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

The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse

(1735-1820): Edited by the Rev. R. I. Woodhouse

Woodhouse, James (1735-1820)

I, II.

VOL: I., II.

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CHAPTER 1st.

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!