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!