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CHAPTER 4th.

HISTORIC AND DOMESTIC REMARKS.

Distinctly mark'd, among his fellow Clowns,
Not long his Daphne's eyes the dew-drop drowns;
But, as the morning zephyrs blithely pass,
With gliding wing, to wipe the weeping grass,
While fair Aurora gilds the flying glooms,
And, with fresh touches, brightens all the blooms;
So soon the breath of Fame, soft-whispering, bids
To chear her cheeks, and dry her pencil'd lids—
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When with new hopes each gladden'd feature glows;
More white the lily looks, more red the rose;
While opening prospects, join'd with present joys,
Struck starry lustre from her azure eyes!
All prompt reports, like village gossips, gad,
Confounding false and true, and good and bad;
Ev'n friendly narratives, thro' notions vague,
Tho' meant for profit, oft become a plague,
When Ignorance, with her wild ideas, warm,
Gives each frail image its most monstrous form.
With rapid progress fly all novel tales,
Thro' hankering villages, on hills and vales;
Where hungry ears, agape, seize every sound
That Rumour's ready pipe dispenses round.
Thus the fair kindness which on Crispin fell,
Fill'd every neighbouring height, and bordering dell,
To fellow Craftsmen soon his Name was known—
His kind Acquaintance wish'd him all their own—
Each fond Relation felt Self somewhat more,
Connected with a Poet, tho' so poor!
While boasting Brethren spread his puny fame,
Vain of Alliance—vainer of the Name.
But while Fame's wide-mouth'd tube, obstreperous, blows,
With files of Friends it calls up corps of Foes—
Envy, and Hatred baneful banners rear,
And clamorous hosts of Pride's recruits appear,
To chase unlisted Youth, whose happier choice,
Quits each vile Comrade in the ranks of Vice;
Whose blinding powder, and dismembering ball,
Stifle fair Fame, and make true Merit fall—
Proclaim their conquest, and exult with joy,
When Virtue staggers, or Deserters die!
If pure Ambition chaunts her votive strain,
Vice toils to render Virtue's labours vain—
Spleen's harsh prophetic speech, pronounc'd by Hate,
With Spite predestinates his future fate—
Mocks each manœuvre—right distorts to wrong—
Degrades God's Soldier, and condemns his Song!
Envy, alike, in Courtier, or in Clown,
When others rise deems idol-Self pull'd down,
All strive, thro' such mistaken, vile, self-love,
To balk bold Minds which mean to mount above:
But Nature's Father, with far nobler plan,
When he infus'd Mind's faculties in Man,
Like other Passions, Pride was meant a spur,
Intended, mainly, mental strength to stir,
With pow'r, exciting, by apt sense of pain,
To fly some evil, or some good to gain—
Not envying others for more fame, or pelf,
But, by fair efforts, to exalt Himself.

NEW SCHEME.

Some elevated Minds, with kindest aim,
Projecting profit—fabricating fame—
To help finance—give permanance to praise,
Printed and patroniz'd his rustic lays;
Tho' simple, read by simple readers still,
For mere amusement, or from great good-will—
While the Bard rests from fame and friendship fled
In blank oblivion, four decennaries dead!
Here the pleas'd Muse might ornament her page,
With Names which honour'd that distinguish'd Age—
Names that might now employ a Maro's pen,
Or Horace rank amongst Augustan Men!
Names, that might less-enlighten'd Souls inspire,
And give to Saturn's phlegm Apollo's fire!
Give Peasant's hack a Pegasean wing,
And make a Clown—a Dunce—a Coxcomb, sing!
Show Wisdom listening to his rustic reed—
Wealth, Wit, and Title giving gracious meed—
Learning lay selfish prejudice aside,
And Genius drop cold, customary, pride—
Greatness, a moment feel a Friend's regard,
And help the interests of a boorish Bard;
For no proud competition could accrue,
To spoil their plans, or thwart one venal view.
No genuine Genius would with envy look,
Nor Wit, nor Learning, dread a dangerous Book—
No Natural heats of emulation rise,
To vex vain Wealth, or agitate the wise;
Nor needed Coxcombs—Fools—or Courtiers, fear—
His Song was simple, and his Soul sincere.

PATRONESS.

Then most alert seem'd one celebrious Dame,
Vanessa was her neat, appropriate, Name;
Which, with Scintilla—apt agnomen, join'd,
Might mark her conduct, and depict her Mind—
The one her pompous Spirit well displays,
The other sparkling wit, and wish for praise.
Supreme among the Fair, by common bruit,
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For love of Eulogy, and Pomp's pursuit.
Esteem'd for taste, and products of her pen,
With promptitude to mark ingenious Men.
But brilliant Writers met the most regards,
And chief of them the chattering Race of Bards;
For they could best bestow delightful dow'rs,
By flattering speech, or fam'd poetic pow'rs.
