign,
By bartering Liberty for Fame, or Coin!
Would lose the blessings of celestial birth
To worship any Idol-Pow'r on Earth!
E'er dedicate its talents—Time—and Thought—
To empty, evanescent, Things of nought!
The wonderous gifts of Intellect degrade
To serve the fleeting shadow of a Shade!
What vile perversion of such pow'r sublime!
High mental Faculties and fateful Time,
Ordain'd for nobler Interests of her own,
By offering all before their Father's Throne!
And honouring, faithfully, that heavenly Friend,
Whose Love and Bounty know no Bounds—nor End!

Could Conscience, heedless, from a Monarch's Hand,
Accept the Riches of a ravag'd Land?
Heap up, in Idleness, a Nation's Wealth,
For which unnumber'd Poor spend Strength and Health?
Behold, in Gold, so got, enchanting charms,
With Soul insensible of others harms?
Would not the conscious Heart, and Hand recoil,
Tho' every royal Profile seem'd to smile?
Must not the Fancy see each feature melt,
With sweat and blood, for what Plebeians felt?
Would not the Heart perceive cold, sinking, qualm?
Each Guinea, grasp'd, burn deep the blister'd Palm?
While Sense would say what suffering Fellows feel
Who wield the wearying tools of wood and steel?
What small returns for all their thought, and toil,
Who clip the sod, or cultivate the soil;
And what a sorry portion Slaves possess
Who form the Dome, or manufacture Dress?

How could a lazy Christian Luxuries carve,
While conscious They who win them work, and starve?
With unconcern in proud apartments dwell,
While those that built them lodge in loathsome cell—
Or, fledg'd with Foppery, know no anxious care,
While Frames that form'd it look so lean and bare?

Can cruel Tyro, tutor'd in Christ's school,
Who oft has read, or heard, Heav'n's royal rule;
Whate'er his Titles—Honours—Pow'r—or Pelf—
That he should love his Neighbour as himself—
Can he, mean Monster! who ne'er earn'd a mite,
Adopt such Wealth with satisfied delight?
E'er with an eye of proud contempt and scorn,
Look down on abject Broods, his Equals born?
Survey their fainting toils with torpid phlegm,
And know his Pomp, and Pleasure, spring from them,
Yet, with a sordid Soul, and foul offence,
Devour their pains, and grasp their hard-earn'd pence?
How could his Mind's affections mount above,
To Heav'n's pure Source of universal Love,
Whilst His foul Heart of Fellow-love devoid,
Claims from their labours food for Lust and Pride!
Could, with right Reason, and clear Conscience, raise,
At Morn, or Eve, a Song of pious praise!
That Being thank, whose Bounty thus bestows,
Thro' Need, those numerous gifts, mid wants and woes!
Or breathe bold supplications, to procure
Life's future Favours while his days endure!

But, Men, most base, for love of Ease, or Lust,
Will flatter Dolts, or fawn on Fellow-dust—
Or, to supply their Pomp, support their Pride,
Will Wisdom's Self, or dearest Saint, deride.
To ward off pressing Woe, or pinching Want,
Will vent, on Villainy, colloquial Cant;

Or, to indulge imaginary needs,
Pen lying praise, or practise dirty deeds.
For love of filthy Lucre dare delude
The crafty Pimp, or hypocritic Prude;
Or, when proud Coxcomb, or pert Clown's in vogue
Will praise the Fop, or puff the ignorant Rogue.
Will fondle Sots to further selfish views—
Embrace foul Bawds, and patronize the Stews—
And, to confirm vain Pow'r, or fix vile Fame,
Bestow on Tyrants kind Protector's Name;
While all the World, with Folly, most profound,
And impious Blasphemy, repeats the sound!
Protector!—will a desperate Rebel dare,
A dying Worm, with Deity compare!
A pow'rless Mortal, thus, presume to vie
With Him who compasses the starry Sky!
Supports—guides—governs, all, in Heav'n and Earth!
First gave all Creatures Being—Substance—Birth!
Dare, by such Title, sinful Creature, call,
Like His who reigns, and rules, high Lord of all!
Apply to figur'd—fickle—Crumbling Clod,
One glorious Trait of Heav'n's eternal God!
Protector! can that fit a feeble Elf
Who ne'er one instant, can protect Itself;
But must, each moment, on His pow'r depend
Whose Being ne'er begun—nor e'er can end!
A passing Shadow! a mere Show of pow'r!
A transient, fleeting, fading, dying Flow'r!
A Bubble ting'd with ever-varying hues,
Which Vanity, a time, with transport, views;
Wafted about with every breeze of wind,
Then instant bursts nor leaves one trace behind!
Shall such a Thing, so empty—vain—and vile—
Thus arrogate its great Creator's style!
Thus vaunt as Virtue's dues, what all derive
From One who once was dead; but, now, alive;
And will, alone, such Life, and Pow'r, supply,
To true Disciples, who shall never die!

To Him was long-tried Crispin taught to look;
By whose bless'd Spirit, and transporting Book,
Calm Reason furnish'd with unravelling Clue
Could wind the World's mysterious mazes through—
His Heart, inform'd with feeling, Soul, with light,
Could ascertain, distinctly, wrong from right.

Blest with these gifts to guard and guide his Mind,
Behold him, now, where Providence design'd,
With many new demands, but few'r supplies;
Tho' Reason saw not whence Finance would rise.
Yet He whose Counsel thither shap'd his Course
Had pledg'd Himself to prove a safe Resource—
Had taught him, while immers'd in Nature's Night,
He still must walk by Faith and not by Sight—
Must keep the path of Duty all his way,
By waken'd Conscience, led with Reason's ray;
While Revelation's bright, but lunar, beams,
Would light his track and show him all extremes;
Still using each assistance Heav'n bestow'd,
To help him thro' the short remaining road.
But barren were the views which rose around,
And little were the lights reflection found,
While oft his Spirit, press'd by doubt and fear,
Saw Nakedness and Hunger hovering near.

When first his Friends expos'd his plaintive lays,
The work not only won some empty praise,
Which Sympathy and Pity still bestow,
When Melancholy marks a Muse of Woe,
But some among that Muse's Race enroll'd,
Show'd fruitful Friendliness by gifts of Gold;
While some, by pure Philanthropy impell'd,
The lasting want of learned Wealth beheld,
And, kindly to improve poetic Lore;
By Books enlarg'd his literary Store.
Among the last appear'd Vanessa's Name,
Prompted by Passion, and fond love of Fame;
But now by Prejudice—Caprice—and Pride,
Each band was broke, and every knot untied.
Thro' Slavery's Years these volumes long had lain
Among much useless Lumber on the Plain;
But now become rich treasure, to supply
The shabby shelves, and catch the curious eye;
Which to staunch Antiquaries might appear
Rare mutilated reliques lurking there.
Fix'd on each yawning frame, still nearly bare,
With grin ungraceful, there to stand and stare,
Like brown, or broken teeth, in aged jaws,
The rest remov'd by Nature's rigid laws—
Or, like a poor Apothecary's jars,
Pretending cures for sickness, pains, and scars,
Replete with powders, oils, or philtering phlegm,
(But these contain'd no dangerous drugs like them,)
All widely scatter'd in each corner'd niche,
Declare the Man of Med'cine is not rich;

So these, to all that enter'd Crispin's door,
Proclaim'd the worn-out Poet still was poor.
To these were added many tiny Tomes,
Which Urchins wish, in huts, or haughtier domes,
All known to Newbery—Marshal—or Carnan,
To please each puny Maid, or pigmy Man;
Whose gilded garbs, apt tales, and prints, impart
Delighting lessons to each ductile heart.

Still struck with shame he saw the shabby Shop
Exhibit but a poor penurious Crop;
A Crop whose produce could not long afford
To clothe his fleeceless Flock, and bless his Board;
But fill'd his anxious heart with pungent pains,
While opening prospects show'd such hungry Gains.

Far different was the hap of Fellow-elves,
Who saw such radiant regiments deck their shelves;
On errands, ready, every hour, to run
And keep at distance the tremendous Dun.
Poor Crispin could not compass gold-lac'd Groups
To pay the Sovereign, or to pawn for Soups;
The Baker—Butcher—Taylor—to allure;
Or make the Landlord see his Rent secure—
Nor had he golden Guineas, now, at hand,
To buy new Stock, or plant the naked Land.
Tho' Pride, or Profligacy, had not spent
What heavenly Love, by Benefactors, lent,
Or sale of Song attain'd, by thought and toil;
But Prudence purchas'd some small Squares of Soil,
To guard against the calls of casual Need;
And Friends, and Parents, had approv'd the Deed;
Still to prepare a permanent resource,
Should Want attack with more infuriate force.
But hard Necessity each Plat had pawn'd,
While Shop and Pocket, both, with hunger yawn'd;
And all his efforts for a time restrain'd,
Till added Gold had ampler profits gain'd—
Nor could its virtuous energies revive,
To keep his pining credit long alive;
Or, at that crisis, tho' of coin bereft
Could Wisdom well sequester what was left.

Another little portion, near the spot,
Had lately fall'n, by much-lamented lot,
A lot of chastisement much more than choice;
For, had the Bard been call'd, with casting voice,
Love had revers'd Heav'n's Sentence, so austere;
For with it fell a Father, ever dear!
A lot whose loss would never be deplor'd
Could Life, to such a Friend, be so restor'd.
How mean must be that Ingrate's groveling Mind,
Whose selfish feelings could be so confin'd—
Could wish, for such a scanty scrap of Earth,
To give that Friend who gave His Being birth—
Ev'n for its amplest Plain, and richest Mine,
So lov'd a Father's valued Life resign!
But, tho' impassion'd Spirit felt so loth,
Yet when the all-wise Pow'r which made them both,
Had purposed by His blessed Providence,
In Love, and Mercy, to remove him hence,
In full assurance Life would be restor'd,
He bow'd his head, in silence, and ador'd!

But full possession still suspended hung
On law, pronounc'd by that lov'd Parent's tongue;
Love needed not, what written Wills require,
To make that Son submissive to that Sire,
Who wish'd, with fervent Mind, his faithful Mate,
While Providence decreed her longer date,
Should, thro' that Life, those benefits enjoy;
Which Crispin's duteous Heart could ne'er deny;
But feeling pure affection press the same,
He joyfully withheld his legal Claim.

He might have pleaded, now, the common cant
Of Heav'n's explicit Will, thro' pressing want;
For apter reasons Penury need not roam,
But urge, “That Charity begins at Home.”
Yet how could such a fondly-favour'd Child
Thus mock a Mother; ever-meek, and mild!
A first-born Son, so basely, gifts forget;
All Human dues—and Duty's endless debt!
Could pious Crispin Heav'n's pure dictates spurn!
All Nature's lessons instantly unlearn!
Her web unweave! Her innate knots unnoose!
And thus, at once, all filial feelings lose!
At once all Education set aside,
And strive to make each moral Virtue void!
All Grace—all Goodness—franticly forego,
To shun weak Shame, and keep up specious Show!
A Mother's Comfort cruelly destroy,
And rob declining Age of daily Joy;
That Vanity might still continue vain,
And Pride escape just penalties of pain!
Let hopes of profit pacify the Mind,
That fond Self-love might full indulgence find!

That Friend, or Customer, when coming there,
Might mark no Need, no Poverty appear,
But all contribute both to Ease and Health,
Proclaim Prosperity, and forward Wealth.

Could he, long call'd a Christian, so dismiss
All hope of present peace, and future bliss?
For such a wretched bait, this reasoning Bard,
All true delight, all character, discard;
And suffer such a Friend, who, first, caress'd,
And cheer'd his Childhood, brooding on her breast?
Let that fond bosom pine, for lack of bread,
Where his weak infant frame was fully fed;
Or gaily strut about, in gaudy trim,
While she went bare who oft well-cover'd him?
No!—rather would his Will resign the Whole
Than thus a Father's dying wish controul.
Live pin'd with poverty, and shrunk with shame,
Than cancel thus a tender Mother's Claim.
Let counter, shelves, and boards, continue bare,
Than thus increase Her labour, or Her care.
Be sooner seen, each day, in paltry dress
Than She should find one graceful garment less.
Would stint His Table, and half-starve His Brood,
That She might share more comfortable Food,
And bear exposure to each pelting storm,
Than she should want a habitation warm.
More willing would consent to yield his breath,
Than let Self love e'er expedite Her death;
Than suffer Conscience to contract such Crime,
To pierce the Spirit thro' remaining time;
And, when his Body sunk beneath the Sod,
Deprive that Spirit of its Parent—God!

Some rational expedient must be found
That would not thus inflict this festering wound
Such as the Spirit must thro' Time deplore
And risque most wretched loss when Life was o'er.

He meditated first a desperate plan
To try what reach his Name and Credit ran;
Amongst unmonied Men a common scheme,
But harsh and humbling high Trade's esteem;
For, while the hazardous design succeeds,
The independent bosom pants and bleeds;
While Merit, when it meets the sad reverse,
Feels Virtue suffer Crime's severest curse—
For when Indifference, or imperious Pride,
Or Ridicule, sets each pure plea aside;
Or boisterous Passion bids the Dupe depart,
Shame, Death, and Hell, seem shrivelling up the Heart;

Such dire disasters Crispin scarcely knew;
His killing applications were but few;
And those devoid of vinegar and gall,
Tho' his successes were exceeding small.

A different conduct might have 'scap'd the whole,
Had he possest that suppleness of Soul
Which fits itself to circumstances new,
By changing shape, size, attitude, and hue;
In weak accommodation to each whim
Of those that had the pow'r of helping Him.

He might have miss'd a part by complaisance
Accepting treasure offer'd in advance,
And Loons remark'd he well deserv'd to lack
For sending rich Scintilla's Bounty back.

Mean Sycophants might feel such conduct wrong,
And such decision sway the thoughtless Throng;
For they, unmindful of their future fate,
With eagerness embrace each tempting bait—
But Crispin guessing what the gift contain'd,
How much his purest feelings must be pain'd;
How little pleasure would attend the prize,
His Mind resolv'd to make the sacrifice:
Nor did he, after, in his neediest day,
Regret he turn'd the tempting gold away;
Nor Wife, or Friends, whose interest was the same,
The bold refusal e'er, as folly, blame;
Or even wish'd, in most distressful hour,
That proffer'd pelf again in Crispin's pow'r—
For Heav'n, which countenances Virtue's Cause,
Ne'er fails the Faithful who revere its Laws,
That He might not lament that loss of Store
In bounteous Benefactions sent much more—
Yea, Providence, at that penurious time,
That Conscience might not find a fancied crime,
Ordain'd a distant Relative to die
To yield Necessity a new supply.

These happy Perquisites were soon display'd
In stationery Stores for retail Trade.
Exhibited abroad, in stately Stock,
That envious Emulation might not mock;
To combat Scorn, and palliate haughty Pride,
And prove small purchasers might be supplied.

There, in battalions, on the furnish'd Floor,
White, brown, or blue, appear'd each comely Corps;

Whose decent ranks, and order well-arrang'd,
Show'd Fate's blank face to cheerfulness was chang'd.
Still he beheld, with grief, the greedy boards
Had swallow'd all his long-collected hoards;
And still, with habit lean, and hungry looks,
In silence begg'd for feasts of better Books,
Their meagre frames to mend, and mouths to fill,
That they might help to feed his famish'd Till,
By putting in, each day, a dribbling sum,
As Heav'n should influence Customers to come:
But his exhausted funds no more could find
To fill the shelves and cheer their Master's Mind.

He then resolv'd the trading World to try,
And strive to borrow what he could not buy—
To try how far his true, pathetic, Tale,
Would o'er the Prudence of that World prevail—
How far experiment might Pity trace
Among the rigorous, bluff, book-selling Race—
What Faith, as fellow-Christians, they might feel,
In operative acts for others weal—
How much each hungry Heart, and sordid Soul,
Might feel refining Sympathy's controul—
What pleasing proofs Humanity might show
Sublime Benevolence would look so low—
How far divine Philanthropy had throve
By kindly culture in that Land of Love.
Whether within their bosoms might be found
Some part of that Religion piled around—
Whether true Wisdom there had fixt its roots,
And Charity had cherish'd friendly fruits—
Whether some seeds pure Piety had sown,
Which, by the blessed beams of Grace, were grown;
And while Heav'n's dews, on right endeavours dropp'd,
Their happy Spirits were completely cropp'd;
Or if his hand might some small sheaves obtain
Where ample harvests heap'd the prosperous plain,
In his safe storehouse, as a trust, to hold,
Till delegated treasures turn'd to gold;
Then honestly to pay the price he ought,
When commerce had retain'd what Custom taught;
Or, if not favour'd with a timely sale,
Refund them, faithful, both in state, and tale.

His name was honour'd, once, in earlier days,
When young Ambition strove to twine the bays;
Nor could he offer, then, a fairer bribe
Than so to trust the literary Tribe.
His Face was then familiar in each Mart,
Where Learning lookt for tracts of Taste, or Art;
But now, so long sequestred, his hard lot,
His very Form and Visage were forgot;
Nor now could antique Trader recognize
His voice—complexion—feature—shape—or size!
Besides Crispinus, now, could find but few,
Which, in his younger days he gladly knew,
Time had torn up, or lopp'd, the liberal Race,
Still dibbling Dolts, or Puppies, in their place.

He could not, now, push cramp'd Presumption's claim
To youthful hopes of Fortune, or of Fame—
Declining Age no argument could use
To influence greedy Tradesmen's groveling Views;
Nor hopeless Poverty one motive try
To make proud Misers with his Wish comply.
But danger, fear, dislike, and doubtful plea,
Before Necessity were forc'd to flee—
As sentenc'd Soldiers thro' the gauntlet run,
This castigating course our Bard begun;
Receiving some correction every pace,
Throughout the limits of his writhing Race;
Inflicted, more or less, from every lash,
As Tempers prov'd more placid, rude, or rash.

Where'er he show'd his meagre face and shape
Sharp Eagerness, for gain, stood wide agape,
Whose eyes and ears to full expansion grew,
To catch his looks and words before they flew:
But as they seiz'd unwelcome sight, or sound,
Reflection shap'd the aspect more profound—
And, while pronouncing speech for borrowing Books,
The smiling leers were chang'd to churlish looks,
Nor more with hope, or expectation, shone,
But bid him, by ungracious gloom, be gone.

When thus he'd run, thro' all the flogging Ranks,
He found but little call for praise, or thanks;
But meditated, much, a hostile Scheme
For prosecution, by poetic Theme,
Unveiling each cold Character to view,
Pourtray'd in shape—face—attitude—and hue—
Not limn'd in colours, but in couplets linkt,
To make each form and feature stand distinct;
That every literary Soph might see
By marks and manners, who each Brute must be.

But soon calm Intuition clearly taught
By Scheme like this Himself would soon be caught;

And Reason show'd such Work would give offence,
To mild Humanity, and soberer Sense—
While Prudence whisper'd, soft, in Penury's ear,
That such Design would cost him doubly dear—
Would rouze a nest of Hornets into wrath,
Whose fierceness would infest his daily path;
And when their waspish pow'rs were on the wing
Their hum would harrass while their tails might sting:
And, tho' not form'd with faculties for Song,
They might annoy him as a noisey Throng;
Like Kites would scream, or whoot like nightly Owls;
Would drop their dirt like filthy dunghill Fowls,
And proudly perch aloof, or fly aloft,
Nor, with one feather, make his couch more soft.

