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

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.