Nor was her shining Conduct clearly shown
By courtly Bards' lov'd Compliments alone;
Rais'd high'r, in aftertimes, by various ranks,
For queenly palace, and for curious pranks.
Her favours, much, his warm affections won,
And Friendship fix'd what Benefit begun.
In Pity's train she chose to stand the Chief—
Lent strong attention—offer'd large relief—
And, to the eye of Hope, and simple Sense,
Those offer'd favours promis'd permanence.
In proof of gratitude new praise he penn'd,
To thank each noble, generous, virtuous, Friend—
Thank'd other Women—but he thought her more
Worthy of worship—dar'd, almost, adore!
Ah! 'twas not perfect heart, but pregnant head!
'Twas hungry Pride, still hoping to be fed!
'Twas Ostentation gaping for a bit
Of clownish Wonder, or of country Wit—
'Twas Affectation starv'd for flattering strain;
'Twas Vanity—the vainest of the Vain!
Alas! 'twas Cunning, weaving specious wiles,
With smooth expressions, and well-polish'd smiles—
False proofs of fondness and a forg'd pretence;
While hollow promise pledg'd rewards immense;
To furnish Manhood with most plenteous meed,
And raise old Age beyond the reach of Need!
He ne'er had learnt the hypocritic skill
To make Self-love resemble pure Good-will;
Or practis'd Arts that prove habitual guides,
To point out subtle plots in All, besides—
To flatter—lie—or fawn—he never knew,
Or spy out circled spells Deception drew.
To trace the threads feign'd Sympathy had spun,
That thro' Dissimulation's labyrinths run—
Which form'd the wiley web feign'd Friendship wrought
With golden tissue, wrapt round every thought—
Hid nets which Inexperience oft entrap,
When laid at ease, in Hope's alluring lap;
Throughout the heart, knit with each nerve and vein,
To thrill with pleasure, or to throb with pain—
Entangling Reason in Love's silken snare,
And captivating Will, ere well aware—
Barb'd hooks well-baited with fictitious wealth,
To trail the eye, and take the Heart by stealth!
Soft laudanum that lulls each bent sublime,
Neglecting talents, and forgetting time!
Fond, soothing lures that fascinate the Soul,
Its force contract, its faculties controul,
Till independent Spirit feels its loss,
And oft complains, while Patience bears the cross—
Whilst Liberty laments with ceaseless moan,
O'er Peace expir'd—o'er Faith, with Comfort, flown!
The silly Bird, that ne'er such miseries met,
Listens the Pipe, nor e'er suspects the Net—
The foolish Fish, seduced with longing look,
Beholds the bait, but not the barbed hook—
The flirting Fly, devoid of art, and dread,
Ne'er notes the subtle Spider's network spread;
Pursues her sports, and pleasures, till, too late;
Then feels her folly—mourns her captive state!
So simple Crispin never spied the plot,
Which Falshood laid to form his future lot—
No net beheld, nor faithless treachery fear'd,
Till Liberty, trepann'd, no more appear'd!
The hidden hook, and baited barb, ne'er saw,
Till fretting wounds were felt in Freedom's jaw;
Nor once the hypocritic snare descried,
Which Cunning schem'd, and Flattery twin'd, and tied;
Till Persecution couch'd his clouded sight,
And made vain Visions fly 'mid floods of Light!
That Light, devoid of warmth, which Winter shows,
While Hopes and Comforts fade, 'mid frosts and snows—
When each dear dream—each airy phantasm, flew
Which Fancy form'd, with vain impassion'd view;
While Cruelty's keen blade cut every noose,
And let kind Friendship, and Affection, loose!
Yet, still, in bondage long was Crispin kept,
While Offspring suffer'd, and poor Daphne wept!
Which cramp and puzzling paradox to clear
Shall, in the pending narrative, appear.
'Twas wond'rous, then, a Bardling should be found
To twang the Lyre on ought but classic ground—
Who dar'd presume to print poetic page,,
In such a letter'd, such enlighten'd, Age;
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Except some critical, some courtly, Cook,
Form'd bill of fare, or dish'd the dainty Book.
Some read with rapture, and some drawl'd with doubt,
'Twas long since Duck had thresh'd his harvest out—
And, since his day, no Rustic had been seen,
Who sung so deftly on the daisied green!
'Twas then suppos'd no Clown could thrum a verse,
So soft—smooth—simple—solid—strong and terse;
Fit for sheer Fools in male or female shape—
Much less learn'd Critic's keen remarks to scape.
None could bind couplets—stanzas twist, and bend,
Figures, and tropes, at tongue's and finger's end,
But those that folios, learn'd, would, frequent, thumb,
Whose titles strike rude, English, readers dumb.
None without Latin stilts could stalk sublime,
In bold blank Verse—or more elaborate Rhyme.