He met with manners, often, harsh and rough,
And bore, with patience many a rude rebuff;
Yet some assented to his plaintive plea,
And help'd his purpose in some small degree:
But, when the first effusions Kindness felt
Produc'd not fruits for which that Kindness dealt;
And tho' his longings, thus, their loans reliev'd,
They fear'd their confidence might be deceiv'd—
For finding his returns so very slack,
They wish'd their goods again in stores to stack—
And lest his credit suddenly should crash,
By frequent claims soliciting for cash;
These doubts indulg'd and every hope appall'd,
The tardy Tomes were sullenly recall'd.

Among the rest one base abandon'd Wretch,
Who push'd his Trust beyond its natural stretch,
And some few Copies to Crispinus lent,
While mean Self-interest was his true intent;
Which, when the Bard had honestly return'd,
The charge was brought, and his assertion spurn'd,
Because uncrost in his neglected Book,
With blackguard speech, and bold malignant look,
With curses, blasphemies, and oaths untrue,
Bad as St. Giles, or Billingsgate, e'er knew!

One sole exception, here, my Muse records
Whose Friendship far excell'd most modern Lords';
One Lord, alone, like Him, when Trade began,
Could recollect he knew so mean a Man—
Whose Memory, unlike Middleton's or Pitts,
Ne'er recognized, or quite forgot, by fits;
But still could recollect, and condescend
To be tried Penury's never-failing Friend.
The Man, who, now, my conscious Muse remarks,
Felt former Kindness's rekindled sparks;
For, when he heard Humanity's mild claim,
And how discarded by the cruel Dame,
By Sympathy, and prompt Resentment, mov'd,
His case, and conduct, pitied, and approved.
Not barren pity—approbation dead—
That sighs, or smiles, yet leaves a Friend unfed;
But genuine warmth, which moves the vital flood
And makes the Will to grant some solid Good!

With wonder see the single instance stand,
Amidst the boorish, mercenary, Band;
Like Milton's unmatch'd Seraphim, among
The proud, the crafty, contumelious, Throng;
Who, faithful to his Trust, stood firm, alone,
To vindicate his high Creator's Throne;
So matchless conduct prov'd his views devoid
Of sordid Meanness, and repulsive Pride!

He from his ample hoard, with willing heart,
Which merits praise, communicated part;
A goodly part! not dribbling drop by drop,
With sham pretence, to shame his pinching shop—
Poor, petty trust! deputed for parade;
Apparently to help, yet starve his Trade—
But solid substance—reputably mass'd—
To catch at skilful optics as they pass'd—
Not foolish toys, for Tyros, only, fit,
Devoid of wisdom, learning, taste, or wit—
Not paltry tracts, whose fellows might be found
In ragged troops, on wretched stalls, around—
Or, stripp'd of clothing, with compassion seen
In Chandlers, or Cheesemongers, magazine—
Their mangled limbs oft met, in parts, put down,
From vilest use, through every vault in Town.
Not such sad Nonsense as mere Pedants pen.
Or Louts who deem themselves deep-learned Men.
What Debauchees, or Macaronies, write
Or dozing Dunces, in their dreams, indite.
Not futile stuff, that still from Folly flows,
With fume, or foam, in weak or watery Prose—
Nor languid lays, nor dull dramatic Strains,
That bubble forth from every Blockhead's brains;
Which, while they mean to make folks laugh or weep,
Like opiates, lullaby the Soul to sleep;
Or by much mawkish wit, and rambling rage,
With crude conceptions surfeit every Stage,

Till the pert Muse is banish'd in a pet,
Like simpering Ferningham's despis'd Coquette;
A little finical, frail, foolish, Elf,
Tasteless, and meretricious, like Himself.
Not dangerous Treatises, by Deists tried,
To set all Revelation's views aside;
Endeavouring to subvert both Age and Youth,
By blending Treachery with historic Truth;
Their happiest hopes, and blessings, to abuse
Like graceless Gibbon's bold mischievous Muse—
Nor gilding o'er, with elegance, and taste,
In choicest language, sentiments unchaste,
To make all Morals, and Religion, yield,
Like the vile Letters of vain Chesterfield!
No! these were Tomes that scrutiny might stand,
Nor wound one Conscience in a Christian Land!
In libraries of Princes might appear
Nor fear the Fool's remark, or Coxcombs' sneer!
Such Books as might, without rebuke, be seen
In prime apartments of learn'd King, or Queen;
Without a virtuous blush, or blame, be view'd
By modest Maid, or hypocritic Prude!
Such as with profit might be daily read,
While Age might learn, nor Youth be e'er misled!
Such as in Schools and Colleges might shine—
Or Crown the Desk of dignified Divine!
Volumes a learn'd Vice-Chancellor might place
For deepest Doctors in a College-Case!
Such as ne'er could excite a scornful scoff
In Fellow, sage, or superficial Soph!
Such Authors as the shelves, in front, might fill,
Mid Walpole's well-rang'd troops on Strawberry-hill;
Or mix among the heap'd chaotic crew,
That fill'd the floors of Mrs. M---u!

Such were the Tomes this friendly Trader chose,
To grace his ranks, and give his heart repose;
Not only for a single Season lent,
To calm a temporary discontent—
Not offer'd Flattery, as retaining Fee,
But gracious gifts for perpetuity;
Yet grateful thanks, and praises put aside,
So fondly sought by foolish Pomp and Pride.
His free intent, thro' Life, ne'er fully shown
As a free largess, but a friendly loan—
Yet, tho' his delicacy ne'er declar'd
That Crispin so his solid Friendship shar'd,
He ne'er perplext that while the pensive Wight,
By reclamation of his legal Right.
Thus were his wants, and present pains, remov'd,
And He, as truth, and gratitude, behov'd,
Resolv'd a Dodsley's ever-honoured Name
Should live, coeval with his humble Fame;
To counteract the prompt reports of such
Who gain his Favours, yet his fortune grutch.

Crispinus tried one apt expedient more
To advertize his Trade, and raise his Store;
The matter furnish'd from the Muse's Stock,
To show how Friendship felt her shameful shock—
How Faith lay prostrate; Patronage how fled;
And all his hopeful expectations dead!

His object was to prove, in humble prose,
Why He that Place and Occupation chose,
With pure, but simple, eloquence, to court
The public favour, to afford support;
And stimulate some staunch remaining Friend;
To further such a fair, and honest, End.

Another view, was, to convince the World,
How Pride and Passion from his Post had hurl'd—
How insignificant were all his gains
For labours, anxious cares, and plagues, and pains—
How much inadequate the things possest
To yield his aged limbs a lasting rest—
And last, not least, to urge, in honest, Song,
What Dues, and Duties to a King belong;
How robb'd of honour, privilege, and praise,
By vulgar, scurrilous, sarcastic, lays;
Hoping his meek Benevolence might bless
An humble Bard, in undeserv'd distress,
Relieving, kindly, such a wretched Case,
By some small pension, perquisite, or place,
For ev'n in want, he wish'd not wealth to get,
Where Duty never could discharge the Debt.

The lov'd Idea of this loyal Deed
Did not originate in time of Need,
But first was form'd in honour of the Throne,
Before the fear of Penury was known.
Nor did it then from Avarice arise,
The hope of Honour, or expected Prize;
But from affection for the sacred Cause,
Of social Order, and of civil Laws.

His Mind, tho' then mov'd, thus, by Hope and Fear,
Yet Conscience show'd the sentiment sincere,

For sharp Chagrin, and Sympathy, was felt,
To mark how Myrmidons with Monarchs dealt,
And long'd to stop the labours of the Muse
That dar'd degrade herself, and Kings abuse.
Beside so desperate then his Case appear'd
The Will felt wavering, and the worst was fear'd;
Inclin'd to seize each unsubstantial twig,
While debts and dangers, look'd so bold and big—
Dispos'd to catch at King's, or Nobles' nod,
Which, when obey'd would break no Law of God—
To grasp a bubble, or embrace a shade,
While Conscience never felt herself afraid.

Then, feeling like a shipwreck'd Wretch, forlorn!
On tumbling waves, by boisterous tempests borne;
On any Coast imploring to be cast
To 'scape the billows, and avoid the blast;
Still hoping help and comfort, might be found,
Could he once fix his feet on solid Ground.
This made him long to leave such troubled Seas,
And seek a Soil where Age might hope for Ease—
Some situation on the stedfast Strand;
To serve the lawful Ruler of the Land,
And, thro' that medium, with a Heart most true,
To serve Himself—Mankind—and Country, too.

'Twas natural to a Man, in time of need,
To wish some 'stablished mercenary meed,
To yield some Years of rest in Life's decline,
And Earth's best inter'sts with Heav'n's bliss combine;
But when his eyes, and heart, in After-times,
Perceiv'd, and felt, how foul were courtly Crimes,
He thank'd the gracious God of Providence
That stirr'd fresh thoughts, and turn'd his footsteps thence:
For, when he'd tried that long-wish'd Trade awhile,
And found that Providence begin to smile,
How did his humble, honest, heart rejoice
That Heav'n had so decreed his happier choice!
He, then, could, look at leisure o'er the Plan
Pursued by Kings, and Court's proud, pompous, Clan;
And, then, with deepest detestation, saw
The vilest Lusts beneath the veil of Law!
Saw how each sought for Honour, Pow'r, and Pelf,
To spend their produce on that idol—Self!
Unmindful of the needs of Nature's Brood,
Whose Toil and Care scarce win their Cloaths and Food,
With all vain pamperings of Pride and Lust,
While still look'd down upon with deep disgust!
How Kings ne'er cared when Hinds and Artists groan'd,
So their sublime Authority was own'd,
Considering Clowns and Craftsmen merely Clods,
Yet sought their suffrage to declare Them Gods.

He saw the Rich their Industry devour!
Yet make them stepstones to catch Place of Pow'r,
That they might compass captivating Things
Dispens'd abroad by arbitrary Kings;
While still ungratefully despising those
By whose industrious energies they rose.

He clearly saw those crafty traitorous Troops
Become each day, and hour, each others' Dupes,
While diligently labouring rules to draw
To keep the motley Multitude in awe—
Those rules themselves endeavour'd to evade,
And only bind the Beasts of Toil and Trade.
How each departed thro' some private road,
To 'scape the burdens of the binding Code;
That Code, in Constitution, plain, and pure,
Which Kings, tho' Parties, scarcely could endure;
But, basely, all its useful fetters burst,
By brutal Force, or foul Chicanery, first—
And tho', by wisdom of much worthier Men
The sever'd parts were solder'd o'er agen,
Yet, still, some Tyrant, with despotic stroke,
Again the ties by basest treachery broke—
Become so cramp'd—so canker'd—so bescotch'd—
So often broken, and so badly botch'd—
By subsequent additions so defac'd—
So, by Court-Blacksmiths marr'd, and so debas'd—
So chang'd its fair complexion, shape, and size,
That Men of Worth, and Wisdom, now despise:
Yet while so broken—mangled—and bemaul'd,
The Thing is, still, “The Constitution,” call'd.

The Constitution! why the veriest Dunce
Discerns how different was its vigour once—
Yet thanks to some Physicians, who, of late,
Have striven to restore its pristine State,
By purging off bad humours from its Frame,
With legal physick, and celestial flame—
But still 'twas kept in such unskilful hands,
Its injur'd health, in constant peril stands;
For that medicinal, but dangerous, Tribe,
Are prone to tamper, still, and still prescribe,
And so extremely eager after Fees,

Some subtle Foe, or faithless Friend, to please,
They every hour some desperate dose repeat,
And give some venom'd mess instead of meat;
That nothing, less than prophecy, can tell
How long such weakly Habit may be well.
They try experiments from day to day,
In such wild, proud, unprecedented, way,
That all foresee, 'mong Men of Sense, and Art,
How strength declines, and Life must soon depart.
But, chief, each Winter, when, with Pow'rful Purge,
They push Existence to extremest verge—
Or, by Phlebotomy in Summer's hours,
To Palliate Phrenzies, weaken all its Pow'rs,
At random drawing blood from every vein,
Still injuring most while raging Dog-days reign.
'Tis now, throughout, so lower'd and so relax'd,
Its poor Possessor so completely tax'd,
For ignorant Doctors, and for useless Drugs,
And strength exhausted so, with hostile Tugs—
So near exhausted, by an annual Sweat,
And dread lest Time can ne'er discharge its Debt—
Each hour so sorely sobs, and pants for breath,
It seems in danger of some sudden Death!

Truly it is a Constitution, still,
But so impair'd by wild Professor, Will;
In his unskilful hands so long has lain
'Tis all a mass of Misery, Grief, and Pain;
From Head to Foot become one dire Disease,
All Pimps to favour, and all Fools to please;
And must full metamorphose undergo,
From Top, extreme, to the remotest Toe;
Just like a filthy Leprosy all o'er—
Scorbutic scab, or cancerous running Sore—
And wants the strictest Regimen to cure
The rampant Pulse, and morbid Blood, impure,
With Agues cold—with feverish heat o'er-warm,
It needs a new, a radical, Reform.
'Tis palsied—and electric strokes requires
To wake fresh Force with renovating Fires;
Applied, with energy, from time to time,
To purge obstructions, and restore its Prime;
Distemper'd, deeply, in each vital Part;
In all its Limbs, and Entrails; Head and Heart—
With black Infection fill'd, and burning flame,
Thro' every Vessel in the vicious Frame.
A sink of sordid humours! where the Head,
By rank Corruption, ev'n to Phrenzy, fed;
Or sour'd by Pride, or by Chagrin grown sad;
Becomes completely melancholy-mad!
The heart—'tis past the pow'r of Prose, or Rhymes,
To name its maladies, thro' countless Crimes.
Pump'd by that piston the vile poisons pass,
Contaminating more the morbid mass.
The Senses nourish'd from so foul a source,
Know preternatural feebleness, or force;
And objects passing such false mediums through,
Find Feeling, Taste, Smells, Sounds, and Sights, untrue;
While, thro' false intimations, every Limb
Performs strange tricks of Wickedness, or Whim.
By such perverted Eyes each object seen
Must wear a different colour, form, and mien—
Pursue vain vision, or frail phantasm fly,
With needless terror, or intemperate joy—
The influenc'd Ears fallaciously confound
The simple purport of each passing sound—
Each other vitiated Sense conveys
Perpetual hints how every Part decays.
The Stomach most disturb'd with deep Disease
A World's productions would, insatiate, seize—
With greediness would gorge each crude content,
Nor turn one meal to natural nourishment,
But vomit all, in vicious shapes, agen,
To foul, infect, and venom, other Men.
The lower Belly, full of putrid Bile,
Concocts no substance into healthy Chyle;
But, thro' the circulation, constant, sends
Infection to the Toes' and Fingers' ends.
Lastly, a dreadful Flux, with frequent flood
Wastes all remaining Might by loss of Blood,
And calls for Styptics of peculiar Kind,
To stop the current, and the parts to bind—
Or, to preserve the Constitution clear,
Some proper portion should be drawn elsewhere;
For none but strong expedients e'er can drive
Those peccant Pow'rs, and keep the Soul alive;
Deobstruent powder, pills, and strengthening steel,
To move the Causes, and completely heal—
Except blest miracle, from Heav'n above,
Restore the strength by operative Love;
Diffusing thro' the Frame a Spirit, pure,
Whose influence only can effect a Cure,

By purging off all particles profane,
That render virtuous operations vain—
Preparing for a Regimen more wise,
As Heav'n's divine Physician shall advise:
Then, the poor Patient's dark delirium past,
A sovereign Remedy's applied at last,
When, looking upward to the heavenly Throne,
All worship centers in one Lord alone;
While Man, no more a selfish, hellish, Elf,
Shall fondly love each Fellow as Himself!

CHAPTER 16th.

Crispinus, now, enriched in his Cell
With Articles no Muse can aptly tell;
Whose Names would sound too tuneless—trivial—trite—
To yield the heart, or ear, the least delight,
In decent order, on each side, arrang'd,
Alert to have his goods for gold exchang'd.
His different stationery stores display'd,
For furthering various offices in Trade;
With kind accommodating tracts, which tend
To lull the Lover, and confirm the Friend.
His Books, in spruce battalions, plac'd around;
Religion, Morals, Politics, profound—
Vague Metaphysics—Dramas, antique tracts—
Abstruse Philosophy—historic facts—
The miscellaneous labours of the Muse,
That Wits might wish, or Chiefs, in Wisdom, chuse—
With lighter subjects both of Prose and Song,
Children to charm, or please Youth's thoughtless Throng,
Whose heedless hearts, unconscious of a crime,
With such weak trifles while away their time:
Something adapted to each depth of Mind,
To suit the Sense, or Nonsense, of Mankind.

Meantime, amidst this multitude of wares
His heart experienc'd some perplexing cares,
Lest his lov'd Family and Self should lack
While profits were withheld when trade was slack;
For some incentive more was wanting still,
To operate well on Man's capricious Will—
Something that might his Faculties controul,
And touch that Spring whose pow'r impels the Soul—
Might sway decision with some secret weight
And happily avert such dreadful fate—
That some unfailing Agent might prevail,
To stretch unfurl'd Affection's swelling sail,
And guide its rudder with resistless force,
To find his Market, with unerring course—
Make some small anchors in his Harbour drop,
To shove on Traffick in his tiney Shop;
Directing Fancy and so o'erruling Whim,
And fixing frail Desire to deal with Him;
For Fancy might much high'r allurements meet,
To operate on Caprice, in every Street—
Much ampler stores might Articles supply,
To teach the Intellect, or tempt the Eye—
More choice commodities to charm aside
Minds, deep immur'd in Prejudice and Pride;
And might with stronger motives move each Heart
To scorn his Ware, and mock his humble Mart.
But He, who hollow'd out the sapphire Sphere,
And guides the Comets in their swift career;
Not suffering things without to turn their track,
Or urge them, thro' eccentric orbits, back—
Who whirls the Planets in their daily round,
And binds each orb within its annual bound,
Still ordering all, as thro' those paths they run,
To draw due influence from their central Sun—
He, who commands the misty Meteor-train
To shed refreshment on the pining Plain,
Nor e'er permits, without his pow'rful call,
One cloud to cover, or one drop to fall,
But still compels each particle that flies

To give leaf, flow'r, and fruit, hue, form, and size—
Commissions not, alone, His liquid show'rs
To fall on lordly Forests, Woods or Bow'rs;
Sends not Sunbeams abroad, in proud parade,
Where, Kings, or Princes, plant the shining Shade,
But makes His Light like genial splendour spread,
On unseen Snowdrop's, and low Lily's, head;
And bids Clouds part their tributes, as they pass
On Shrubs—Plants—Herbs, or humblest blades of Grass.
Who lets no simple Sparrow's chirping Brood
Repine and perish, for mere lack of food;
But, by his Will—Pow'r—Wisdom—Love—sublime,
Allots their portion, and appoints their time!
He—Governor of all! and He, alone,
Gives every voice its turn, and Heart its tone;
And wills, and weighs, each Rustic's right support,
As well as Lords who crowd round regal Court!
He could, alone, commercial succours send;
Make each frail Customer become a Friend;
And only He could fence, and clothe and feed,
That Crispin and his Flock, no more might need.
Except He build the House all labour's lost!
Each care, and scheme of worldly-wisdom cross'd—
Without His help the Watchman wakes in vain,
And greedy Tradesmen grasp at greater Gain—
The Thief may Watchmen's vigilance evade;
All anxious care, and toil, be lost in Trade,
Unless that Being their Endeavours bless,
And with His Will give good Design success!