None chaunt choice strains but Horace' Art must prune,
Confined, by modern scale, to time, and tune;
Or clearly comprehend Rhyme's perfect scope
By keen Roscommon, or mellifluous Pope—
None gain Parnassus' heights, with Poet's gait,
But Virgil construe, and could well translate;
Or Pegasus, with whip and rowels, ride,
Except old Homer's Epics pois'd each side—
Ne'er sit secure, and prance in rapid Ode,
Till often train'd in rough Pindaric road;
Nor Bacchanalian Song, or Sonnet, boast,
Unless Anacreon learn to sing, and toast—
In amorous Lays ne'er Love's clear language claim,
Till fired with Sappho's fond consuming flame;
Nor in her slippery sandals learn to dance,
Till taught her stagg'ring step, and glowing glance.
Now every laughing, longing, leering, Nymph,
Whose Frames are full of fire; their Souls of lymph—
Each Miss, in tonish School completely taught,
With tuneful phrase to spell each private thought—
Each snivelling Youth, not quite an arrant Fool,
Just fled from College, or just flogg'd from School—
For taste, or feeling, fram'd by Heav'n, unfit—
Nor once condemn'd, on wicked charge, for wit—
The dullest smatterer in his Accidence;
Void of all Science—half-supplied with Sense—
Yea, sighing Swain, and sheepish Shepherdess,
Can deck their drivellings in a shyming dress;
And while their ideot-bells in cadence chime,
Fools judge the jingle Poesy sublime!
Spruce Maids in puling Elegy complain—
Clowns mimic comic cant, or tragic strain—
Or on low hobbies take Olympian flight,
And, prompt, in measur'd prose, heroics write—
Some, in Acrostics, meekly condescend,
To court a Flame, or compliment a Friend—
Some, far remov'd from thoughtless human Throngs,
Like Owlets chaunt their childish, simple, Songs—
Some in sad gurglings, like dear Turtle-Dove,
In scrannel numbers thrum hoarse lays of Love—
Some with a more eccentric, wandering, wing,
In silly, soft, or pert, epistle, sing;
Like Swallows, when they've skimm'd their devious flight,
Well-fill'd with flies, achieve some chimney's height;
There, in thick smoke, perch, twittering, on the top,
To speak their passion, and to clear their crop—
While some still stretch their hardy pinions high'r,
Climb Helicon! and court Apollo's Choir—
Yea, fancy with their full career to fly;
On proud Icharian plumes to scale the Sky—
But, like the Lark, they quickly reach the clouds,
Where, 'mid thick mists, each, tuneless tweedling shrowds;
Or, like that Hero's, every feather's found,
With its frail glory, scatter'd o'er the ground!
But who can wonder such attempts are tried—
Poor Swains, and Damsels, thus indulge their pride,
When proud Professors of cold Critic-Bands,
Who long have judg'd the judgment of these Lands,
Have pledg'd opinion, whether right or wrong,
On all bold products, both of Prose, and Song;
(Whether their length, or merit's more or less)
That issue, hourly, from the procreant Press;
Place some, immortal! on Apollo's shelves,
To honour their Favourites, or to help themselves;
And some with simple ipse dixit, doom
To fiery tryal, or to filthy tomb!
These have decreed—what Poet dares dispute!
Homers—Popes—Miltons mourn, for ever mute!
That Poesy's no more than trick and trade
Its first Proficients not born Bards but made.
That common Minds may this high Art attain,
Whate'er the structure of the breast, or brain—
An Hog—An Ass—A Mule—a Bear—an Ape—
That Heav'n has honour'd with a human shape;
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Man—Magpie—Parrot—Starling—Daw—or Jay—
Let intellectual pow'rs be what they may,
Can, by a proper discipline in Schools,
With numerous readings and with measuring rules,
By plodding, daily, proper space of Time,
By counting numbers, and by coupling rhyme,
All pure poetics cleverly acquire,
Without one spark infus'd of heavenly fire!
'Twould ill become poor Crispin's blameless Friend,
With such vast Hosts of Veterans to contend;
Who help'd Him forward once by kind decree
And, now, may, peradventure, favour Me;
If I their Pride, or Passions, ne'er provoke,
With spiteful puncture, or ungenerous joke;
A cruel practice they indulge, themselves,
On Sons of Prose, or poor poetic Elves!
But I ne'er deprecate dull, feeble, Foes,
Whose shafts are feathers—breezes all their blows—
But those with Knowledge, pure, and Wit possest,
With Genius furnish'd, and by Wisdom blest—
With kindred feeling, and with Candour's flow,
Such as false, frozen, Critics never know.
For tho' Vain-glory those tribunals dreads,
They trouble not true Christian's hearts, nor heads;
But while the World's self-seeking Coward quakes,
They meekly call false maxims foul mistakes.
Knowledge, and Learning, may supply, in part,
Their needful helps in true poetic Art—
Like crutches, may assist mechanic skill
To hobble round the base of Ida's hill;
But by their artful aids can ne'er attain;
To climb one pace above the bordering plain—
May, like strong stirrups, in their poney race,
Help them to mount, or, mounted, keep their place,
But ne'er make Pegasus a paltry Hack,
Or seat them safely on his bounding back.
Tho' Locke, with sharpest intellectual sight,
Could bring close workings of the Soul to light;
Yet all those abstract pow'rs could never climb
The summit of blind Homer's true sublime!
Tho' Newton's mental wit could mete, and weigh,
The size, and substance of our Orb of Day;
And, riding on his swift sidereal Car,
Whirl round with each planetary star;
Or, flying with fleet Comets' full career,
In other systems mete each circling sphere;
Yet, tho' that Car such wide circumference runs
With Moons and Comets, round their Earths, or Suns,
His kindling Spirit never could acquire,
The fervid flame of Milton's epic fire—
How then should Learning's Louts, and Coxcombs, rise,
To catch one spark, Promethean, from the skies?
Blockheads may boast dry Science, or dull Arts,
But these confer not Feeling—Wit—or Parts—
Ev'n Common Sense may with pure Knowledge plod,
But Genius is the special Gift of God!
Man's Mind inform'd by facts from holy Writ,
Finds God, alone, can give inventive Wit—
Not only works on human Heart, and Will,
But still bestows all mere mechanic Skill.
When, in the Desart, Deity appear'd,
And order'd Hebrew tabernacle rear'd,
He pointed out the Artists then requir'd.
Which He, Himself, with needful pow'rs inspir'd.
Such strange phenomena are seldom known,
Among the votaries that invest a Throne;
Who, round the sovereign Idol form the rings,
To show, like shining Moths, their wavering wings;
In hopes, that Idol, by prompt smile, or speech,
Some image-worship will return to each;
While every idol Sister, idol Brother—
With sham adorings worship one another—
Like Sybils, uttering some unmeaning sound,
For Truth too high—for Feeling too profound;
Or, Parrots, telling lies, by Custom taught,
At full expence of Truth, but none of thought.
When, on dull Wild, such prodigy appears,
Like Comets once within long Course of Years—
Strange! to behold such versifying Clown,
Remote from every City, Court, and Town!
A rude, unletter'd, and unburnish'd, Boor,
With Court-Distinctions at his Cottage door!
To see a Peer's precursor, with dispatch,
Ride, ambling, up, and lugg his leathern latch!
Note learned Lords, in coronetted Coach,
His humble Hut, with complaisance, approach!
His lowly lays, and virtuous views commend,
And each profess to prove a constant Friend—
While numbers more, of different Rank, and Name,
Some, led by Fancy; some allur'd by Fame—
Some, smit by sympathetic Pity; some,
By bruit of Daphne's beauty, curious, come—
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Some thro' mere wanton whim—some chance—some choice—
Some to give guineas—some their sage advice;
For specie is expensive; counsel cheap;
Both Wisemen wish—but neither Blockheads keep!
Crispin perceiv'd the benefit of both;
And, constant, scouted Vanity, and Sloth;
Determin'd, still, by Duty to abide,
And keep in check his passions, and his pride.
Not pert'ly scattering stock with weak expence,
Squandering kind Gifts of God's pure Providence!
But fence them round from Folly's rueful sway,
For Self, and Family, each future day.
His short experience of such shining stuff,
Made Ignorance fancy he had found enough—
And, while he estimated thus the store,
Thought no contingency could call for more;
Or deem'd God's Goodness, still, would store afford;
Enough to shut out Need, if none to hoard.
Thus, weighing transient Wealth, with rapturous joy,
Imagin'd Want, and Woe, were both gone by—
Dreamt anxious cares, and toils, and troubles, past—
That human Patronage would always last—
That human wonder never would subside,
But Passion prove as permanent as Pride!
He thought not, then, of Nature's changeless Laws,
Whence no Effect is found without a Cause.
Where no new impulse wakes up new desires
Time soon extinguishes frail Passion's fires,
That Husbandmen must yearly plow, and sow,
Or no new crop of summer corn can grow—
That sexual mixtures must, at seasons, meet,
Or Nature's stock will ne'er be kept compleat.
All animal, and vegetable, Seeds,
Invariably produce distinctive Breeds;
So, dark endeavours in the human Mind,
Each Passion generates in like proper Kind.
If, thro' strange mixture, mulish Monster drops
A curse ensues, and propagation stops.
Foul progeny, deform'd from Hatred springs,
But Love a heavenly Race of beauty brings;
While Spite, with waspish stings, would fain destroy
The Offering, fair, of Peace, and Love, and Joy.
Virtue from Virtue grows—grim Vice from Vice—
No Mortal sins, and Sleeps in Paradise!
As each subsides its opposite ascends,
To neither Party t'other gives or lends.
No Man two Masters' mandates can obey
Whose aims and interests draw a different way.
Can Faith and Unbelief, alike, impart
Sweet mutual sympathies to Head and Heart?
Can Belial's worship, by his idol Band,
With God's agree, and in Christ's temple stand?
Or can a grovelling Soul, that thirsts for gold,
E'er shine in Heav'n's blest registers enroll'd?