Conscious of this poor Crispin's heart implor'd
That Deity, by Heav'n and Earth ador'd!
With constant, daily pray'rs aspiring scope,
To beg a blessing on his humble Hope.
He knew no applications made to Man
Could e'er consolidate his dubious Plan;
But Pow'r supreme, whose providential Will,
Decides each gift of human Good, or Ill.
Yet he neglected not those honest Arts
Which tend to influence undecided Hearts,
But every prudent, pure, design essay'd,
To win a selfish World to yield its aid.
He knew that second Causes must be tried
To soften Passion, Prejudice, and Pride;
And, that no Mortal should the Means neglect,
Tho' none but God could give them full effect—
What was the result? doubting seem'd absurd,
To One, well read, with pray'r, in Heav'n's pure Word,
Where precious Promises, by all, are found,
Whose eyes are single, and whose hearts are sound;
Repeated frequent, and propounded full,
Which Time—nor Men—nor Dev'ls—can disannul;
But still belong to all whose Faith, and Love,
Confide in Christ, and live like those above.

His Pray'r, like prudent Agur's, ask'd no more
Than Health—Content—and necessary Store;
With plenteous portions of God's heavenly Grace,
To light and lead him, thro' his earthly Race.
That bounteous Grace had taught him, all beyond,
Of which the worldly Fool, alone, is fond,
Brings nought but vile vexatious thoughts, and cares;
Full oft producing Man's most pow'rful snares;
Holding the heart in temporal fetters, fast,
Till Wisdom's day of penitence is past!
And each Possession, spite of boasted Birth,
Is swept, as refuse, from the face of Earth,
To take their lot in Shiloh's last decree,
From which nor Wealth, nor Pow'r, nor Fame, can free.
And what can Wealth, Pow'r, Fame, or Birth bestow,
To make Man's moments pass more blest below;
More than the Bard, in Competence, might find,
With Health, fond Friends, and calm, contented, Mind?
Those can secure no Health, nor purchase Peace,
Whilst Life is lapsing thro' uncertain Lease—
No heart can skreen from Fate's perpetual Fear
Nor keep the Character, or Conscience, clear;
But lay on countless Debts, and Duties, more
Than e'er distress, or can disturb, the Poor.

These, then, alone, from heavenly Love to share,
He made the subject of his simple pray'r,
And tho', at first, he found success but small,
Faith earnestly renew'd each daily call;
Submitting, humbly, to His wise behest
Who knew the measure, time, and manner, best;
Not doubting Heav'n would send success, most meet,
Or move him, thence, to some more prosperous seat.

Thus while he watch'd, by faith and hopes engag'd,
Like a drear Convict, in close Dungeon cag'd;
To mark what mercies Providence would send,
As gracious first-fruits from his glorious Friend,

Commission'd to repress each rash surmise
And yield his pensive Mind some prompt supplies;
For, tho' he saw the City's motley mass,
In thronging numbers by his threshold pass,
Some turn'd their footsteps with attentive heed,
To bring those pence kind Providence decreed!

He view'd each Class of courteous, proud, and poor,
Which hourly wander'd by his humble Door,
And made remarks on all that loung'd along
To form fresh Subjects for some future Song.
He mark'd itinerary Traders most,
Who daily pass'd to fill their doubtful post—
How each, by providential impulse, led,
Sought, in the barren Streets uncertain bread;
And, thro' that pow'rful impulse, persevered,
For longing expectation little fear'd;
Who, whether they experienc'd prize, or blank,
Put up no pray'r, or gave one grateful Thank;
But constant Curses mouth'd, or mocking Oaths;
While still their sky-thron'd Father feeds and clothes,
Yet—keeping strict account of every crime,
To crown His Justice at the close of Time!
He chiefly mark'd, among the vocal crowd,
The Israelite's hoarse accent, harshly loud;
Like hungry Ravens uttering constant cry
For food and raiment from their Friend on high,
Tho' one ne'er once implores kind Providence,
The other gives, continual, foul offence,
While constant favours, hourly, come, conferr'd
Both on the crying Band, and craving Bird;
Next they which trundle numerous Trades about
And tune to Barrow's base their sharper shout—
Those whose vociferous solos full unfold
All articles their Bags, or Baskets, hold—
With bands who various voluntaries bawl,
To tell their fruitful stores on fixed Stall;
Or sing, sonorous, nasal, piercing, parts,
To drown the rumbling roar of clam'rous Carts.
All hope their cries may customers excite
To buy for bare support, or pure delight,
That they to necessary use may turn
The little gains their groveling labours earn.
They ne'er their wretched rhythmus chaunt in vain,
But, like the lesser, tuneful Songster-train,
Solicit, with instinctive, heav'n-taught, lay,
For Selves, and Families, support, from day to day.
Nor does the Father and high Friend, of all,
Disdain their cadence, or despise their call;
But from His boundless, ever-open, hand,
Spreads Life and Sustenance o'er Sea and Land.
Thro' Cities, throng'd, as well as Plains, and Hills,
The Trader, Hind, and Artist, clothes, and fills;
Who trust that Friend, from whom each blessing flows,
And best employ all Gifts His Grace bestows.

In silence Crispin oft preferr'd his Pray'r,
That He, and His, might some small portion share.
He durst not beg the Cause of every Cause
Would e'er for him relax His righteous Laws—
One rule of Justice, Truth, or Love, invert,
To profit him by any Neighbour's hurt.
He knew God's perfect Prescience must behold
From first what all Creation could unfold;
Foreseeing every Virtue, every Crime,
Of every Creature, thro' all tracts of Time;
With every action, word, and wish, of Man,
And all their bearings long ere Life began;
While perfect Wisdom, Goodness, Love, like Fate,
Completely fix'd his first, and final, date—
What Providence would every day supply,
When Body should decay, and Spirit fly,
With all the bad, or blest, events between,
To trouble, or compose, Life's procreant Scene;
Nor Pow'rs of earthly Spite, or hellish Pride,
Could change His Will, or set His Work aside.

He notic'd Nature, both in Heav'n and Earth,
Was all progressive, still, from bud, or Birth.
How infant darkness, and first dawn of light
In due gradations grew to Day, and Night.
The Sun's ascending orb, and beamy Moon's,
By steps proceeded to their perfect Noons;
And every living Creature, lodg'd below,
Ordain'd by Heav'n in fix'd degrees to grow.
He could not hope the Seed, as soon as sown,
To strength mature would, in one hour be grown;
Or, when his Trade began to strike its roots,
'Twould in one Day, produce abundant fruits.
No! he was taught on God's great Truths to stay,
And wait, with patience, on His Love's delay;
Convinc'd His Wisdom, Goodness, Love, and Pow'r,
Would yield due blessings, in the happiest hour—

Not by his Weakness boundless Wisdom judge—
Nor Lust o'er godly Love, and Goodness grudge—
Not, peevishly anticipating time,
E'er doubt the bounty of that Pow'r, sublime;
Nor sharpen Want with Discontent's controuls,
But every day give thanks for smallest doles.
He ne'er could think, thro' Reason's exercise,
The Fount of Truth could turn to Source of Lies;
Or let Imagination's pow'r prevail
To fancy Faithfulness itself could fail.

Tho' he ne'er deign'd, like trading Dupes, to wait,
In begging guise, beside some great Man's gate,
Fawning, to make each servile Slave his Friend,
And while such smil'd, or bullied, humbly bend—
Nor thro' foul streets perform'd his daily dance,
To catch a churlish Customer by chance,
And soothe him, for the sake of groveling gain,
With sinful flattery, falshood, or chicane;
But diligent, preserv'd his destin'd place,
Devoid of dark deceit, and gross grimace;
Yet with true welcome, and soft cordial smile,
Serv'd Sons and Daughters of low need and toil,
As well as those who shone in garments gay,
And feasted, sumptuous, every passing day;
Returning grateful thanks with great Good-will,
To each who brought one Farthing to his Till.

To some who false and sham demeanour show'd,
No thanks, or kind acknowledgments, he ow'd;
Who looking slily round, with cunning leer,
Weigh'd—measur'd—estimated—all things there;
Whose faces, once familiar, plainly prov'd,
Sinister motives their mock favours mov'd—
Not sent by Pity, with a pure design
To ease his heart, or multiply his coin;
But mean Observers, who to market came,
As Pimps, commission'd by his quondam Dame;
To take a moment's transitory stand,
And learn the nakedness of his new Land;
Then carry back some captious, quaint, report
To curry Favour at her fickle Court.

Some came as curious Volunteers, to view
What exhibition, either old, or new,
Their idly-hapless faculties could find,
To give fresh fillip to a morbid Mind,
Which Pique, or Spleen, or Passion, overpow'r'd,
Or diabolical Ennui devour'd.
Some with a purer enterprizing taste,
With views more virtuous, and a choice more chaste,
Came, simply, to enquire what causes—strange,
Had brought about such sudden, chearless change!
To see what site, what prospect He posses'd,
Whom they, and their Compeers, had once caress'd—
What expectation place, or goods, could give,
That He, and His, might, haply, hope to live;
And from a superficial view, so slight
Might carry back Scintilla base delight;
Whose heart all babbling tongues would warmly bless
Which promptly told poor Crispin's deep distress.
He whom his Friends deem'd patroniz'd, till Death,
By Poesy's proud Queen—Elizabeth!
He, who, beforetime, but a landless Boor,
Saw Sundry Peers approach his rustic Door!
Was, sometimes, summon'd to distinguish'd Seat,
With Commons to partake the costly Treat;
On fair occasions call'd from fellow-hordes,
To dine, drink, talk, ride, sup, and lodge, with Lords;
And, what was still more strange, yet still as true,
To eat, and drink, and talk, with Ladies, too.
To note him, now, with diligence, endure,
And perfect patience, such a Site, obscure—
With calm content and thankful fondness, fed
On simple vegetables—milk—and bread—
Fix'd ne'er again to feel the galling yoke,
Or more associate but with simple Folk—
Determin'd never to consort agen
With courtly Mobs, but mix with honest Men—
With such learn'd Ladies never more to sit,
Listening wild Lies, and weak attempts at Wit;
And join with those that practise genuine parts,
With words all warmly issuing from their hearts.
Ne'er aim to mount a Chariot, Coach, or Steed,
But humbly trudge on foot, to furnish need;
Lodg'd in a Cell, amid mephitic Air,
In cubic measure not quite eight feet square;
Yet never heard complain, much less repine,
Deeming each dispensation, all divine!

Of those that now thus cross'd his threshold o'er,
To note his rustic state, and scanty store,
Prim, prattling, Jerningham appear'd the Chief;
Coming, with craft, not to supply relief—
Not with a friendly, filial, right regard,
In charity to chear a Brother-Bard—

To smoothe misfortune with unfeigned smile,
Or with some blandisht theme his hours beguile—
Not with a christian wish, considering well,
What such a needy Neighbour sought to sell,
And then, with blythe benevolence, to buy,
Offering a friendly feast of genuine Joy;
But, in true character of Spy, or Pimp,
Or, cloth'd in Angel's guise, or graceless Imp,
To come with simpering lips, and silly looks,
And cast a curious glance about his Books,
With wheedling whine, and hypocritic skill,
As form'd in Friendship Crispin's pouch to fill—
But only meant his Poverty to mock,
And fix its figures in his mental stock,
That he at Madame's Fête, some future day,
Might, for amusement all its parts pourtray—
With witty turn might shew, and shrewd remark,
Each different Creature stow'd in Crispin's Ark—
Describing, archly, things unclean, and clean,
With sundry such as Noah ne'er had seen—
Which droll remarks might, fruitfully, afford
Loud bursts of laughter round her festive Board;
For such vile offals furnish richest fare
Which fawning Puppies for such Feasts prepare.

He made, 'tis true, one purchase on the spot,
Which ne'er should be by Gratitude forgot,
To countenance, complete, his apt pretence,
And 'scape occasion for direct offence,
Yet not entirely expectation mock,
He took a part of Crispin's papery stock;
Whose value must advance amazing much
By such celestial Poet's plastic touch!
For, as the far-fam'd, wonderous, Wight, of old,
Could change all common Matter into Gold;
So He, with metarphose full as strange,
Could plain, blank, paper, into bullion change,
When His apt Muse's operative Pow'rs
Have spread the surface with poetic flow'rs,
And every Blockhead, who believes they shine,
And thinks them specie, turns to current Coin,
As flimsey scraps of paper fully claim
Like worth with gold when graced with Hase's Name;
So, thus to ply his magic pen, and lyre,
In generous plight he purchas'd—half-a-quire!

What miracles might not those Pow'rs perform
When Genius was awake, and Wit grown warm,
And rapt Imagination wildly weaves
Her golden labours o'er those glorious leaves,
While Judgment manages the lights and shades
Which Fancy figures, on her bold brocades;
And his inimitable Taste bestows
The graceful finish as each flow'ret grows.
How his prompt pen the favorite Friend pourtrays,
With living colours, in his shapely lays;
When Pegasus, impell'd by rapturing strains,
Leaves panting Pope slow-hobbling o'er the plains;
Or his dramatic Muse outstrips the wind,
And drops poor, blushing, Shakspear far behind!

Perhaps that Paper, in some future Age
May much surpass the Sybil's mystic Page
Whose wonderous value rose to high'r excess,
In odd proportion, as the leaves grew less;
Or, as the Priesthood of the papal Train,
Who still the pow'r of Miracles retain,
A wonder may be wrought on every line,
And make each letter like true Phosphor shine;
Or, like bright hair of Berenice, arise,
To form fresh Constellation in the Skies!

But, maugre figures, metaphors, and tropes,
More baseless, still, became poor Crispin's hopes;
Who look'd, and look'd more wondering every day,
That splendid Poet still mistook the way
His sighs to silence, and fond fears to charm,
And, with wide-opening purse all doubts disarm;
He ne'er again survey'd poor Crispin's store,
To make his purse display one Sixpence more!

Alas! his time and pence were still employ'd
In scenes of dissipation, pomp, and pride—
Perhaps his pence were spent, his person pawn'd,
Where Flattery loiter'd, and where Luxury yawn'd;
Or barter'd, both, a wholesale sacrifice,
For feasts of jollity—or—fleshly joys;
As each seem'd more congenial to his Mind,
Than bounteous acts to benefit his Kind.

Was this humane to balk a neighbouring Bard,
Who oft had found his hap so very hard?
Such small assistance, as a first-fruit, yield
To shew much future favour sign'd and seal'd?
Thus, in a heart forlorn, plant hope so clear
Thou meant'st to drop more useful offerings there,
To yield a hapless Votary of the Muse,
What Wealth should ne'er to faithful Worth refuse;

But like Appollo's offspring, prove the Soul
Above blind shame, and cold Self-love's controul—
And, as a generous, genuine, Son of Song,
Dar'dst countenance a Wretch, when suffering wrong!
Dar'dst choose Heav'n's honest Children to sustain,
And keep a Patriot from despotic chain!
Not by such sample of penurious heart,
To act such pimping, proud, perfidious, part;
Or show, by shabby, niggard, narrow, deed,
Thy Soul, and Spirit, of low, bastard, Breed!

Was that a Minstrel's true expressive, proof,
To cross his threshold with thy crest aloof;
Labouring to make him lean his aged head
To win from Thee some scraps of humble Bread,
While, subtly, Thou survey'dst his tiny store
That Thou might'st mock his misery the more?
With proud Self-preference fancifully sport
Where Folly and Profaneness keep their Court;
While Ostentation prompts each selfish plan,
And God's degraded to exalt mere Man!

Know, foolish Scoffer! he defied thy scorn,
Tho' thus from all his friendless Friendships torn!
Tho, torn from that proud Patroness, whose Mind,
Like Thine, amidst imagin'd brilliance, blind,
Which gropes its way, while from gross Fool's caress,
And Coxcomb's flattery, hopes for happiness!
Who wastes proud Wealth, still hoping to be fed
With empty Breath, which Dupes deem noblest Bread!
And, diligently labouring, still, to buy
That fleeting Staff which ne'er can satisfy!
Can Man's immortal Soul feel satisfied
With what's but hollow Fame; frail Pomp, and Pride?
Such babbled nothings, Minds, immortal, bind,
Which swell, and sink, with every waft of Wind?
Or those that seem substantial to the sight,
Which soon must follow with Time's latest flight!
His Heart exulted, from such Follies free,
And felt Himself, thus, high'r than Her and Thee!
Felt his pure Heart expand—his Soul serene—
Now free from claims of arbitrary Queen!
Subject no more to captious Pride's controul,
Which check'd all sacred energies of Soul!
Not Suffering, now, from pert Caprice's nod,
Nor forc'd to stoop to Pride's, or Passion's rod!
Knew no restraint from fickle human Elf,
But thought—spoke—acted—free—from all but Self!
Supported by the great eternal Cause,
Still guided by His Grace, and holy Laws!
And social Rules, while Reason gives assent,
With Faith, Hope, Love, and Providence content!
No more by Foes, on every side, besieg'd,
Or base obedience forcibly oblig'd.
No more, now, supple Patient, tame submits
To Passion's dictates, in capricious fits,
But a bold Agent with his Will at large,
Entitled to repel each peccant charge—
Fulfil each duty—pay each due demand—
And join fond Brethren in fair Freedom's Band.
Dar'd, now, associate with congenial Race—
With Children chat—his beauteous Wife embrace—
Not dreading harsh rebuke by Despots found
With fond and faithful Wife, 'midst Children, round!
Enjoy each blessing with his home-born Brood—
Adjust their Clothing, and select their Food—
Choose his own lodging—raiment—meat, and drink,
Yea dar'd to speak all Christians choose to think.
On God's feast-day with his Commandment close
And worship Him, where, when, and how, he chose.
Not now compell'd to spend those hours in waste
Among the ignorant—churlish—or unchaste—
Or pass dull portions of that holy Day,
With Dolts to doze, or Hypocrites to pray;
Where Dullards read their drawling Lessons o'er,
By proud Precursors read as bad before;
And sleepy chorists chaunt their opiate Airs,
Or Fops repeat the prostituted Pray'rs—
But shar'd the bliss of Liberty, like all
That follow Reason's, and Religion's, call;
Could now, no day accus'd of damning crime,
Improve his talents, and employ his time—
Clear'd from the fetters forg'd by Custom's tools,
Which Fashion fixes on all servile Fools,
Whose Forms are held, by her fantastic Trains,
More holy than the Law's dread Heav'n ordains;
Those faultless Laws, that Folly—Lust—or Freak,
They, by their thoughtless habits, hourly break!
He ne'er from fashion, fancy, fire, or phlegm,
Was led to impious Practices, like them;
But watch'd, and strove to give his Conscience truce
From Pride's fierce battles, and low Lust's abuse.

Those are two Tyrants which the World all owns,
And offers willing worship round their Thrones—

Lust fascinating all with dear delights,
And Pride still poisoning with Sin's serpent-bites—
Few seek a Cure, or strive to flee their Fate
Till Heav'n, and Nature, cry: “Alas!—too late!”
They captivate the carnal—vain—and rich—
The loose—licentious—and debauch'd—bewitch!
These follow Lust, still traipsing at her heels;
Those Pride drags daily at his chariot wheels—
These, pledg'd with Bacchus, sin the more and more,
Despise the Chaste, and spurn the temperate Poor;
Those liveried round, and badg'd all o'er, by Pride,
The Christian's rags, and Charity deride;
And while the Ostentatious, Vile, and Vain,
By choice lug forward their infernal chain,
The grossly drunken, gluttonous, and lewd,
Rejoice in Sin, and Hell's hard servitude;
Contemning all they term the low Degree
And idly fancy they, alone, are free—
Still crowding eager on, in full career,
Damning all reflection, and defying fear;
Continuing Night and Day to bed and dine
Like lustful Goats, or sordid, groveling Swine;
Still domineering o'er domestic Slaves,
Till pain—grief—sickness—plunge them in their graves.
Yet these mad Monsters, in their frantic Fits;
Suppose themselves all-wise, or perfect Wits;
And all, blind, superstitious, Bigots, name,
Whose reasoning Minds refuse to say the same.

Wits, by the Christian, they may be allow'd,
He finds keen Wits in every common Crowd;
Who, every day, more Attic strokes devise,
Without foul mixture of their flattering Lies—
And tho' more ignorant Minds may intersperse
More daring Oaths, mix'd with more cruel curse,
Still more ingenious are their honest Jokes
Than all the studied turns of finer Folks:
But Wisdom shines with different Natures far,
Different as Meteors and a fixed Star—
The bursts of Wit, may, for a moment, blaze,
But permanent, and pure, are Wisdom's rays!
Wit shoots and dies—Wisdom will alway shine!
Wit oft is devilish—Wisdom still divine!
Wisdom's the light, and lustre, of the Soul!
Nor ever feels, or fears, Wit's weak controul—
The fortitude, and might which fills her Mind!
To neither worldly Wealth, nor Fame, confin'd!
But, independent! gives her gracious dow'r,
Not to mere Knowledge—Learning—Pomp—or Pow'r—
On Earth, faint Semblance of her Sire above,
Pure Justice—Truth—Light—Holiness—and Love!
She lets her little Sister sport and play,
So ludicrously chearful, light and gay,
With flights of fancy, and with graceful grin,
While simply innocent, and free from Sin—
To lengthen out the space of human span,
And shake off half the load of mortal Man—
But She, more shy, more modest, ne'er is found
In clamorous Rout, or Bacchanalian round,
Ne'er known in Crowds, or one polluted Place,
Where Crime creeps in, or Folly shows her face!
To Christian chearfulness no churlish Foe;
But favouring friendly Liberty below!
No surly Soph—no melancholy Mope,
But charms her Children with sublimest Hope!
Fills all their hearts with Faith and heav'nly Love,
And flights of Freedom, better found above!
She lays her Tyros under no restraints
But such as Angels feel, and Fellow-Saints!
All Freedom checks which Freedom would destroy,
And rob the Conscience of all genuine Joy!
But holy Freedom, which from Heav'n was won,
And giv'n, with Spirit pure, by God's blest Son;
Who condescended, for Man's sake, to bleed,
And those He thus makes free are free indeed—
Fair Wisdom's Children! who their Chosen own,
As Prophet—Priest—and legal King, alone!

Wisdom, in sumptuous Domes, but seldom dwells,
She, mostly lives, obscure, in humblest Cells!
To temperate rest needs no soft down to draw
But sleeps more quiet on her couch of straw,
Brilliants, and broidery ne'er her form invest;
Nor e'er, in dirt, tho' oft in tatters, drest.
Ne'er fed with dainty wines, or dishes rare,
More frequent destitute of needful fare;
Yet, still, on every Duty daily bent,
She looks to Heav'n and feels her Heart content!

Cannot Content, yea, every christian Grace,
Find food, and flourish, in a scanty space?
Cannot each Duty bear its daintiest blooms
On humble beds, inclos'd by narrow rooms?
The moral Virtues much more healthy thrive
Where Luxury keeps not vicious Lusts alive?

Oft purest Patriots, noblest Friends are known
At farthest distance from despotic Throne;
From all the titled Troops, and haughty Haunts,
Where Cunning triumphs, and Corruption taunts—
Where fawning Flattery seeks each selfish end,
And Vice prevails, no King's nor Country's, Friend!

Oft has each christian Grace with Grandeur died!
Each Duty perish'd by ambitious Pride!
The civil Virtues all been pin'd, or choakt,
Where bounty sated, and rich beverage soakt—
Poor Patriotism and Friendship lost their Health,
Where Hypocrites possest vast funds of Wealth!

There needs no Greenhouse for the Graces, pure,
From frosts and storms to keep such crop secure!
They flourish best in openest Light and Air,
Their stems grow strongest and their fruits most fair!
No Dungheaps Duties need, where weeds of Sloth,
Like foulest Lusts attain their greatest growth—
No Virtue needs unnatural, heating, Stove,
Which shrinks and shrivels plants of purest Love;
Nor need pure Patriotism, or Friendship, fall,
Tho' unsupported by a Palace Wall.
The Oak grows strongest on sequester'd plain,
Rear'd by celestial sunshine, air, and rain—
The long-liv'd Yew, Fir, Holly—ever green,
Look fairest, left at large, in sylvan scene—
So Grace and Virtue, both of heavenly Birth,
Shine brightest far from Courts, and clamorous Mirth—
Yes, fair Philanthropy who loves the Crowd,
Avoids the vicious, impious, vain, and proud.
True Wisdom finds them all complete supplies;
Who, fed from Heav'n, Herself, ne'er fades, nor dies—
All nurs'd and bred by Her, grow fresh and bright,
With simple Air, and unpolluted Light;
While she expands, and sublimates, the Mind,
Like towering Trees, in Forests, unconfin'd;
Whose arms, on every side, expansive spread,
And high, tow'rds Heav'n, rear up each cloud-capp'd Head;
Which, in the loftiest, and the proudest, Domes,
Would pine and perish with ungenial Homes,
Tho' dainties every day refresh'd their shoots,
And precious wines were pour'd o'er all the roots;
But, as pure Plants, and Herbs, for health and use,
Mature their virtues, and improve their juice,
Which heavenly sunbeams, breezes, dew-drops, feed,
Far best in Gardens, Fields, or grassy Mead—
Nor can pure Corn to fair perfection rise
Unless well-nourish'd from kind fostering Skies.

Pure Wisdom, and her Progeny, of Grace,
Receive no refuge from the worldly Race.
Ne'er, when they're born, from graceless bosoms grow
Fed with bad Meat, and Beverage, found below—
Ne'er could improve on poison'd milk that springs
From breasts of flattering Courts, or flatter'd Kings.
They ask no character; seek no support,
From Crowds resorting to an idol Court—
Hope no supplies from Foplings, Pimps, or Slaves,
With empty heads, who throng the Way in thraves—
Catch no wise maxims where weak coxcombs meet,
While wandering daily round each bustling Street—
Nor can, with such, one single proof appear,
Who saunter with their silly Wantons there;
Who boast no modest, or majestic charm,
To claim a Prince's, or a Poet's, arm;
But proves her presence where a virtuous Wife;
Love's rights receives thro' all the scenes of Life;
Whose Votary strives each Duty to discharge
To Heav'n—Friends—Children—and Mankind—at large.

Ten thousand shining marks might Wisdom show,
To prove her presence, and her pow'r below—
How She buoys up each heav'n-born Soul, sublime,
Above the sloughs of Sense, and tread of Time—
While, tho' compell'd to taste their sordid Sinks,
She keeps Affection far above the brinks;
And only suffers natural Need to sip
Life's dangerous draffs with watchful, wary, lip:
For, tho' the conscious Christian fully knows,
Man must experience frequent painful throes—
Knows that his hoary head, and time-struck heart,
Must droop, and bend, before Death's fatal dart—
Meanwhile with patience Life's hard burdens bears,
Which each true Christian, with his Master, shares;
Yet, certain while he bows beneath the weight,
The Spirit will surmount mere Matter's fate—
Stripp'd of all fleshly Passions, Pride, and Lust,
Will drop its dull Companion in the Dust,
And 'scape to permanence of Life and Love,
Till call'd to higher bliss in realms above!
Then, at the awful, heav'n-appointed, hour,
The last, best, proof of his Redeemer's pow'r,

His renovated Frame shall, fairer, rise,
To join its former Consort in the Skies!
And tho' the World may spurn, with proud disgust,
Such bold assertions—such a boundless trust—
All nonsense, nullity, yea, madness, deem,
Fanatic stuff, in every Fool's esteem—
Such happy Faith—Hope—Love, contemptuous, hiss
Still, 'twas, to Crispin, true, abiding, bliss!
A bliss well-bottom'd on Heav'n's holy Word,
Which, tho' Wits call its Tales, and Truths absurd,
He, bravely, by its Facts defiance hurl'd,
Against an impious, proud, weak, wicked, World;
And challeng'd its chicane, and base abuse
To prove it spurious—vain—or void of use!
But whether his dependence idly sprung
From Education rude, or argueing wrong,
From Ignorance, Weakness, Prejudice, or Pride,
The controversy Death will soon decide;
Nor will one Doubt or dark Surmise remain,
When Heav'n hath summon'd each from Earth again,
And part shall take their place at Christ's right hand,
The rest, assembled at his left, shall stand;
These, sav'd by Grace to Light and Glory go,
Those deeply whelm'd in darknes, pain and Woe!

Such bold Belief had weaken'd Crispin's care,
And banish'd from his breast all drear despair;
Still urging on to run his destin'd Race,
Relying on his Saviour's sovereign Grace,
And that blest Book he held so strictly true,
Not fearing what the World, or Fiends could do;
Yet never wish'd the Freedom to refuse
Performing Duties, or discharging Dues.
He promptly met, and welcom'd, each Event,
Which Heav'n, in Mercy, as a blessing, sent;
Still grateful for each bounty God bestow'd,
To help him forward on his temporal road;
Or, if afflictive circumstance was felt,
He knew that Love all Providences dealt—
Nor e'er withheld, from humblest Instrument,
Sincerest thanks for gift, or good intent;
While making Memory's lov'd remembrance last,
In after-times, for every favour past.
He readily on Duty's errands run,
From Morn's first rising to Eve's setting Sun;
Still watching, for attendance, or for flight,
Thro' all, or any needful hour of Night.

Once, while the Seasons run their annual round,
Compell'd by Penury, and by Duty bound;
When, o'er his shoulders, Spring full often shower'd,
And Autumn's floods o'er all his frame were pour'd;
When Summer roasted, and when Winter rag'd,
As Conscience call'd, and Gratitude engag'd;
For farthing profits he pursued his toils,
And, for three hundred, fagg'd as many miles—
Yet Conscience could not properly complain,
Tho' oft so frozen—fried—or rins'd with rain;
Nor Gratitude could suffer discontent,
Because kind Providence the summon sent;
Yet moral Rights in future might refuse
To bear, so far, for farthings, morning News,
Nor fear, by such refusal, to offend
His righteous Father, or one reasoning Friend;
For no Man's breast, or Law from God above,
Enjoins full sacrifice of all Self-love;
But all the Rules of Heav'n, and Nature's light,
Confirm to all Mankind an equal Right.

Whate'er the sovereign Parent's Will decreed
He labour'd to fulfil in Word, and Deed;
And only begg'd Him what He gave to bless,
Whether His Mercy's loan were more or less.
Against that Bounteous Pow'r he ne'er rebell'd,
Whene'er the wonted largess was withheld;
Convinc'd that Grace and Goodness dealt each dole,
Tho' Wisdom kept back part, or Love the whole:
But when the mad iniquity of Man,
Attempted to disturb God's gracious plan;
Tho' Crispin knew that His unerring rules
Could ne'er be frustrated by Knaves or Fools,
But all things purpos'd by His prescient thought,
His boundless Wisdom—Pow'r—and Goodness, wrought.
Still Crispin judg'd it righteous to repress
All wilful errors of Man's wickedness—
Informed, with awful call, by that first Cause
To live obedient to His perfect Laws,
All useful instruments in His blest hands,
To execute His just, and kind, commands—
Who by His Wisdom, and His Will, makes use
Of second Causes, to correct abuse.
Was all resistance fully laid aside,
Justice must stoop to Passion, Pow'r, and Pride,
And Truth, with all her fair attendants, fly
Before the face of every lust-bred Lie;

While all the bold, the brutal, weak, and base,
Would reign, and rule, in every peccant place,
Till Morals—Laws—Religion—genuine Worth,
Were wholly banish'd from the bounds of Earth;
And Fiends, infernal, in the make of Men,
Make the whole Globe one Wilderness agen!

Full oft he felt his just resentment rouz'd
When, in his little Cell, serenely hous'd,
He heard Blasphemers impiously rebel,
With language only fit for Imps in Hell!
Beheld the sauntering shoals from foreign shore,
In idleness, lounge daily by his door;
Like Thieves, let loose from Newgate, or the Hulks,
With leers of lust, or keen assassin, skulks;
A graceless, priestly, crew! from Gallic soil
To reap the produce of his care and toil—
Or view'd the bold, cockaded, coxcomb, Band,
All vomited from that convulsive Land;
Like Locusts, here, poor Penury's dues devour,
Encourag'd by the cruel Pimps in Pow'r,
Without the prospect of one single grain
Of solid good, from such deceptive Train;
For those their specious, dangerous, doctrine spread,
To spoil the heart, pervert the ignorant head;
While these endeavour'd daily to engage,
Our foolish Rulers fruitless war to wage.

He frequent found his indignation fir'd
At what Profligates loved, or Dupes desir'd!
Claiming support for all their Lust, and Pomp,
That each with Jilts, or Actresses, might romp.
But still more frequent was his Mind perplext,
His Patience vanquisht, and his Spirit vext,
When wandering, daily, from his mean abode,
Thro' many a lengthening mile of weary road,
Like a train'd spaniel, at one tiresome stretch,
Some lumbering load to carry, or to fetch—
And while thus labouring thro' loose mud and mire,
Deep snow and frost, or flood, or dust and fire,
His anger'd glances happen'd to behold,
By rampant steeds, in stately carriage roll'd,
High o'er the pinch'd—or splash'd, or choaking, Crowd,
Some useless Pensioner, or Statesman proud;
Some Pimp, or Parasite, or Courtezan,
Or other Creature of the courtly Clan,
Seated in supercilious pomp and pride,
With hungry Harpies on the gay outside,
And all supported in that splendid State
By base, oppressive, and imperious, Rate,
Levied on Toil, and Care, in want, or woe;
On Him, and all his Fellow-Slaves, below!
Squeez'd from the vital blood, of every vein,
In painful pence from what such Negroes gain—
Distill'd from blister'd palm, and oozing lymph,
Of every toiling Artist, Swain, and Nymph—
From head, and heart, from every joint and limb,
Of Him, and every labouring Wretch like Him;
To waste in wantonness, or foolish fuss—
Quite unconcern'd about such Brutes as Us!

Could such misfortun'd Minds, when reasoning right,
Preserve calm Tempers o'er such trying sight!
Such burden'd Dupes must needs become fierce Foes,
When conscious whence their toils and troubles rose;
How then could Crispin, who so clearly saw
Mankind's misfortunes loaded on by Law,
E'er pass indifferent by such Beasts of prey,
Who feasted on their Flesh from day to day;
Much less salute them with a grave, “God speed,”
Who felt them, hourly, on his vitals feed.
Could he maintain his face serene, and blythe,
And not, like chain'd, torn, rackt, Prometheus, writhe?
Could he in chearful frame his path pursue
With such provoking spectacles in view?
Behold such Locusts, meek, in christian, mood,
Who robb'd him daily of his needful food;
While, from each mite, his hard endeavours earn'd,
To courtly Treasury must five tenths be turn'd,
To pour out, thence, in plenteous streams agen
For worthless Women, or vile miscreant Men;
Which Wealth they waste in Folly, Lust, or Sloth
To please base Pride, or Appetites, of both.

Could he, when 'twas his chance, or choice, to meet
Some brother Pedlars, tramping thro' the Street,
Forbear some hints to stir such thoughtless Throngs,
Against these Authors of their grievous Wrongs?
Or could his indignation cease to burn,
When fretted with fatigue, at late return,
He sat, reflecting, at his tax'd fire-side,
O'er such pert Nuisances of noxious Pride,
While each reflection furnish'd new offence
Against such graceless Pomp, and gross expence?
Or, when, in meditation more profound,
He saw such marks of misery around;

And all the proofs of want, and woe, compar'd
With what each shameless Pimp and Pandar shared—
The scant rewards of careful thought and toil,
With what Courts waste, in wickedness, the while;
His throbbing breast with bubbling anger burst,
Brought forth some clamorous births, but never curst;
Ne'er so, the lov'd Redeemer's Laws transgrest,
By cursing Culprits; but the basest blest!
He knew, if different from the vilest Elf,
Heav'n made the first distinction, not himself;
And to God's goodness was all glory due
Who gave more Grace among the faithful Few.
Yea, to His Grace the glory all belongs
Who rais'd those Wretches o'er the thriftless Throngs,
And lent each undeserv'd and liberal dow'r
Of Honour—Influence—Fortune—Fame—and Pow'r—
For not a Man, among Earth's highest Ranks,
But owes, for all possessions, praise and thanks;
Nor any Angel that attends His Throne
Can claim the smallest Merit as its own—
But much Demerit in Mankind abounds
For wasting Talents or concealing Pounds;
And where no interest's wish'd, or increase won,
No Man will hear his Master say—“Well done!”

But tho' no Merit can with Creatures rest,
Respecting God, the greatest, noblest, best,
Yet Merit, or Demerit, may, with Man,
In executing Providence's plan;
For Individuals, all, respecting others,
Must rank as Parents—Children—Sisters—Brothers—
And each, according to Heav'n's holy Will,
Ought mutual Duties faithfully fulfil.

Thus, as Crispinus Courtiers' conduct spell'd,
And found each duty, right, and due, withheld
From all the wretched of the human Race,
That Providence had put in humbler Place—
Remarking such most patiently submit
To all high Heav'n ordain'd as right and fit;
While those thus rais'd to Wealth, and Pow'r, sublime,
Observ'd no Duty, but indulg'd each Crime,
How could his heart, or any manly Mind,
Keep cool the blood, or bursting choler bind?
That no bold pen, or bitter speech, broke loose
In desperate pamphlet, or deserv'd abuse.
To see such Culprits, in a public crowd,
Or private concourse, insolently proud,
Who draw their vicious hire from virtuous hives,
Where ev'ry starving individual strives
With utmost strength, but often strives in vain,
Amidst oppression—Penury—Sickness—Pain—
Venting perpetual tears, or sighs, or groans,
In endless labour for those idle drones;
Just kept alive, by study, care, and toil,
But sees them rampant round the World the while—
Still conscious from his cost they clothe, and feed,
While he wears rags, and knows continual need;
Nor hopes for one advantage from the Kind
To feed or clothe his Frame, or mend his Mind.