On Flattery's base, if Reputation's built
Then Grace must fall a sacrifice to Guilt,
When Falshood makes, and Cunning mills, the Coin,
The Heart must Honesty, and Truth, resign.
If Credit springs from impious, wanton, Wit,
The Mind must Modesty and Wisdom quit;
Or, if the Hypocrite will purchase Fame,
Both Christ and Conscience must such Soul disclaim;
For principles, like these, can ne'er unite,
Till antemundane Darkness weds with Light.
Crispin, as any simple Soul might do,
Suppos'd that all was pure—and right—and true—
Felt his own Heart, with grateful fervours, glow,
To Pow'rs above, and Instruments below;
Nor judg'd Deception, garb'd in deep disguise,
Could personate, so well, the good, and wise;
Or Pride and Vanity, like Virtues mask'd,
Would give Want more than Prudence hop'd or ask'd;
But look'd both ways, thro' means, to Cause and End,
Gave God the glory—thanks to every Friend!
His Friends of fortune, and of inward weight,
Whose Minds might guard a Church, or guide a State,
Propos'd a plan, that, this uncommon Clown,
Should porter new impression thro' the Town,
To every dwelling which would deign a Name,
To help his low finance, and limping fame;
And, striking single stroke at every door,
Present the wonderous Book, and wand'ring Boor!
As tutor'd Bears are led from place, to place,
Displaying biped gait, and burlesque grace;
Their action clumsey, and their shape uncouth,
While grunting bagpipe greets the gaping youth;
And, with most solemn phiz, and upright air,
Make witlings titter, whilst the ignorant stare—
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As dancing Dogs make Oafs and Children, swarm;
Dress—mien—demeanour—all in human form—
As Monkeys, rear'd erect, on paws, or breech,
Well mimic Man in all but laugh, and speech—
Or as, from street to street, queer Camel's shown,
From other beasts, by pipe and tabor, known;
Tho' seldom eye perceives a bungling brute
Whose make, and motion, less with music suit;
So was he sent the twofold City through,
For Cits, like Swains, are pleas'd with something new,
That each Subscriber's eyes might freely range,
O'er Clown, so clever! Spectacle, so strange!
But no Bear's Cub was He, lick'd just in shape—
No gawkey Camel—Dancing Dog—or Ape—
No Brute that might disgrace the Bard's high Art,
Or Monster, heteroclite, to mock his part:
No Pope, whose short, crook'd, shape, no Wit would chuse
To wooe fair Mistress, or to win fond Muse—
No lumbering Johnson, of gigantic size,
Like Learning, Wit, and Genius, in disguise;
So slatternly—distorted—graceless—loud,
To startle strangers, or convulse the crowd.
No dapper Hawkesworth, upright, spruce, and clean,
With pleasure heard, but scarce compos'dly seen,
While starting doubts, by sword so long and trim,
Whether 'twas He wore It, or It wore Him:
No fleshy Shenstone, ponderous full, and fat—
Or Lyttelton, the lean reverse of that—
Nor Irish Titan combating the sky;
Yet rising something more than six feet high:
Not quite the cottage Loon, or squalid Lout,
Nor Courtier, for St. James's just rigg'd out.
Not bent with plodding Ploughman's boorish Air,
Nor Bath's prim Sovereign, brisk and debonnaire.
Nor with sly, scowling look of leering Thief,
Nor brazen front of Drury's buskin'd Chief.
Nor with a face, or frame, the Fair to fright,
Nor spoil their peace, at first, or second, sight.
No Beau, bedizen'd in fantastic dress,
Nor Sloven, gross, confirming Fancy's guess.
To fix ideas, fit for Gossip's chat,
He ne'er to Reynold's—West—or Beechey—sat;
Yet was he hitch'd in monthly Magazine,
Like playful Hogarth's Tyburn-Prentice, seen:
Not nail'd in figur'd frame, well-gilt with gold,
But, press'd with prose and verse, for Sixpence, sold—
And, since—oh! strange to tell! in windows placed,
With Kings, and Warriors—Cats and Dogs, disgraced,
In front of writing-books, for School-boys bought,
With stitching, paste, and paper—for a groat!
The common butt of sportive Imps' abuse;
At length thrown by for any beastly use!
Yet, on a witless Poets' punctual word,
That awkward sketch could little light afford,
For not one shapely lineament was shown,
By which the antetype could e'er be known.
Besides each reader, there, a libel read,
Cobbler was foisted in Cordwainer's stead;
With drunkard's designation on his stall,
Which never mark'd his character at all.
This pert misnomer could have caus'd no pain
Had such sore blunder been impos'd in Spain;
Where Cobblers find more creditable fate,
Than Makers, who the cobbling Mart create—
Perhaps, malfounded, on that strange mistake,
That others mend whate'er first Authors make.
Such sad mistakes each fatal Month are found,
When puppies pace their literary round,
And, impudently proud, with envious slur,
'Gainst Learning, Knowledge—Genius—Nature—err.