Poor Crispin could not quite suppress the Spleen
While, wandering thro' throng'd City's bustling Scene,
He mark'd those misinformed, misguided, Things
By selfish Senates constituted Kings;
Thro' courtesy made Stewards of each Realm,
Deputed, by his Peers, to hold the Helm—
To steer the Vice-toss'd Vessel of the State,
And fix full sentence of each Culprit's fate—
Appointing to each post throughout the Crew
And honouring or rewarding, where it's due—
To sanction all its preconcerted Rules
For managing Delinquents, Knaves, and Fools,
And executing all those wholesome Laws
That stop rude breaches, and repair foul flaws—
One, who, in Justice, with his warmest zeal,
Should watch the welfare of the Commonweal—
Should weigh the equal interests of the whole
And all crude inequalities controul—
Should hold the Balance even—sway the Sword,
And fullest rights to humblest Boors afford—
Should Wealth's Pow'rs; Pride's enormities repress
To make mean Rustics' cares, and labours less:
On pedestal, supreme, sublimely stand,
Bright model! meet for imitative Land—
Exhibiting to all true Christian's test,
A rich example to excite the Rest!

Could Christian check his anger, or his grief,
When, oft, beholding such deputed Chief
Profusely spend his Country's hard-earn'd Coin,
While thro' such waste a million Mortals pine;
Could Crispin stop his pity—rein in scorn,
While marking mortal Brother, proudly borne
With Suite so grand! in prodigal parade!
To curb the crowds of Toil, and troops of Trade?

Or popular applause, from Tools, to claim,
For what the Wise would see both sin and shame?
The meanest Slaves that mix in courtly Mass,
In spite of pious Betters proudly pass
With mounted Guards, in marshall'd bands, before,
In garments clothed, which look'd like crimson gore—
This glaring red, with glittering gold, array'd,
Prove blood and plunder is their twofold Trade!
Still more, astonish'd Multitudes to strike,
And prove the Patron and such Tools alike,
With hostile swords to sway, or cut, the crowd
While prancing Coursers, clad in trappings, proud,
Dragg'd the vain, dazzling, Vehicle along,
Amidst a gather'd, gaping, thoughtless, Throng,
Who, with vociferous, wild, huzzaings, once
Greeted a greedy, dangerous, regal, Dunce;
Oft since, in silence, roll'd along the stones,
Or hail'd with hisses, sighs, or heart-felt groans.
Bearing the worshipp'd Lama lodg'd within,
In street, or turnpike, dash thro' thick or thin;
While, to prevent all danger, doubt, and fear,
A fellow-Corps came rattling in the Rear!

Could common Sense, with common Temper, see
A Dunce exalted to that high Degree?
An ignorant Joulter, haughty, and unjust,
Perverting, proudly, Heav'n's momentous Trust!
A Creature, cruel—wantonly unwise—
A Country's wealth so weakly sacrifice!
Could Wisdom warrant such profuse expence,
Or Justice offer adequate defence,
That this, and all attendant kingly cost
Should be to labouring Individuals lost,
While fifty Thousands, such expence to pay,
Must drudge twelve tiresome hours each tedious day!
Except their sabbaths; when each weary limb,
Owes thanks to God, for ease, but none to Him!

Why should He ride in pomp, o'er ridge and rut
While poor Supporters trudge thro' filth on foot?
Why shine so fat, and fair, on sumptuous Throne,
While equals work till worn to skin and bone?
Why deck'd in gold and brilliants, millions bag,
While they have scarce a Farthing, or a Rag?
Why vest his Family with Thousands more
To waste in Luxury, or licentious Pow'r?
Betraying sacred Truth; and social Trust,
By beastly living and adulterous Lust?
All Modesty to shame, all Temp'rance shock,
From Toil extorted, or from trading Stock!
Why fortunes on his favourite Friends confer,
Forc'd out from Penury's palms with whip and spur?
That each with idle pomp, and dev'lish pride
In sumptuous Domes may rest, and Carriage ride—
Proud wardrobes wear, and costly viands carve—
While Tools in want, and tatters, work, and starve!

Is He the Father of his People, who
Can prance each Province of a Nation through,
And, with a wild indifference, gaze, and gape,
Midst Misery, shown in every varied shape,
Nor feel his harden'd Conscience once convict
For Wants the half of which his Freaks inflict?
Or look on Grandeur with a grinning laugh,
Whose Frauds and Vices waste the other half?

Is He that Governor, most gracious, which
Makes Penury poorer to enrich the Rich?
Who neither Artist, Hind, or Labourer, spares,
But robs each Wretch's fob to furnish Theirs?

Is He the Christian, so, by Friends, held forth
For pious purity, and moral worth,
Who breaks the general Rules his Master made,
In Pride's indulgence, or in Pomp's parade?
Who sets a Sample, in Himself, and Friends,
Which not one step to pure Religion tends,
By countenancing Plays, and childish Sports,
One only fit for Kings in Satan's Courts,
The other fit, alone, for Oafs and Fools,
Infants, or Children, in their nascent Schools.
Morality's relief it ne'er affords
While People's pelf their hungry Monarch hoards;
Nor can it lend Humanity much help
To hear a cruel Kennel howl and yelp,
Or see the rowell'd Horse, ensanguin'd, fly
While Stags, and Leverets, tremble—bleed—and die.

No Parent, thus, would on his Children prey;
And, by adoption, such are He and They
One Part, at ease, of Wealth and Pow'r possest,
While cankering Wretchedness corrodes the Rest—
Ne'er mark one moral and religious Child,
Perhaps Christ's copy, humble, meek, and mild!
With honest heart and heavenly light illum'd
By Labour broken, and by Care consum'd!
Must leave his offspring wretchedly forlorn,
Because less bold and base, when younger born—

While a proud elder Brother, freed from toil,
Shall see his partial Sire complacent smile;
And, once possest of Honour, Pow'r, and Wealth,
Daily increase each kind by Fraud, or Stealth.

No gracious Governor, with calm Content,
Would see his Subjects, all of like Descent,
Some every pleasure, pow'r, and pomp, enjoy,
While Thousands pine their luxuries to supply—
Much less all bounties on such Band bestow
With rigour forc'd from every Rank below!

No Christian Prince, thus, partially, would seek
The impious Proud, and miss the pious Meek—
On shameless Vice, and Irreligion, show'r
The noblest Honours, heightening Pride with Pow'r;
Or heap on Pomp, and Vanity, still more,
Their pillag'd winnings from the working Poor;
And still to endless toils, and cares, condemn
The labouring Rank, to lavish all on Them,
But curb base Courtiers, Sin-taught Sons restrain,
And stint his Pomp to ease their toil and pain!

One King there was, who liv'd awhile on Earth,
Who boasted not his Blood, or courtly Birth,
But whose sublime descent was high'r than all
That Men—Lords—Princes—Kings—or Emperors, call—
For, tho' his Mother dwelt in humblest case,
She claim'd pure Pedigree, from kingly Race;
And tho' His Frame, from her, was earthly clod,
His Father was the great—eternal—God!

He, greater than the greatest of Earth's Great!
Assum'd no Honour—sought no Pomp, or State—
But what from purest principles arose;
Still mortifying Friends, and favouring Foes.
Ne'er partially, on proud distinctions stood,
But went about, each day, in doing good!
Indulging neither Arrogance, or Sloth,
But labour'd, ardently, to banish both.
He ne'er was known in pageant Pomp to ride;
Puff'd up with Pow'r, or Pamper'd high with Pride;
But, Pride and Ostentation to controul
Once meekly mounted on an Ass's Foal.

No Palace He possest—no downy Bed—
He had not where to lay His weary Head—
Ne'er taught His Friends to seek frail Joys of Sense,
But simply lean on His pure Providence;
And, with Him, seek blest solace, from above,
The Spirit's influence, and His Father's Love!

His Pow'r all Delicacies could create
Yet He ne'er coveted one dainty Cate,
But Hunger's craving calls were humbly staid,
With orts of barley bread, Himself had made;
While, meekly adding one more simple dish,
Cold fragments of his own-created fish.

He never sought the Sovereign to express
By pompous, delicate—expensive Dress,
But, tho' the glorious King of all the Globe,
His Frame He folded in the rudest Robe!
Clear emblem of His Character, and Scheme,
One perfect piece, without a single seam.

He never sought to stretch His temporal sway
By making neighbouring Potentates obey;
Or to extend His Kingdom's ample bound,
By spreading desolating War around!

He never chose His Ministers from such
As had, already, Pow'r and Pelf too much;
From Schools, from cunning Scribes, or Worldly-wise,
To win by Wit, or govern by Disguise;
But from the simple Sons of Care and Toil,
Free from Ambition, and devoid of Guile—
Such as His meek forerunner, Moses, sought,
By heav'n-instructed Jethro justly taught—
Not from proud Ancients, or perverted Youth,
But punctual Men for Probity and Truth.
Not arbitrary Knaves, a Nation's rod,
But faithful, gracious, Men, who fear'd their God!
Men who would every selfish view detest,
With whom the multitude might well be blest—
Of modern Ministers the full reverse,
The peaceful People's bane, the Kingdom's curse!
No frippery badges, He, on Friends bestow'd,
Or placed them in Preferment's restless road;
But, that the Great might not the small devour,
Decreed equality in Place—and—Pow'r.
His pure pacific reign, how different far
From courtly jangle, or domestic jar—
His humble Aspect, and his Wisdom, wide
From all the pomp of Wealth, and warlike Pride—
A happy Pattern, brought from Heav'n above,
To 'stablish Peace, on principles of Love!
His Honours and high Favours, not confin'd
To mystic Friends, but free for all Mankind!

A moral Government—where none could claim
Unequal Wealth, or Influence, Pomp or Fame:
But each, submitting to His kingly call
Was eager to distribute helps to all.
Superior stood His intellectual Code,
A perfect Plan, brought from His first Abode;
Where Thanks and Praise, in act, or word, or thought,
All center'd in the Saviour, where they ought—
Where that blest Subject was the most esteem'd,
Whatever Pride, or Plot, design'd, or dream'd;
When God's first image, with each grace endued,
Was, in its noblest characters, renew'd;
And he that best pursued His holy plan,
Became in Earth and Heav'n, the happiest Man!

'Tis true His Pow'r to every human heart
Could all those perfect characters impart—
Could fit the meanest of the mortal Host,
To fill the Minister's, or Monarch's, Post;
Or instantly reclaim what Love had lent
To Priests or Princes thro' all Earth's extent—
Yet did that Pow'r no Potentate dethrone,
Or claim their earthly Crowns, tho' all His own;
Ne'er from their Seats Earth's mighty Sovereign hurl'd—
For—His pure Kingdom was not of this World!

Did He not, here, a perfect Pattern show,
For all Mankind to copy whilst below?
And left He not rescindless Laws behind,
The thoughts—words—actions—ev'n of Kings, to bind?
Confirm'd He not His Father's first Command
On all the reasoning Race? in every Land?
To love the Lord their God, thro' Life's whole length,
With all their Heart, and Soul, and Mind and Strength?
And did He not enjoin those unjust Elves
To love their Neighbours as they love Themselves?
And hath not now His Hand a rich resource
His Father's orders fully to enforce;
For hath not that almighty Father giv'n
Unbounded Pow'r to Him, in Earth and Heav'n?
And will He not by those dread Rules decree,
What kingly Butcher's endless lot shall be?
But tho' such Potsherds of the Earth should strive
To keep their Pride, Pow'r, Pomp, and Lust, alive;
And should that Pow'r and Pomp the Poor depress;
That Pride and Lust surrounding Lands distress;
Yet when the mutual Pride and Lust shall clash,
His Judgments will to dust such Potsherds dash—
And tho' injurious Pomp, and Pow'r unjust,
On Christians trample, or a Kingdom's Trust;
His Might, more blest—His louder Trumpet's blast—
Shall call these Kings before His Bar, at last;
And, stripp'd of Pomp and Pow'r to Hell be sent,
With Lust and Pride to heighten Punishment!

Would not these temporal Rulers, then, do right
To keep the traits of His blest Image bright?
His Precepts practice—furious Vengeance fear—
While plac'd on Thrones, probationary, here?
Till, He, in Glory, grace the Earth, agen,
To rule and reign o'er all the Sons of Men—
When His pure, perfect, Kingdom will begin,
By chaining Satan, and by chasing Sin;
While swaying in the Souls, and Hearts, of all,
Till earthly Thrones, Crowns, Sceptres, Kingdoms, fall!

Such Governors, of old, a gracious few,
The separate Progeny of Jacob knew.
Prophets, and Seers, and upright Judges, nam'd;
Who neither Wealth—Pow'r—Pomp—or Honour, claim'd.
Ne'er levied on the Poor, oppressive Rate
To plume Themselves, and Sons, in splendid State.
Ne'er kindled War to quell a neighbouring Race,
Who push'd a Tyrant from despotic place,
Lest such example should like practice spread,
To level Thrones and lop each Despot's head.
They ne'er collected cruel, hostile, Hosts,
To pour destruction on contiguous Coasts,
But for Self-preservation, strove, alone,
With honest prudence to protect their Own.
Ne'er exercis'd, at Home, a scourging rod,
But lov'd their Neighbours, and rever'd their God;
For whom they govern'd, and from whom endued
With gracious Faith, and glorious Fortitude,
They judg'd, according with his just Command,
To drive each Idol from that holy Land.
Urg'd all His precepts in the plainest guise,
From whence all real happiness must rise;
Despising Grandeur, and all graceless Gain,
And leaving Him, alone, to rule and reign.

But what are modern Monarchs—reigning, now—
Tho' gold bedeck the breast, and grace the brow—

And tho' with pearls, and gems, each garment shine—
And tho' by stupid Bigots deem'd divine—
Tho' in a pompous Palace each reside,
Or, compass'd round with Throngs, in thunder, ride,
Amidst the wretched Ranks of low Degree,
And scowl disdain on Slaves, like Them, and Me—
Yet tho' their Lightnings fly—loud Thunders roll—
Heav'n values, equal, Clown's—Slave's—Servant's, Soul!
Kings are but transient Meteors, rais'd by Birth,
To blaze a moment, more than other Earth!
All big-swoll'n bubbles! by their Fellows blown,
And seated high, like Gods, on sovereign Throne;
Which from mere frailty burst! or feel offence,
When brother bubbles strive to dash them thence!
Bright Idols! but of fleshly matter form'd,
By Appetites, and Pride, and Passions, warm'd;
With all the Lusts which human Souls besot
Much more enthralling thro' their kingly lot.
In lofty Temple lodg'd! with gildings grac'd!
All heavenly honours paid! but most misplaced—
Like what the World to its proud Master pays,
Great Beelzebub! in countless words, and ways!
Such as above belong to Nature's God
Each cringing Courtier trembling at their nod;
More than all Heathens' adoration shown
To hammer'd Metal—chizzell'd Wood, or Stone!
Ev'n those have merits with the thriftless Throng
Which never can to Flesh and Blood belong;
For they maintain their substance, form, and size,
While Kings, Corruption, or dire Worm, destroys—
And, tho' they cost, at first, more fruitless Coin,
They want no wardrobes—costly cates—nor wine.
Need no Attendants to increase the cost,
Or splendid Equipage with gold embost—
Ne'er by their blunders Ministers mislead,
Or propagate expensive bastard Breed,
To aggravate the labouring Poor's expence
Yet yield no helps for comfort or defence.
Then are not those more inoffensive Things
Than any cunning, mischief-making Kings?
Mere Images! by subtle Mortals made,
To carry on corrupt, and treacherous Trade!
Worse than the Craftesmen's Shrines, which caus'd such fuss,
When Paul first preach'd at heathen Ephesus!
To dazzle every Dupe's devoted eyes,
Whose Soul no deeper than the surface pries;
And make each mad, infatuated, Fool,
Fit for mock Majesty's implicit Tool;
Not only to adore, with apt devoirs,
But pay all dues, and duties, it requires.
Set up, in perpetuity to stand,
For Image-worship in a foolish Land;
For when, with Age, such living Idol dies,
Its Idol-Offspring soon the place supplies,
Whose Pow'r, like eastern Lama's, ne'er expires,
Youth ever-springing up as Age retires.

Thus chousing Rascals carry on the cheat,
Who daily profit by the deep deceit;
And Kings will fondly act the cunning Farce
Till Knaves grow honest, Fools, and Coxcombs, scarce.
An old idolatrous, yea, devilish trick!
Which makes the Conscience of true Christian, sick,
To see such Pimps, with impudence endued,
Ride on and rob the misled Multitude;
And, still to strengthen their oppressive pacts,
Raise up some Oaf to sanction all their acts—
While, to make superstitious Bigots bite,
They vest the Idol with an heavenly right;
For whether learn'd or ignorant, weak or wise,
They claim full deputation from the Skies;
And, whether rais'd by Ballot, or by Birth,
Are Heav'n's Vicegerents in all Realms on Earth!

But did not one great Prophet of the Jews,
When first propos'd, the impious pact refuse?
Did he not reason with the thoughtless Throng,
And plainly prove the very wish was wrong?
And did not Heav'n itself, in anger plead,
By thunderings, to condemn the daring Deed?
Yea, did not He, who came from Realms above,
Great Source of Goodness—Knowledge—Wisdom—Love!
Did He not His best-lov'd Disciple blame,
And faithful Brother, for their haughty Aim,
When They petition'd for superior Post,
That Pride might o'er their equal Brethren boast?
How then can God, all-good—all-wise—all-just!
Vest Fools, or Knaves, with such extensive Trust?
Creatures who scarce of reasoning pow'rs possest
To rule and reign, as Tyrants, o'er the Rest?
Or give One o'er his Fellows full controul
In whom Humanity ne'er moves the Soul?

He ne'er imposes such oppresive task,
Except where impious Dupes for Despots ask;
Or still permits to punish Fools' offence
Whose vain perverseness quenches Common-sense.
Now, as the dawn of Truth grows more diffus'd,
None, tamely, will submit where Trust's abus'd,
But Men, well knowing what is due to Man,
Will form a rational, and upright, Plan;
A Plan more worthy of such added Lights,
To fix, among Mankind, more equal Rights;
Confirm'd, more full, by salutary Laws,
Alike supporting every Righteous Cause—
When Pow'r, with Perfidy, shall rule no more,
To raise the Rich, or, deeper, press the Poor;
Each Idol banish'd by more christian Scheme,
While Earth gives Heav'n again the Pow'r supreme!