Dull Critic tribes, who, by mere dint of toil,
With bungling patchwork Poets' labour spoil;
And, while vain views their puny minds pervade,
Still practice, botching on, their stupid trade;
Devoid of judgment, and unblest with taste,
Oft laying noblest works of Nature waste!
Thus, with a proud impertinence of thought,
Re-edify what heavenly Genius wrought;
Or, acting barbarous Goths, and Vandals,' part,
Reduce to rubbish richest works of Art!
That Fame, or Honour, he could ne'er endure,
Which Flatterers e'er confer, or Pimps procure;
His Spirit all such empty praise abhorr'd,
From Coxcombs, Clowns, or Knaves, tho' nam'd my Lord!
And felt for them, not for himself, the shame,
When Envy—Fraud—or Folly, brought forth blame.
Blind errors never stirr'd his temperate blood,
When Blockheads blunder'd while their guess was good—
And here, tho' thus pourtrayed in form and face
What Billingsgates might spurn, and Bawds misplace,
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So queer—old—squalid—corpulent, and squat,
Like Dutchman in decay, or Beggar's brat;
All this, with proper temper, might be borne,
And why? 'twas meant in kindness, not in scorn:
For, tho' some small self-interest show'd its aim,
It help'd to form, and fix, the Bardling's fame;
And while it gave applause and sav'd expence,
No candid Mind could feel a just offence.
Tho' near his side the Porter-pot was seen,
It ne'er provok'd his pride, nor rouz'd his spleen;
'Twas neither meant in wickedness nor whim,
And fitted numerous others, tho' not him.
Such graceless Attributes could ne'er degrade,
A mere Professor of true cobbling trade;
Yet all the mean assemblage seem'd unmeet
For one who worshipp'd at the Muses' feet;
Squat-figure—features—habit—far beneath
Apollo's Votary, and proud Poet's wreath:
In fine to gratify each curious Mind,
While busy thought might feel full range behind—
Afford Imagination fav'rite clue,
Yet leave fond Fancy still enough to do—
To stint enquiry—stop the plastic pen;
He look'd—spoke—acted—much like other Men!
Poets, like Ladies—oft severe the cost!
Ne'er let Fame lie o'er-laid—or Flattery lost;
But fondly feel, whatever the design,
That compliment conciliates more than coin.
A friendly, candid, literary, Lord,
Strange! when such epithets with Rank accord!
If Courtier e'er can tell the simple truth,
Beyond the age of Infancy—or Youth—
More when Court Lord can make trite adjuncts true,
Himself a Poet, and a Neighbour too!
Still, tho' the Poet's praise is ne'er o'er nice,
Coaxing each other is no common Vice—
For, tho' from tongue, and pen, tropes—figures—fly,
They, dignifiedly, scorn a downright Lie—
And, while they deal in satire, jeer, and joke,
They fib not half so oft as duller folk;
But hold their honesty, and honour, dear,
Their Looks all open, and their Souls sincere!
'Tis true some small allowance must be made
Betwixt the Courtier's, and the Cobbler's, trade;
But Common-Sense perceives, with obvious view,
No Rivalry could reign betwixt the Two.
He was both Baron Lord, and Bard, sublime!
Crispin, a Clown; a rustic Son of Rhyme!
Yet, still, to prove himself poor Crispin's Friend,
Without one sidelong look tow'rd selfish end,
Pronounc'd, in simile, the simple Swain
Appear'd like Lily's bloom on barren plain;
Whose face, and form, and mien, and manners, known,
Might shame some vulgar danglers round a Throne!
To fix his lineaments, and look, at once
One of known taste—ne'er deem'd a Knave, or Dunce,
To mark the Man, distinct from village Loons,
Styl'd him St. John, in Raphael's fam'd Cartoons.
But Crispin long had lowering truths retaind,
From Revelation gather'd, and from Reason gain'd;
That, Frame, or Mind, offensive, or admir'd,
No form, or faculty, by skill's acquir'd;
But—whether ugly—handsome—short—or tall—
God's Goodness—Will—and Wisdom, fashion'd, all—
And, whether mental Pow'rs were weak, or strong,
Still grateful thanks, and praise, to Him, belong—
While Man's whole Worth depends on proper use,
And all his Blame on Pow'rs' perverse abuse!
To prove the Bardling neither block, nor beast,
He oft was summon'd to the social feast—
By flattering notice honour'd, now, to sit
With Knowledge—Learning—Titles—Taste—and Wit—
Where the great Little, and the little Great,
Would frequent kindly question what he'd eat;
While dainty Dame, or Wit, with barren fob,
Would urge, familiarly, to hob and nob.
A condescending Peer would, sometimes, ask
How he perform'd his literary task?
And, with a cunning hit, would coolly hint
What risks poor Poets ran who dar'd to print.