Kings, like all other Idols, rear'd to draw
Blind Bigots' loans, by formal force of Law,
The Temples, Priests, and Trappings, to supply,
With all that cheats the Heart, and charms the Eye
For Pandars', Pimps', and Myrmidons', support,
Like Locusts, swarming round each carnal Court—
Collected Troops in preconcerted spot,
For wasteful Projects met, or wicked Plot—
To squander on a Queen and royal Race,
With Priest, or Peer, which fills a Courtier's Place;
That round the Throne, or at the Altar, bend,
Beyond all Name, all Number, and all End!
Those high in Office, who, in Order, wait,
To amplify the Pomp, or stretch the State—
All placed in every perjur'd point of Trust,
To prop vile Pow'r, or feed vain Pride, and Lust—
All those that look for bread from boundless Loans,
O'er which each Landlord grieves, and Labourer groans—
And that long Train which Treasury licence lacks
To levy, and purloin, each torturing Tax—
Besides each vast marine, and martial, Band,
That plague the Ocean, and oppress the Land,
Combin'd base Idol-worship to compel,
Like that paid, hourly, to the Prince of Hell;
For That which proudly stands, without a Peer,
Strives hard to institute like worship here.
His Parliaments, but Priests, like Baal's Crews,
By cruel Acts compelling partial dues.
A mere Machine! compos'd of supple Parts,
All tamely mov'd by ministerial Arts—
Which aim, by cunning scheme, and plausive speech
To get the People's purse within their reach;
To squeeze out dribblets by the Press of Pow'r,
To deal all out again in ampler Dow'r
For Pimps and Parasites, as rich rewards
For grateful flattery, and feign'd regards;
Or on those humbler Tools in bribes bestow
For uttering simple sounds of “Aye,” or “No,”
By the strict mandate of official Friends,
To further all their selfish, subtle, Ends.

Thus, when the greedy Race of groveling Rich,
Have plac'd the Statue in respective Niche,
They call the great Arch-High-Priest to anoint
The wonderous Puppet which their Wills appoint;
Whose Pow'r, establish'd, in high Pomp and State,
May more Arch-High-Priests, in routine, create,
With all inferior High-Priests, from among
The younger Brethren of the wealthy Throng;
And they, inferior Orders—going down
To trading Squire, or agricultural Clown—
While all endeavour, in each different charge,
His arbitrary boundary still enlarge;
Making all simple Souls, from fear, submit
To all they urge as Rules of holy Writ:
This, courtly Ministers maintain, of course,
To give those gracious Themes their fullest Force,
Who, with the Priesthood banded, strongly bind
The freedom of the Body, Heart, and Mind;
While, to escape impeachment's cruel curse,
Each mean Man opens his impoverish'd Purse,
That legislative Blocks may form their Fees,
And force from that poor Fund what part they please

Then, that the shining bubble may not burst,
So full inflated, and so nicely nurst!
With bandages of gold all hoop'd about,
And fenc'd from dangerous breath of Rabble-rout;
The bloated Idol must be richly crown'd,
Still more each stupid Conscience to confound.
Those Ministers and Priests all deeply brib'd,
And secret Councils, which their Code prescrib'd,
With Senators, who sanction'd every clause,
To keep all Dupes at bay with binding Laws,
And make weak necks with deep devotion bend
Before that Phantasm Ignorance thinks its Friend:

Yea, while Themselves thus make the Image shine
They almost think the dazzling Thing divine—
At least they've so sublim'd their purblind Plan,
They fancy the frail Creature's more than Man.

When Chaldee's King, with wealth and madness warm'd,
His golden God, with countless cost, had form'd,
And summon'd all his subject realms to meet
And worship at the senseless Idol's feet,
Some heaven-instructed, honest-hearted, Youths,
Illuminated, long, with sacred Truths,
In fiery furnace rather risqu'd to die,
Than with such blasphemous behests comply;
Resolving to withstand the Tyrant's nod
In love and reverence to their Saviour-God:
And little different is this impious plan,
Tho' that was but an Image—this, a Man!
His heart, so long puff'd up with princely lot,
His great Creator and kind God forgot—
That God whose Providence gave wonderous dow'r;
This Ingrate, so possest with Wealth and Pow'r;
A Loan, so tempting! lent him for a Time,
To make more noted his enormous Crime—
Then, as a public Spectacle to all
Who felt his Greatness, and beheld his fall,
With wonderous Judgment made the Monster mute
And gave him heart, and instinct, like a Brute.

Remember this, ye mighty Potentates!
Who swell so proudly in your princely States!
Presume not to insult the poorest Slave;
Your Greatness Heav'n hath lent, but never gave!
And Slaves, degraded, who, as dirt, You deem,
Much high'r than You may stand in God's esteem,
The Poor are oft adopted Heav'n's high'st Heirs
And Earth's best happiness is oftener Theirs;
While They, thro' Faith, their Father's Love enjoy,
Who neither long to live, nor dread to die!
You are the monstrous Image Daniel saw;
And, near your exit, tow'rds destruction draw.
The golden Head, with proud imperious mien,
And silver Breast and Arms, no longer seen—
The brazen Belly and the Thighs, that shone,
And both its iron Legs have long been gone!
The ferrine Feet, mix'd up with mirey clay,
Now soon must moulder, and all fly away!
Then the pure Stone cut out without a hand
Shall fill with wonder each astonish'd Land!
Shall banish Tyranny, and plunge below
All proud Oppression—cruel War—and Woe!
Crush courtly Profligacy, Pride, and Lust,
By crumbling Kings, and Empires down to Dust!

Whence came the Grant, which Government Men call,
The privilege of Few, for ruling All?
All Pow'r, originally, rests with God—
To yield Rewards, or exercise the Rod;
And, equally, must every Soul alive
From that vast Depth all springs of Pow'r derive—
'Tis He, alone, on mortal Man bestows
All he possesses—all he feels or knows—
Corporal Beauty—Strength—and Spirits' Pow'r,
With wonderous Faculties, alike, His Dow'r—
The only difference human Minds discern
Are different Pow'rs to think—speak—act—or learn—
And every Individual Will and Sense,
To form distinctions, and repel offence.
Not One, with arbitrary Pow'rs endued,
To govern and command a Multitude.
That was, at first, by mutual Compact made,
In Time, become a mercenary Trade;
Where all with Wealth—or Wit—or Pow'r—possest,
Invent and use vile Arts to rule the Rest.
While each endeavours to acquire frail Fame;
Some empty Honour, or some noisey Name—
Labour, by Skill, or Cunning, to obtain
More faithless influence, or more graceless Gain—
To persecute—oppress—deceive—betray—
And govern others with tyrannic sway.

If earthly Kings and Princes wish to prove
How they deriv'd their Office from above,
The Deeds and Documents let Subjects see,
That They no more may wish their Wills to free,
But clearly both their Claims, and Titles, know,
And how, and when, brought down to Them below.
One only Writing, now, can well declare
What those Distinctions—Claims—and Titles are—
One Chronicle, alone, the truth disclose,
Whence each high Office—each proud Pow'r arose;
Which can alone to that blest Lord belong,

Who fashion'd Kings so like the common Throng,
That none but His omniscient Eye can trace
Such nice Distinctions in each Royal Race—
More Virtue—Merit—Piety—behold,
Beneath more gorgeous Cloaths, or Crowns of gold!

Has He superior Loans to Princes lent
Of intellectual clearness—strength—extent?
Or, can they, thro' His bounty, boldly claim
More Beauty—force—activity—of Frame?
If not, where is the prompt decisive proof
That They ought hold their haughty heads aloof—
That They should execute supreme Commands,
Before all others, o'er illumin'd Lands;
Or dare to stretch rude, magisterial Sway
O'er Men with Gifts, and Graces, more than They?
Innumerous Men, by Heav'n, made far more meet,
To hold, with Honour, such superior Seat—
Not to perform a Despot's paltry Parts
But rule all Wills by reigning in all Hearts.

Why should acknowledg'd Knave, or frantic Fool,
Be thron'd by Custom, or by Birthright rule?
Why Blockhead climb before a Fellow-Clown,
To seize a Sceptre, and to claim a Crown?
Or Frantic, in his fits, direct the Course,
Before some Sage, a Realm's Finance, and Force?

Could such a Creature Deity depute,
Whom He ne'er bless'd with one bright Attribute;
Without one spark of Wisdom, Wit, or Worth,
To be His Representative on Earth?
Can any Soul perceive one feature strike,
In Made and Maker, as at all alike?

Let dullest Rustics diligently read,
With simple Sense, in Heav'n's recorded Deed;
Or let the better-taught, attentive, look
Thro' the prime Chapters of that blessed Book,
With only natural Reason for their guide,
Unprejudic'd by Passions, Lusts, or Pride,
Then will they not need read, or reason, long,
To learn whence all such Pow'r, and Honour sprung.
Which spread their deleterious banes below;
O'er-flowing Fountains of dire Want, and Woe!
Of Envy—Hatred—Discontent—and Strife
And, choice of other chastening Ills of Life.

God never meant to mar His perfect Plan
By making Kings; He only made a Man.
But Man, seduc'd from innocence, at first;
By Satan's cunning soon became accurst;
Severely suffering now Heav'n's vengeful Rod
By aiming to become, Himself, a God!

Man never can create the smallest thing,
But can, of one created, make a King;
And, as he cannot any Thing create,
So can he not decree one Creature's fate—
Nor can his Will e'er generate, or devour,
One particle of Matter—Mind—or Pow'r—
He may a Novice, or a Knave, invest
With all the Freedom he from Heav'n possest—
That Pow'r transfer, he once could call his own,
To any Thing that occupies a Throne,
By making independent Will submit
To That in all Things, whether fair, or fit.
Or whether wise or honest, Knave or Fool,
Becoming, simply Its obedient Tool.

Thus Men made Kings—and, when they once were made,
All Man's remaining Rights were soon betray'd;
His heart soon made repent such headlong choice
By Pride—Oppression—Vanity—and Vice.

But how shall They such priceless Rights retrieve,
Who venal Statesmen, or base Priests, believe?
Who boldly urge Man ought no more endeavour
To claim them back, for ever and for ever.

What! may not Man reclaim deputed Pow'r
When Despots, Rights reserv'd, at once, devour?
And may not all such mutual Pacts be broke
When Truth and Justice Tyrants turn to Joke?
Are They not everlasting, like their Sire?
Nor can become extinct, as Rogues require?
And ought they not in every place prevail,
Tho' Courtiers, High-Priests, Kings, their pow'rs assail?
Who, to indulge their Passions—Lusts—and Pride,
Set all their Influence, and Force, aside.

Ought then base Kings by Man created, stand
Against the Judgment of an injur'd Land?
And may not large majorities made known
The Despots, they ordain'd, again dethrone?
Again the Creatures of their Pow'r depose
When those embraced as Friends become base Foes?

But let not Man endeavour to destroy
That Life Man's labour never can supply—

No! let sweet Mercy still the Tyrant save—
None may reclaim the Gift he never gave—
That were attempting Justice most unjust;
Destroying Truth which God ne'er gave in trust,
Life, to no Being but Themselves, assign'd,
Among the various Ranks of human Kind—
Nor can a Creature as a right resign
But only Him, who made it Mine, or Thine.

While, thus, my Pen pursues politic task,
Some Hypocrite may, here, this question ask,
Would such lax Doctrines Christ's Apostles please?
Will modern Prelates relish Rules like these?
Or will the Pensioner, or Placeman, find
Such sentiments suffice their slavish Mind?
They see their views best serv'd by kingly sway,
Fix'd in good quarters, and with present pay;
And from the greatest, even to the least,
All Kinds embrace the antichristian Beast:
While those who dare Hypocrisy condemn,
Alike abominate the Beast and Them.

“Bow to the higher Pow'rs,” the Priesthood preach—
“Bow to the Pow'rs that be,” proud Statesmen teach—
For while this maxim's forc'd on Fellow-elves,
They hope more honour—Wealth—and Pow'r, Themselves—
Each Tory says the same—and so say I,
To Pow'r supreme, which rules o'er Earth and Sky!
He, as His due, all Honour may demand,
From every Creature both by Sea and Land!
From Saints, and Angels, in blest Realms above,
All glad Allegiance, Gratitude, and Love!
But what have carnal, dying, Kings to do
With such Devoirs from either Me, or You?
'Tis base idolatry, to Creatures shown
The sacred Right of Heav'n's high Lord, alone!

What! with a Crown shall Dupes a Creature deck,
Then bend and bow blasphemous Knee and Neck?
A mortal Man like Deity adore
That Fools, and artful Knaves, have badg'd before?
This was a meaning Peter never meant,
Or Paul, or any Spirit Heav'n e'er sent,
But in base Comments made by Blocks, or Thieves,
Like vile Sacheverel—Filmer—miscreant Reeves!

Paul ne'er could construe such rash conduct right,
By reason led—much less by heavenly Light—
For God had signified from Sinai's throne
His Children, all, should worship Him, alone.
Would God, in Goodness, light a lamp, in Men,
And then, capricious, put it out agen?
Was glorious Reason to a Creature giv'n,
Man's brightest Attribute! from funds of Heav'n,
Then order Priests' extinguishers to place
To quench its rays in all the human Race?

Fixt Stars, and Planets, feeble beams retire,
Before the risen Sun's resplendent fire,
So must mere human Reason's glimmering rays
Oppos'd to Revelation's brighter blaze;
But useful, still, is their inferior light
To shed their lustre o'er the shades of Night;
Nor are the feeble beams with which they shine,
Less than the Sun's more brilliant blaze, divine!
For, while the Sun performs its Maker's Will,
The Moon and Stars, alike, His Laws fulfil—
O'er all the Earth their different helps bestow,
Thro' various offices, of Life, below;
So was bless'd Reason ne'er bestow'd in vain
But ought its destin'd post and task maintain—
And still with strong, but humble, influence, may,
Distinctly temporary truths display.
While Revelation, with its brighter beams,
Diffuses light o'er everlasting themes.

There needs no Revelation to disclose
What Man by Reason, and by Instinct, knows—
The clear connection Brother has with Brother,
And moral rules respecting one another—
That Conscience promptly shows, by shorter plan,
Intuitive, what's due from Man to Man.

Here let me state what Paul and Peter urge,
And see what light from darkness may emerge—
But first let's lay some full position down,
To suit the sight of Courtier, King, and Clown;
That Kings themselves, tho', commonly, so dull,
Must feel the inference strike them, fair, and full;
They ne'er can be so ignorant, gross and blind,
But they must mark its force, like all Mankind!

None, sure, will aim to shine in Reason's list,
And say no Truth, or Justice, now exist—
Or with a proud effrontery try to show,
Such Beings, now, are never known below;
But can alone exist with hosts above,
Angels and Saints, in Holiness and Love!

That Heav'n's bright Image, now, is full effac'd
And all its right Inscriptions clean eras'd;
No! those bright Essences, tho' faint, are found,
In gracious Christians' hearts on earthly ground;
And well 'tis prov'd that every perfect Thing,
Reflects the Deity, from whence they spring—
But that whose Nature has no heavenly trace
Could ne'er arise from such celestial Race;
Thus Kings display so much of hellish leav'n,
Fools only fancy such can come from Heav'n.
The British Muse dare this bold Truth advance,
Who marks the Fiend which governs Fools in France.
Besides this stands indisputable Truth,
Well-known to learn'd and unlearn'd Age—and Youth—
The Pow'r, whate'er it be, which can create
May justly close, at Will, its Creature's date.
And, tho' it be not part of Nature's Plan,
That Man, created, can create a Man—
Nor, in Man's pow'r, by Sciences, and Arts,
To give his Fellow Grace, or Sense, or Parts;
Yet, when the mighty God hath made such Things,
Man, then hath Pow'r to make such Creatures Kings.

In this the Author of the Fable-Book;
Thro' ignorance, trick, or knavery—much mistook—
Tho' Jupiter may make both Cranes and Logs,
Yet Monarchs must be made for Frogs, by Frogs.
Thus, if a Number, of fool-Frogs, propose
To make their Sovereigns of such Things as Those,
And mutual Compact is both sign'd, and seal'd,
It cannot, then, in Justice, be repeal'd,
While those acknowledg'd Monarchs Lives endure,
And Ifs, on both Sides all are kept secure—
But Log, or Crane, that holds deputed Pow'rs,
If ignorant Log neglects, or Crane devours,
And thus the binding Articles be broke
Then Frogs not only have a Right to croak,
But Kings cashier, for Perjury—Pride—or Spite—
And set aside each delegated Right.

Should Log, or Crane, by no intemperate act
Infringe a portion of that mutual pact;
But without painful burden, fraud, or strife,
Conclude their terms of dull, or dangerous, Life;
Yet if the cunning scheme was so contriv'd,
Young Block or Bird, which regal Sire surviv'd,
With wooden hand, or claw, should hold the Helm,
And Logs or Cranes, for ever, rule the Realm,
Tho' Providence should so far change their Nature
In bulk, and burden—fierceness, strength, and stature—
That One should kill all comfort with its weight,
Or t'other greedy, gulp ev'n Imps of State;
It seems unjust—unsufferably hard—
Those Frogs might not such scoundrel Kings discard.

What right had their Forefathers, thus to bind
Their Children to churl Kings, of either Kind?
As well they might oblige their Brats to lie,
Bound down in lake, or bog, till both were dry;
Nor suffer from the mud to leap, or crawl,
Till Summer-Suns had broil'd, or bak'd, them all—
Meantime lamenting o'er their lot forlorn,
And cursing Fate because they there were born.
What madness must it be, if e'er 'twas done
That foolish Sire should so confine the Son,
And thus with Kings, and graceless Knaves, engage—
To bind his injur'd Brood from Age to Age!
Could we conceive a large Land-owner wise,
Who should with honest Servant so devise,
That He, and His, to Time's compleat extent,
Should act as Stewards, and receive his Rent—
Make all Agreements what each Hind must give
That each, in Peace, and Competence might live;
While selfish Offspring, at some future Time
Should grow regardless both of Cost, and Crime;
And, heedless of Dependant's deep distress,
Still, proudly, on complaining Tenants press,
By that rude Pow'r claiming much more than dues;
Condemning all as Foes who dared refuse—
When, in default, the small remainder seize,
Robbing their Frames of rest, their Hearts of ease:
If still deficient fix in prison fast,
To vex, and starve, till robb'd of lives at last;
And all for selfish, vain, or vicious Ends,
To serve Themselves—their Families—and Friends—
Without attention to deputed Trust
And right regard to what was true—or just.
While, to support their Pomp—their Pride—their Place—
And shun the shameful danger of disgrace,
With neighbouring Breed litigious claim commence,
In spite of Justice—Truth—and simplest Sense;
And risque to ruin, midst their clamorous cry,
His Heirs who gave their Parent first Employ.

But must not Men be base—or frantic Fools,
To make twelve millions one weak Tyrant's Tools?
Or must not those in Pow'r be arrant Knaves
Who aim to make all others abject Slaves?
Striving to keep a Successor in Pow'r,
Whom Providence denies Man's common Dow'r?
Tie every Man of Wit, or Wisdom, down
By trammels only meet for Fool, or Clown?
As well might Blocks oblige gigantic Heir
The pigmy Parent's cast-off Cloaths to wear;
Or Titan Sire's by dwarfish Sons be worn
Proud Spectacles of ridicule and scorn!
With childish toys groups of grown Men amuse,
All reasoning Tyros would with scorn refuse;
Or go to Goody's scolding School agen,
To con their Alphabet when classic Men.
Were any earthly Kings become discreet,
Knaves only would disturb their snug Retreat;
Or when found just, and watchful, tho' not wise,
Fools only would affront, or Dupes despise;
For now the wicked World's become so bad,
Such necessary Evils must be had—
But when they aim at arbitrary Pow'r,
To spoil—oppress—to vex—or to devour—
All, who love Justice, and respect the Poor,
Must wish such worrying Monsters were no more—
Yea all who worship Heav'n, and honour Worth,
Must beg such Brutes may soon be swept from Earth!
Draw Contrast close, and see how ill they suit,
'Twixt British George, and Gaul's Imperial Brute
Each Vice and Virtue weigh, then truly tell,
How this is fit for Heav'n and that for Hell!