Some brother Bards would scowl askance the while,
And mark, and mutter—nod, or, sneer, or smile—
Fashion would frown, turn heads with haughty toss—
Crampt Emulation look—a little cross—
Courtier, contemptuous, note a Clown so near,
With scornful features, and unfriendly leer;
While squeamish Arrogance, and captious Pride,
With grievous grudging, saw him at their side.
What direful conflicts did poor Crispin feel,
74

With such associates mixt, each mimic meal!
In pensive lounge—peregination long—
From piquant temper, and from prating tongue!
Penurious Riches, and Politeness rude!
Coquette and Coxcomb—Profligate and Prude!
A gazing gauntlet's feverish race to run
Thro' flattery—falshood—insolence—and fun!
Proud persecution, of continued length,
Too much for patience, fortitude, and strength!
Requiring breast of steel, and front of brass,
To make plebeian pow'rs, uninjur'd, pass.
Journeys of labour, jeopardy, and pain—
Made his heart sigh for guiltless scenes again—
For social Friendship, and for simple Fare,
With customary toil, and quiet care—
But sad necessity condemn'd to stay
With whipping skinn'd in many a friendly fray:
Ordeals, dread! by Water, and by Fire,
That more of Art, than Innocence, require.
Hot ploughshares—whirlpools—promontory steep!
The blindfold burning—plunge—or launching leap!
Feign'd smile, intense! or frown, of cutting cold!
As Shame was backward, or Presumption bold—
While Modesty, with Resolution, slack,
By Impudence was always elbow'd back;
And, frequent, brazen Vice, with blushless face,
To Virtue dar'd impute her vile disgrace!
He hop'd such trials never more to meet,
Such agueish coldness, and such scorching heat!
His Body ne'er at rest, or Heart at ease,
Thro' Quacks, unskilful, and false recipes,
Relaxing potions, or astringent pills,
By counteraction aggravating ills.
He found 'twas better to remain obscure
Than risk fresh wounds for such uncertain cure—
When finding pleasure far o'erweigh'd with pain,
He groan'd to tread his native heights again!
His feelings found more beatific bliss
From Offspring's prattle, and sweet Consort's kiss;
Whose Love lull'd weariness when light was fled,
On peaceful pallet, tho' in shabby shed—
With them to share the shreds that blest his board,
Such cates as Clowns affect, and Cotts afford;
More than in Ostentation's high abodes,
Where Flattery still misleads, while Fortune loads!
Amid mad scenes of Luxury, and Lust,
Folly—Confusion—Treachery—and Distrust!
Where Cunning and Contrivance pimp, and peep,
And vain tumultuous visions torture sleep—
Where mimic rapture murders true delight,
And curious cookery poisons appetite—
Where Fashion makes Content, and Comfort, fly,
And Affectation strangles genuine Joy!
Before the fond experiment was tried,
He dreamt all bliss with Pomp and Pow'r allied.
Conceiv'd pure pleasure! happiness divine!
Where Wealth and Wit must make each Virtue shine—
Where Ladies look'd so soft—so great—so good—
None, sure, could share the faults of flesh and blood!
None suffer sinful Pride's or Passion's fire,
To light up Lust, or prompt impure Desire!
All temperate—placid—prudent—chaste—and wise!
All Angels—just commission'd from the skies!
With matchless Beauty—Wit—and mental Worth;
Still trafficking for Love with Heav'n and Earth!
Not like the beastly, Luciferian, breed,
Unjust—untrue—in thought, and word, and deed;
But pious—pure—benevolent, and learn'd;
All Falshood—folly—spite, and envy, spurn'd.
And, judging much the same of Gentlemen,
Suppos'd he ne'er had peep'd in Heav'n till then!
Thought each fine House was fill'd with heavenly scenes—
All their pure Tenants petty Kings and Queens!
Judg'd formal fopperies traits of genuine Taste—
Rank luxuries proof of Wealth exempt from Waste—
That looks, and laughs, and words, were all sincere,
And happiness, unmixd, most perfect there!
But soon right reasonings, with Reflection, found
'Twas not God's garden, but enchanted ground;
And, more mature Experience, amply, prov'd,
The mix'd machinery some sly Demon mov'd;
Some secret influence urg'd each sep'rate Part—
While Pride and Appetite sway'd Head and Heart—
One universal Scene of deep disguise,
To fascinate frail Minds thro' Ears, and Eyes;
And, with like false, fantastic, proud, pretence,
Delude weak Souls thro' every other Sense!
Where Necromancers work'd in fairest forms,
To spread mock moonlight, raise up transient storms—
Show brilliant landscape, or electric spark—
Resplendent idol, or dire spectre, dark—
While Self-applause and Flattery, smil'd, serene,
75

Or turbid Passions blacken'd all the Scene!
'Twas all sheer Vanity, prompt Lust, and Pride—
All but a base, deceptive, bright outside!
Shells—husks—and bubbles! golden visions, gay!