CHAPTER 17th.

Thus Crispin, warm'd with patriotic sparks,
On Rulers, and false Rules, made free remarks;
Which as his Duties left much leisure Time
He oft essay'd to sketch in rustic Rhyme.
Time, he well knew, throughout its whole amount,
Was noted down, by Heav'n in clear account;
And was to Man, like all his Talents, lent,
To exercise for good—not idly spent—
Each hour to urge some useful task assign'd,
To honour Heav'n, or benefit Mankind.
Not slattern'd o'er, without one worthy Thought,
Or useful Action, as a Thing of nought;
Not thrown away, like thoughtless Infant's Toys
Without once judging future pains and joys.

What Man can fail to mark, who once reflects,
How Mind degenerates 'mid such loose neglects;
For Thought, when disengag'd from useful Themes,
Will wildly ramble in delirious Dreams;
In wanton reasonings, or weak reveries,
The Heart's impure propensities to please,
Till Christ controuls the wayward Will, by Grace,
And pure Reflections fill their proper place.

When Spirit's nobler pow'rs are all employ'd,
With Virtue's growths to fill gross Fancy's void;
Or lifts, to Heav'n affections most sublime,
For every Gift and Grace vouchsaf'd in Time;
Christ, condescending such attempts to bless
Pours thro' each pulse Earth's highest happiness:
But when its Faculties no farther strive
To keep that pure Felicity alive;
Then, Spirit, struggling to be happy still,
Makes Passion operate on suspended Will—

To ease the Heart of every wearying weight,
Wakes prurient Appetites from torpid state;
Or sends Imagination gadding round
To find gross pleasures on forbidden ground—
Decided, oft, by carnal Nature's voice,
To make mistaken, vain, or vicious choice;
And bringing home Companions to the breast,
Which rob the Conscience of accustom'd rest.

To give full exercise to all the Soul,
Some portion of that precious time he stole
From silent Morn's most salutary hours,
When rest had renovated all his pow'rs,
While morbid Minds indulg'd their sinful dreams,
O'er carnal crimes, or wicked worldly schemes;
When all the Progeny of Pomp, and Noise,
Were just retir'd from Fashion's jabbering Joys;
From foolish fulsome Scenes of Wealth, and Wit,
That make the Mind for Death and Heav'n unfit—
To seek fresh solace in the arms of Sleep,
While those who lend their luxuries work and weep,
When Riots' crews relinquish worn delight,
Urg'd thro' all hours of dear departed Night;
Now striving to discharge dull'd Nature's debt,
To lull their Conscience, or their Crimes forget;
Who with intemperance and debauchery drown'd,
Had just now finish'd their infernal round;
While those that feed their Follies wearied wake,
For graceless Lusts to toil, or gambling Stake.

Confined, in silence, he conferr'd alone
With Understanding, on his mental Throne,
Amidst Imagination's throngs of thought,
And fairy broods by procreant Fancy brought;
Reason, at his right hand, her place maintain'd,
And all her faithful groups full audience gain'd,
Whose clearest arguments would recommend
Religion's Advocate, and Virtue's Friend;
While Judgment sat and heard each honest plea,
And fix'd each Verdict with his firm Decree.

Those active Pow'rs by Passion undisturb'd,
No Bribe corrupted, and no Business curb'd;
But each ideal Image, gliding by,
March'd, in review, before his mental eye,
That false, or foul, right Judgment might reject
Or Reason plead for those that claim'd respect.
Thus recommended, he, with cautious Muse,
To entertain as Favourites, or refuse,
Selected, careful from the motley mass,
For taste to shape—clothe—educate—and class—
To group for grace, or form familiar trains,
To tell true tales, or chaunt his choicest strains.

But not alone did here this Council sit,
Investigating Truth, or weighing Wit—
For proving Justice by some perfect test,
While balancing the workings of his breast,
Lest irritated Passion, Pride, or Spleen,
Should slip some ting'd, refracting lens, between,
To give each object harsh, unnatural, hue,
Or size, or figure, neither just or true.
These met, in candid Conclave, Years before,
When flagellations made each feeling sore;
Conven'd, each day, in sylvan solitude,
To sanction, or condemn, ideas rude,
Ere recommended to the Muse's choice;
As proper subjects, by their sage advice!
On which she ought bestow her tuneful Art,
To make them charm the ear, and chear the heart,
Or by unlyric Sound and lack of Sense,
To hurt the ear, and give the heart offence.

Both here, and there, his intellectual eye
Perceiv'd in every place, that Being, by,
Who, at one vast, and instantaneous, view,
Probes every human heart, and spirit, through;
Beholding, day and night, at single glance,
In every Soul, each distant thought advance—
All secret embryo-aims, and wishes warm,
Long ere they're fashion'd in specific form.
Sees in each seed, and bud, before it shoots,
Hurtful, or wholesome, leaves, and flow'rs, and fruits.
In creeping Spawn, or Acorn yet unbroke,
The filthy Fungus, or the useful Oak;
In Thistles' noisome seeds, or Nuts unclove,
The Culturer's curse, or Farmer's favourite grove.
Nor sees what human Minds will yield, alone,
By natural semen in the bosom sown;
But all the germs which different Agents drop,
To generate joyous, or pernicious crop—
Not only His pure Spirit's winnow'd Wheat;
Which Man for mental Health, and Strength may eat,
But each infernal Fiend's thick-scatter'd Tares,
Producing Sorrows, Labours, Pains, and Cares,
Which Heav'n's productions, injure, or destroy,

And rob the Husbandman of Hope and Joy;
Or make pure products constantly increase,
In Crops of Comforts—Purity—and Peace!

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!

Ye Scholars of Socinus mock not here,
Nor force, from Christian Minds these Maxims dear—
Deem not such Faith mad Phantasms or mere Dreams,
Which gave his gracious thoughts their gravest Themes.
How do the Scriptures, how doth Reason, prove
No heavenly Influence human Minds can move;
Or that pure Spirit, the prompt Soul implores,
Man's Pow'rs, and Privileges, ne'er restores?
Ne'er strengthens Reason, ne'er assists the Will,
To guide the Passions, or to keep them still;
Or helps their views and efforts to reduce
Pride—Passions—Appetites—to pristine use?
Ne'er fines Affections, or renews their force,
Tho' seeking daily at the sacred Source?
Will He, the Parent of the human Race
Refuse His Offspring needful gifts of Grace?
That glorious God, who rear'd, and rules, the Skies,
As good as great and willing as He's wise—
Will He, while blest with Wisdom's boundless Light
Leave His own Family in Nature's Night?
Possest of boundless Knowledge still deny
His christian Children who for Wisdom cry?
Doth He less love the Souls of Saints on Earth,
Than those who gave their groveling Bodies birth?
Will natural Parents, when pin'd Households moan,
Withhold their Bread, and give each Child a Stone?
When they, with ardent Bosoms, humbly beg,
Present a Scorpion when they ask an Egg?
Or, when they warmly supplicate for Fish.
Deal each a Serpent, or some poisonous Dish?

If earthly Father then yield Nature's dues,
Will Love, itself, such gracious Gifts refuse,
While Offspring's daily Pray'rs, and pure Desires,
And Faith, and Hope, and Love that Love inspires!
Can He then mock the Wish His Word commands
To seek such Favours from His heavenly Hands!

Can He, Man's Maker—Saviour—Lord—divine—
Father, and Friend, His Progeny enjoin
To beg such Blessings; ask; and seek; and knock?
Yet still refuse them to His little Flock?
All pure conditions of His publish'd Will?
With promises to all who thus fulfil?
And all acknowledg'd as His written Word?
'Tis Foolish! impious! blasphemous! absurd!

Is Christ unwilling? Is His Grace grown weak?
Or would such System His first bias break?
Can Matter's mutual particles impinge,
Or, on each other, intimately, hinge;
Or, put in motion by some pow'rful sway,
Move every mass of Matter in its way,
Till, by some Spirit's pow'r, again, imprest,
It reassumes, inert, its natural rest?
And cannot Spirit, thus, on Spirit act,
By innate pow'r, or by some mutual pact?
May not the Maker of each human Soul
Impel to action, or its acts controul?
Or will the Governor of Nature grutch
With His pure Spirit Man's prone Mind to touch?
Doth He, indifferent, look on all below?
His Offspring's Ignorance? Weakness? Want? and Woe?
Nor let His Love—His Goodness—or His Grace—
Compassionate, and help, the ruin'd Race?
But like an idle, arbitrary, Turk,
Despise, neglect, or hate, His Handy-work;
And haughtily refuse His help to reach
To guard, to guide, to strengthen, or to teach?
Or, is it in the fancied Book of Fate,
No Pow'r on human Minds can operate!
Not even His who form'd all Nature's Frame,
Who gave all Life, and can all Life reclaim?
Crispin found written in Heav'n's favourite Book,
In which his eye would oft delight to look,
His mental eye, which markt the converse clear,
As written with meridian sunbeams there.

Fill'd with such Faith how could His heart avoid
To beg that help against base Lust and Pride;
And that His Light would lead both Mind and Pen,
To honour Christ and counsel mortal Men.
What Sentiments and Truths, well understood,
When practis'd might produce the greatest Good.
How blessed Faith, and Hope, and Peace, below,
Pure Spirit may on peccant Minds bestow;
Rich Comforts, Unbelievers ne'er behold,
And Consolations, here, an hundred-fold;
With all the boundless Happiness above,
That springs from perfect Holiness and Love!

He strove not, by his mental toils, alone,
To make his gnawing cares, and conflicts, known—
Not by satyric labours to obtain
One soul, unsanctified, of graceless gain;
Or some frail edifice of Rhyme to raise,
With weakly hope, to win perpetual praise;
Much less with Spite and Malice to asperse
One virtuous Character with vicious Verse—
Not ev'n to castigate that cruel Heart
Which pierc'd his own, so oft, with pungent smart—
And what's far worse, his Children's bosoms tore,
While Daphne's Heart still felt its miseries more!
Yet when his wounded Soul was deeply griev'd,
In God's blest Government his Mind believ'd;
Which kept his irritable strains from sight,
Till Her perturbed Spirit left the light.

Meantime his Heart's pure pathos, oft implor'd
The God he worshipp'd—honour'd—lov'd—ador'd—
That Heart to actuate—influence—guide—and guard—
His Will to stimulate, or Work retard—
Each favourite view to frustrate, or fulfil,
Accordant with His own unerring Will.
That His pure Spirit would those Pow'rs withhold
Self-love might sacrifice to Fame, or Gold;
Or pain, or pleasure, in one Heart produce
But for His Glory, and their gracious Use.

This was his humble Muse's utmost scope,
Prayer of his Heart, and anchor of his Hope;
Endeavouring, as his Saviour saw most meet
To give him strength and guide his doubtful feet,
To drop some blest reproof—redress some wrong,
At every step he pass'd, Life's paths along!
A rugged Road, for him, and all his Brood,
With virtuous motives urg'd, in varying mood;
Hard struggling on, thro' all their hours, or Years,
Amidst misfortunes, blessings, hopes, or fears;
Still persevering, still by patience, blest;
While pious feelings, brac'd each faithful breast!
With happiest Christian principles at heart,
Each aim'd to act Life's most important part;

And hourly watch'd, and labour'd, hard, to bind
Pride—Passions—Lusts—which strove to turn the Mind—
Tho' in the ever-varying Scenes of Life,
Mid moral Ill, and elemental Strife,
Which agitate the heart, thro' Soul, or Sense;
Will give the grateful feelings, oft, offence—
Some rude events will every hour arise,
To darken hope, or damp expected joys!

What meditating Mind would think it strange
Affections—Passions—and Pursuits, should change,
And sometimes deviate from the right-lin'd road,
Sketch'd out, by Christ, in Heav'n's clear, sacred Code?
A track no Christian e'er completely trod,
Ev'n by His help, tho' perfect Man, and God!
But, absent from His Spirit's heavenly light,
Could ne'er direct one single footstep right!
Yet, whether sunny robes the World array'd,
Or cloudy meteors mix'd their densest shade—
Whether high febrile heats inflam'd his blood,
Or freezing cold restrain'd the tardy flood—
Whatever Visions, or Events, were new,
He kept God's glory, and Man's good, in view.
And tho' his present prospect might appear
Impressively unprosperous, dark, and drear,
Still 'twas with happier Objects interspers'd,
That Piety brought forth, and Morals nurs'd;
Which Truth reveal'd, in all their heavenly charms,
And Virtue fondled in her fostering arms;
Diffusing thro' his Heart those rapturous Joys
Which can, alone, in Christian Souls arise!

Who then could doubt in such a serious Cause,
Forbid by neither Heav'n's, or human, Laws;
When Truth still warranted the righteous task
Of stripping Fashion's coils, and Custom's mask,
While Justice follow'd, with commanding force,
To stop Hypocrisy's and Falshood's course—
When moral Virtue made the Muse her choice
To check the progress of imperious Vice,
While Reason strove with Ostentation's Train
To vanquish Folly and correct the Vain;
And Piety by Pray'r had hop'd, in all,
That Heav'n would hear, and sanction ev'ry Call,

Who could, with such precautions, e'er surmise
Christ would withhold His Covenant-supplies?
The God of boundless Grace refuse fresh Dow'rs,
To lighten, and enlarge, his pristine Pow'rs!
He ne'er denies assistance to that Soul
Which constant seeks, and asks, His kind controul;
And strives to regulate each word, and way,
By rules His written documents display.

Embolden'd by this hope of heavenly Light
He still pursued the Path which pointed right,
Proceeding every day in Duty's Road,
As Providence the Time and Strength bestow'd—
Incessantly beseeching Heav'n's best Meed
Thro' tracks of Love his Intellect to lead;
And all those mental faculties restrain
Whose views were vicious, or their objects vain—
To frustrate, or confound, each abject Aim
That sought Revenge—Vain-glory—Wealth—or Fame.

He never thought, before this Theme began,
His feeble Pow'rs could frame a faultless Plan—
Ne'er let enthusiastic, vain, Self-love
Expect unerring helps from Pow'rs above—
Ne'er suffer'd Superstitious, crude Conceit
To hope his Pow'rs could make such Plan complete;
Nor, weakly, when the Scheme was clos'd, conceiv'd
His Labours had a blameless Work achiev'd;
Or, that the choicest of his chosen Lays
Might challenge from each Churl implicit Praise.
No! well aware the gracious Gifts of Heav'n
Ne'er set aside, on Earth, all human Leav'n,
But, in the Soul, still suffer some Alloy
To pinion Pride, and damp injurious Joy—
To turn attention; keep Affection fixt
On that pure Place where Raptures reign, unmixt—
Lest Man's fall'n carnal Nature should forget
His fearful Doom from first Forefather's Debt;
With pains and penalties Himself deserves,
When from the Rules of Heav'n his Reason swerves;
Resting on frail Delights each false Desire,
Whose objects and enjoyments must expire!

Still he was warranted some good might grow
Thro' breaking others thoughts from things below—
From firm endeavours to excite disgust
Against idolatrous and worldly Lust—
From tearing off trim Vanity's disguise,
And battering down base refuges of Lies—
From combating that curs'd, blind, mad, mistake,
Which need must make all hearts, like his, to ache,
Whose folly, trusting to an arm of flesh,

Would crucify the Lord of Life afresh;
While choosing any Child of Man, as Chief,
To feed the Frame, or guard the Heart from grief.

He could not doubt some benefits might spring
From conning faults, or follies, in a King—
Not fearing loss of favour, or disgrace,
From regal rule or all the courtly Race
But, boldly, all his little lightnings hurl'd,
Against mock Giants in this modern World—
Who dar'd so exercise tyrannic rod
O'er groaning Slaves, and grasp the rights of God—
Whose Will, each instant, with resistless Fate,
Could Kings—could Realms—yea, Worlds annihilate!

He stated propositions right, and true,
Whilst love for all his Kind was kept in view,
And His high honour whose transpiercing sight
Beheld all motives in full blaze of light;
Full well convinc'd, should he, unduteous, dare
Commit a Crime, tho' Patience, now, might spare;
Yet would all devious views be clear discust,
When he, and all Mankind, emerge from dust;
And this Essay, with all its Meanings, meet
A genuine Sentence at Christ's Judgment-seat!

But most he hoped some greater good might rise,
Among the Mass which Kings and Courts despise—
The lowly Mass, which, like himself, unknown,
Wish no frail influence from an earthly Throne—
Implore no Pow'r nor supplicate low Pelf,
To gratify false Pride, or fleshly Self;
But that some solid kindness might extend
To those who want, but find no useful Friend;
Believing, still, with humbly hoping hearts
All tends to good God's Providence imparts—
While he in honest rustic strains rehears'd
Why Man with poverty, and pain, was curs'd;
And why, tho' thus continuing poor, and pain'd,
God's perfect Justice, still by Grace restrain'd,
Will Lend a light, and shelter with a Shield,
To show their path, and prompt protection yield;
That Christians, in a wicked World, like this,
May every spirit-piercing misery miss,
While tasting intellectual bliss, below,
Piqu'd Pow'r, and wretched Riches, never know;
And, in a purely-perfect future State,
Avoid the vicious Tyrants vengeful Fate—
Not hoping to escape all conflicts, here,
Of Crosses—cloudy Hopes—and painful Fear;
For well he knew that Envy, Lust, and Pride,
To every State, and Stage, of Life allied,
Must mortify Christ's Followers every hour,
While subject to fall'n Nature's peccant Pow'r,
A Syren World's insinuating airs,
With Satan's hostile Troops, and subtle snares.

He wish'd to warn them battles must be fought
With froward Will, and wandering thwarting Thought;
Still struggling with each strong besetting Sin
In all that woo'd without, and work'd within.
To combat Fiends, with Forces from beneath,
Each hour the Spirit's shining sword unsheath—
Use helmet—shield—and breast-plate—to repel
Their fiery darts, all dipt in flames of Hell—
Must every day hostilities declare
Against the pow'rful Prince of Earth and Air,
Who governs as a God—and rules, and reigns,
O'er all the Fools that fill his dark Domains;
Not only o'er the heedless, ignorant, Groups,
Which constitute, in Crowds, his lighter Troops,
His banners to unfurl, his sceptre stretch,
A Monarch own'd by each immoral Wretch!
Not, merely Vicious—Volatile—and Vain—
The greedy, drunken, and adulterous, Train—
The petty Despot, or unthinking Thief—
The chousing Minister, and murderous Chief;
But every courtly Tool, and tyrant King,
Who at his Altars bend, and offerings bring;
With all the Hypocrites' most wicked Race
Heav'n's rights usurping in superior Place;
All impious Priests, and High-priests, deem'd divine,
Who daily worship at his Idol-shrine;
Thro' Time permitted secondary sway,
His prisoners, now—ere long his proper prey!

Yet think not, Ye, possest of temporal Pow'r,
Who with the Beast and Dragon, reign your Hour,
Crispinus aim'd to rouze the abject Breed,
Provok'd with Insult, and opprest with Need,
From Duty to withdraw—to storm your Doors—
Attack your Persons, or purloin your Stores—
But o'er their Lusts, and Passions, to prevail,
Performing Compacts, tho' You, Courtiers, fail—
And sooner suffer wrong, from Fraud, or Force,
Than Conscience wound, or quit their Christain Course,

Still tendering all that Law decrees as due,
To righteous Heav'n, and to unrighteous You!
Their heavenly Master's footsteps still to mark,
Lit by his Spirit's pure celestial spark;
And in those footsteps diligently tread,
Tho' persecuted like their patient Head,
Rather than, rashly, by resisting Ill,
To counteract His holy Word, and Will—
Ev'n stoop to despot Kings' oppressive claim,
Sooner than sully their transcendent Name!

But, tho' he would preserve Religion pure,
And, for the Saviour's sake, all Ills endure;
Yet would he ne'er from Truth restrain his Pen
While Justice was o'erset by sordid Men—
Ne'er fawn with looks, or flatter with his tongue,
While Courtiers' frauds confounded right and wrong—
Indifferent note false Dupes foul pleas produce,
To institute, or sanction, base abuse—
Turn not conniving, cunning, looks aside,
To countenance Oppression, Craft, or Pride;
Nor Wink while Scoundrels—Villains—Knaves—collogue,
To hide the faults of every Fellow-Rogue;
Much less, himself, for courtly Libels plead,
That manacle the Free, and Tools mislead!
Or quench pure Reason's light like papal Rome,
Which tends to bring, again, black, Pagan, gloom!
Right Reason's dawn, like Revelation's day,
Was kindled by the same celestial Ray.
By Reason rul'd, each Clown throughout the crowd
Marks Truth and Justice, maugre Custom's cloud;
And Revelation's beams, which brighter shine,
Deign him sufficient light for Things divine;
Not Meant to wake Imagination warm
To shape conceptions in unfinished form;
But where the purblind Understanding blinkt
To picture Heav'n's eternal Things distinct.
To amplify and clear the mental scale,
And help where human Faculties must fail,
By representing objects more sublime
Than those that fill the sphere of Sense, and time.
Not only everlasting Things to scan,
And strengthening all the abstract Pow'rs of Man;
To estimate, by measure, worth, and weight,
What appertains to Heav'n's eternal State,
And urge to ask that Spirit's aid by pray'r
Who moulds the Mind and Heart Heav'n's joys to share,
By kindling in the Soul that holy Love
Which yields angelic bliss to Saints above.
Not superseding Conscience, first bestow'd
To guide rude Mortals thro' Time's mazey road—
Not supernaturally those Truths to teach
Which pristine Pow'rs could competently reach;
Nor Notions, Precepts, Apophthegms, explain,
Which natural Reason's efforts might attain.

'Tis Reason's office fully to define,
The virtuous leadings of each varied line,
To trace each labyrinthine moral maze,
Whose puzzling path blind Ignorance oft betrays—
To pry with piercing ken thro' Custom's cloud,
And strip disguising Fashion's dazzling shroud—
Turn superstition's raven veil aside,
Which would eternal Truth, and Justice hide.
Truth's stable cleanse, with Herculean toil,
So fill'd by sordid Rogues with filthy Soil.
Show how, when taught in Machiavelian Schools,
Bigots become proud Politicians' Tools;
Who make the clownish, Multitude condemn
The simplest axioms, when decried by Them;
Pronouncing Sophistry most meet, and fit,
Which contradicts clear Sense, and sacred Writ.

He never meant Man's Reason should oppose
What Revelation's documents disclose;
Yet, when disjointed parts appear to jar,
The case must come before her final Bar;
And, where they're silent, as the surest Guide,
The Suit, when dubious, or obscure, decide.

What is right Reason? 'Tis but natural, still,
Its earthly office, first, to teach the Will,
In things that appertain to Sense, and Time,
Till Heav'n reveal'd its maxims more sublime;
And then those Doctrines, Truths, and Facts, defend,
Against each impious Foe, or ignorant Friend—
Proclaim God's glory, with Life's latest breath,
In spite of Prisons—Dungeons—Chains—and Death!

When Reason shapes Hypothesis, or Plan,
'Tis but the Wisdom, still, of mortal Man;
And Theory, or Scheme, must, first, be form'd,
When apt Imagination's pow'rs are warm'd,

While every Object's lineaments are made
By teeming Fancy's prompt, and plastic, aid.
Tho' deep it pry, and diligently plod,
It ne'er can fully grasp one Work of God!
Tho' it can pierce the Earth, and plumb the Sky,
Its views ne'er can with vast Omniscience vie!
Its temporal task with heav'nly help ne'er fill,
Much less conceive, or compass all Heav'n's Will!
Can simply scan the Things of Time and Sense;
Not span the Scheme of Christ's pure Providence!
'Tis amply competent to trace the Clue,
Tho' mixt, in what fall'n Man may say, or do;
But ne'er develop all the Plan design'd
By boundless—uncreated—prescient—Mind!
Can mark by His communicated Light,
In all Acts—Words—and Thoughts, what's wrong, and right,
Nor ought to Falshood, Flattery, Fashion, stoop,
Tho' countenanc'd by learn'd, or courtly, Troop.
Thus while it keeps alive Heav'n's kindled spark,
Fools only deem, 'tis absolutely dark!
Yet Wit, and Wisdom, Folly's shame to shun,
Will say 'tis heavenly Moonshine, not the Sun—
Not suffer Pride to praise its feeble glow,
Beyond Heav'n's brighter beams which blaze below;
But like a Lamp, or Candle, keep its place,
To light Man's Mind with Truths of terrene Race.
It ne'er could thus discover Things like those
Which Revelation's clearer Lights disclose.
It never can create, by innate act,
One single Feeling, or one simple Fact—
Nor dive thro' depths of Providence, to plumb,
Or impiously pronounce on Things to come.
The Gift was granted, that Man might compare,
The chords, or discords, of those Things that are—
The fitness, or unfitness, fully clear,
Among facts—testimonies—maxims—here.

But must We then impugn that heav'nly Light,
And say with Sophs, or Novices, it's Night?
Let Knaves, and Fools, its radiant influence flout,
And aim with impious breath to blow it out.
Extinguishers of polish'd brass put o'er,
So that its sacred rays may shine no more;
Or, when extinct, with self-sufficient Airs,
Proudly presume to kindle light at Theirs.
No! let Possessors, by its heav'n-born beams,
Avoid each Vice, and Politics' extremes;
That would to Misery fall, or Madness fly,
By scorning Codes transmitted from the Sky!
Not putting out those pure celestial rays,
Then call Court-Coxcombs to point out their Ways;
Whose crackling flambeaux blaze is most unmeet
To guide weak Travellers' unskilful feet;
While selfish prospects prompt them to advise
Dark, devious, tracks, with trite, fallacious, lies;
Till, at Pride's—Appetite's—or Passion's, call,
In some deep fatal ditch both foully fall!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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.

Think not, ye restless Rich! low Malice lurk'd
Within the labouring breast, while Anger work'd—
He'd ne'er his Peace, and richer Hopes, resign,
For all your Wit and Wealth—your Show and Shine;
Nor wish like Riches—Honours—Place—or Pow'r;
Unless God's Grace would bless each bounteous Dow'r,
By shaping both his Heart, and Will, to share
Those blessings with the Broods of Toil and Care—
For God, and gracious Conscience, must condemn
Such Pomp and Luxury whilst neglecting Them!
His Heart ne'er hanker'd after Fame, or Wealth,
To risque Heav'n's better blessings, Peace and Health;
Nor could his Conscience covet Pow'r, or Place,
Gay Pomp—and Pride, and Lust, with loss of Grace;
Or to seek to purchase, at such countless price,
Such negatives as Vanity, and Vice;
With all the Folly—Falshood—Flattery—found
To cheat the Soul, on such enchanted Ground;
The Troubles—Cares—Anxieties—of Mind,
The frantic Votaries, of those Idols, find;
That, in the present State, all peace destroy,
And banish all just hopes of heavenly Joy:
Ah! no—pure Pity struck his aching Heart,
Beholding You perform your frantic Part;
And swelling sighs oft hove His troubled Breast
To see You, 'mid such Blessings, so unblest!
To see You thus the World's and Satan's Slaves,
With loads of Guilt all hurrying to your Graves—
Each moment subject to your Maker's call
To leave, for ever, this enamouring Ball;
When Life no more shall feel one moment lent
To seek your Spirit's Ransom, or, repent!
When full Accounts must, faithfully, declare
All Talents' use committed to Your care;
And how those bounteous Loans were all bestow'd,
While wandering o'er Life's sublunary Road!
He inly mourn'd to mark Your Lives devoid
Of all pursuits but Passion—Lust—and Pride;
And grieved to note your Time—your Pow'r—your Pelf—

Fully consum'd on that frail Idol—Self—
None spent on Penury, ev'n at Heaven's call,
Nor for His glory, who first gave You all;
Or scanty doles, by dread of scandal driv'n,
If more enlarg'd, all for Self-glory giv'n.

When, thus, your fleeting Farce of Life shall close,
And all your feelings pant to find repose,
What grinding Griefs Your Minds must undergo
From present Pains, and fears of future Woe!
While all your hopes of Happiness must die,
When Honours, Riches, Pomp, and Influence, fly;
And Conscience, with convicting Terrors, comes
To point the passage to your horrid Homes!
To tell of all your vain, and vicious, Joys,
For Time, nor Strength, support or Hope supplies—
Both banish'd, now—no more to be renew'd!
Yet—like unholy Spectres, oft intrude
To harrass Memory—rob the Heart of rest—
Thrusting barb'd poniards thro' the throbbing breast!
Repeating how You spent Your hapless hours—
How exercis'd Your Heav'n-deputed Pow'rs—
How wasted Wealth, Pride, Passions, Lusts, to feed—
Heav'n lent You to alleviate Pain, and Need—
Against his Grace still barring every door,
While frequent warn'd by Conscience long before!

Who could contemplate calmly, such dark Scene,
Conscious what shame—remorse—pains—miseries mean!
What horrors haunt each Culprit's parting breath—
What nameless woes, and miseries after Death—
Who knows the Worth of Man's immortal Soul,
Can see such Fools approach Life's final Goal,
And, with a callous, cold, indifference, view
The dreadful exit of such Dupes as You!
Can tender Fellow-feeling mute remain,
Nor sympathize with Sinners' poignant Pain?
Ne'er long, with ardour, e'er it be too late,
Each Culprit warn to 'scape such woeful fate?
Who would not promptly wish to interpose
Ere such affecting Scenes for ever close!
To draw aside Eternity's dark veil,
Exposing prospects Worlds unseen conceal;
And take their better Angel's blessed part
By whispering warnings to each heedless heart!
Some serious hint; some sanative advice;
To turn their thoughts, in Time, to happier choice;
The love of Him, with warmth to recommend,
The Sinner's Saviour! the Believer's Friend!
The only Friend whose Favour can secure
Pleasures, which past all date, and bound endure!
Who only can commute each mortal Crime,
And quiet Conscience by true Faith, sublime!
Transfusing thro' the breast that blissful Hope
Past Reason's reach, and Fancy's fullest scope,
Imparting that pure influence from the sky,
That forms and fits the Heart for genuine Joy!
Bestowing on the Soul a second Birth,
With new capacities, to taste, on Earth,
Those purer pleasures none but Spirits know,
Who find that choice, and feel that change, below;
That Faith—Repentance—Peace—Hope—Joy, and Love,
Which furnish foretastes of the bliss above!
A bliss, increasing—most abundant found
Where Christians' growing Graces most abound—
Whose Hearts, engag'd in Christ's most glorious Cause,
Obedient bow to all Heav'n's holy Laws!
By Making Him their Pattern—Path—and Guide;
Still stripping Pomp, and mortifying Pride,
And planting pure Humility instead
To ease the heart, and tranquilize the head!
Well-fenc'd from fleshly Lusts, and worldly Cares;
From Custom's traps—from Satan's cunning snares,
And foolish Fashion's ever-varying Whim
To come, like Children, and be school'd by Him.

To Courtiers this must seem a cruel task;
And few, he fear'd, would condescend to ask—
Their Pride would scarce become so mild and meek,
In such deep Mine to dig—such Pearl to seek—
Or spurning Pride—Wealth—Pow'r—Pomp—simply knock
To drink pure Water from that living Rock!
Pride would not ask for Strength, to conquer Sin,
Or Wisdom, such a peerless Prize to win—
Ne'er seek such Pearl, or grub for hidden Gold,
While Chests, and Wardrobes, chosen Treasures hold.
Pride—Wealth—Pow'r—Pomp—ne'er knock at Mercy's door,
To beg such humble beverage, like the Poor;

Tho' with such Prizes, and such Beverage, blest,
They've won what Pride—Wealth—Pow'r—Pomp—ne'er possest!

Yet, by foul Habits fix'd, of Self so fond,
He of their dangerous state durst not despond;
For he'd been taught how some, in earlier Times,
Kings—Courtiers—Priests—repented of their Crimes;
Felt Christ forgave, and, maugre graceless leav'n,
Thro' Faith—and Hope—and Love—went on to Heav'n—
And tho' so desperate Priests, and Courtiers', Case,
He knew no Crimes excluded God's free Grace,
But modern Deists might, at Life's last Hour,
Receive pure Light, and feel renewing Pow'r!
No character, or conduct, quite exempts
The humblest Agent from Pray'rs prompt attempts,
To intercede with Him, whose blood was spilt
To purchase Grace, and pardon greatest Guilt!
That He would Will, and ample Pow'r, bestow,
To save such Culprits from impending Woe—
For tho' immerg'd so deep in prisons dark,
Scarce lighted with one living Gospel-spark,
To show the dear redeeming Saviour's Worth;
Their Faculties all fetter'd down to Earth,
By brazen links of Passion, Pride, and Lust,
Like graceless Drunkards groveling in the dust;
Yet, sometimes, while such Rebels mock and scoff,
One flash, from Heav'n, may melt those fetters off;
And fervent Pray'r, repeated, oft, avails,
From such dull eyes to cleanse the darkening scales.

Tho' Rich, and Great, should arrogantly scorn
An instrument, so mean, Plebeian born!
With Heav'n's high Advocate to intercede,
Their Crimes to pardon, and their Cause to plead;
Yet his petitions, mixt with Faith, and Fear,
Humility, and Love, kind Heav'n would hear,
Before mere forms of hypocritic Pride,
With Learning, Wit, and Eloquence allied—
And tho' their Pride refuse to hear him preach,
His Pray'r may, still, their highest Interests reach;
And, e'en against their graceless, wayward, Will,
The highest Office of a Friend fulfil!

He suffered not such Duty e'er to cease,
Tho' Courts consum'd his Property, and Peace;
For well he knew, tho' they his Pray'r should spurn,
To his own Conscience much Content must turn,
By drawing down a Blessing from above,
While thus his Faith fulfilled this Law of Love.

How did his Heart with pure Compassion melt,
When on his bended knees he humbly knelt,
Imploring Heav'n with all Heart—Soul—and Mind,
To Pardon, and to pity, mad Mankind!
But chiefly that ungrateful graceless Race
Possest of Riches—Influence—Pow'r—or—Place—
The thoughtless—thankless—impious—courtly Crowd—
So dissipated—vicious—vain—and proud!
So sunk in Lust, and Sloth—so much unlearn'd
In all that Man's immortal Soul's concern'd!
Who Riches—Talents—Time—and Pow'r pervert
To their own ruin—others loss, or hurt!
While pondering such Despisers' dreadful dooms,
When dying—dead—when Bodies quit their Tombs—
Impending o'er their awful Judgment-day
For fooling all their Grace, and Gifts away!
Those Gifts, by God, to meaner Men denied,
In Vice, and Self-idolatry destroy'd!

Meanwhile they float on Time's tumultuous waves,
And gamble o'er their gay Precursors' graves;
Regardless of the threatening, thickening, skies,
Tho' whistling Winds, and tumbling Billows, rise;
Still fluttering round each Whirlpool's fatal brink,
Unwitting, when, but certain, soon, to sink!
Like Frantics, or Enthusiasts, in their trance,
Round hungry Lion's den, all heedless, dance,
At courtly Custom's, or frail Fashion's call,
Tho' sure to feel destroy'd, whene'er they fall!
Those highly-favour'd Mortals Heav'n invests
With all the goodly Gifts of earthly Guests
But when Death drives their Souls—dissolves their Frames,
Then what will Wealth avail, and noiseless Names!

Who could behold them, in their blind career,
And yet withhold a sigh! a groan! a Tear!
To see them, thus, in wandering state, so wild!
Like Ideots, heedless, or untoward Child!
While nothing they possest an hour could skreen
Their worshipp'd Fabrics from Life's final Scene.
Nor all the Things they sought with fervour, free
Their sordid Souls from death, and Christ's decree!
On Faith and Practice here their fates depend—
For those frail Frames a blest, or bitter, end;

And on each Grace, improv'd, by godly zeal,
Their Spirits' never-ending Woe, or Weal!

Most willingly his bosom would have borne
With temporal pains, and sorrows, to be torn,
Could he procure, by punishment in Time,
Their full release from each condemning Crime;
And, by such voluntary Sacrifice,
Their Conscience cleanse, and purchase endless Joys!
But not a Creature, ever born on Earth,
Or holy Angel, of celestial birth,
Can plead one spark of merit, as its own,
For Self, or human Sinners, to atone!
Yet is there, still, a Sacrifice, declar'd,
By humble Faith, and true Repentance, shar'd;
For every vile returning Sinner slain,
To ransom all their Souls from Satan's chain—
One who, in Love adopts His rescued rights,
To yield them, here, more durable delights;
And more congenial, to converted Souls,
Than futile Pomp's, and frantic Pleasure's, doles;
And certainly secure, at Life's calm close,
The nameless bliss no Unbeliever knows.
But their proud hearts despise the humbling thought
That both their Souls and Bodies should be bought;
And, obstinately spurning Wisdom's ways,
Rob Christ of both the purchase and the praise!

He felt, as all fraternal Mortals must,
For Fellow-fall'n, with Bodies doom'd to Dust,
With deathless Souls in so deprav'd a State,
That Friends could scarcely hope a happier Fate!
From close Remark, and sacred Writ, he saw
All counteracted Heav'n's most holy Law!
The meanest Slave, or Monarch on the Throne,
All prov'd their carnal Nature, like his own.
Their Wills perverse, would Prejudice maintain;
And Pride still make each heavenly movement vain—
Whilst Lust's, alert for all Earth's cheating charms,
Call'd Pride and Passions up, each hour, to Arms—
All—all—with Satan—Sin—and World allied,
To render Virtue null, and Reason void;
And all, with godlike Souls to save or lose
As they the Message mock, or wisely choose!