Which vanish when Heav'n shoots Religion's ray—
Like clouds, with rainbows deckt, while Summer reigns,
Which add but splendour frail to flowery plains,
For soon the meteors melt—fair colours fly—
Soon all the freshest flow'rets droop, and die!
Alas! all pleasure, and all pow'r, below,
Are but the transient show'r, and brilliant bow!
And mortal favours—mortal friendships—all;
But beauteous flow'rs that fade, and leaves that fall!
Mere Summer fruits, that perish on the spot,
With cost and care, collected, quickly rot—
So, soon Disease, or Age, the Rich condemn,
And thus their Owners' Bodies die, like them!
Among the Births, and Deaths, of every day,
Fresh honours flourish, or dull hopes decay!
What novel forms obstetric Time brings forth,
Of pension'd Wickedness, and pining Worth!
In each Nycthemeron's rolling Zodiac's found
Twelve Signs, symbolic, still revolving round.
Tho' no impartial Balance Earth can boast,
Celestial Libra weighs the heavenly host—
The stellar Twins show Friendship shines above,
And one pure Virgin reigns in realms of Love;
To hint that each are, here, disgrac'd—disown'd,
And, only, now, among Immortals thron'd,
But lust, and lies, and every foul offence,
From fall'n originals, are copied hence—
All thrust, by Art, in that ethereal sphere,
Strong types of impious Man's mad conduct here!
Fish—fluctuating Streams—Beasts—Monsters—shine,
Monopolizing all the other Nine:
Love—Justice—Friendship—are confin'd, alone,
Within the swathing ring of girdling Zone;
But Serpents—Hydras—fabled pagan groups,
Nonsense, and Nullity, compleat the troops!
If sage Experience thus depicts the Skies,
As portraits of the pests that, here arise—
As emblematic traits of earthly Life,
'Mid scenes of Pride and Passion—Lust and Strife—
Apportion'd, chief, to Riches, Pomp, and Pow'r,
Which waste, in emptiness, each active hour—
Where Learning puffs, and paints, the monstrous Race,
To gloss defects, and dignify disgrace;
While skilful Wit, so carefully, conceals
Their grosser Vices, mask'd in mystic veils—
What will not Wisdom's brighter eye behold,
Among the many Corps of courtly mould—
What right Morality, and Reason, see,
Among the millions that support their plea—
Or pure, and spiritual Religion find,
Which boldly dares anatomize Mankind!
In Fortune's gambling Lotteries always rise
Ten thousand blanks for one transporting prize—
The lesser lots drawn out so very small,
Man's peevish Spirit deems no prize at all!
Mad, clumsey Mortals, by their bungling aim,
Disturb the blindfold Goddess in her Game.
Life's common tickets, hardly, here, obtain
Contentment's pence, procur'd by pounds of pain!
Ev'n Wealth which grasps fair Fortune's golden fleece,
Can purchase neither Happiness, nor Peace;
Nor can its Honours, or its Pow'r procure
Friendship, or Love; or Life, or Health, insure!
What fond perturbings tender breasts appall
As Time turns round Earth's huge, terraqueous Ball!
What instant revolutions rise, unfurl'd,
Within the boundaries of this blighted World!
What unforseen events proclaim His pow'r
In every teeming, many-coloured Hour!
What countless chances—what continual change,
Within the meanest Mortal's narrow range!
Prospects and plans develop'd every Day,
Ere Night's arrival drop his destined prey!
How numerous Fancy's—Fate's—and Fortune's, freaks,
Spring up and perish thro' revolving Weeks!
What strange events emerge each teeming Month
While Providence's wheel perpetual runn'th!
What stranger metamorphoses appear,
In the wide orbit of one circling year!
Then what mishaps must trembling breasts deplore,
What woes accumulating every Score!
As Philomel, thro' sylvan shades, is sought;
Pursued for profit, or for pleasure caught—
Art tries her limetwigs—Cunning lends her Lure—
The silky net's prepar'd to keep secure—
Not to yield richer health, or rapture, high'r,
Than native glens might give, or spouse inspire;
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But in gilt cage, for ostentation shown,
That Pride might call the Chorister its own—
But, when deep Cunning's clos'd the entrance door,
Love's fondling Melodies are heard no more!
For when that Art's put out poor Minstrel's eyes,
And check's due range, delight, with Freedom, flies!
His close-clipp'd plumes, and sad, extinguish'd, sight,
Preclude his prospects, and forbid his flight;
While fluttering round and round, he feels his wrongs,
Mopes—grieves—frets—sorrows—and frogets his Songs!
What eye can pierce the Spirit's hidden bent,
Or see, thro' traiterous hints the Heart's intent,
When hypocritic Fashion's thickening fumes,
Involve that Spirit in impervious glooms,
Confounding Reason, by deceiving Sense,
With vile Dissimulation's vapours, dense;
Till stripping Time rends off the sable shrowd,
And bright-eyed Truth dispels the skreening cloud:
When Opportunity's true pointing, tells
What private motive every act impels.
When Spring o'er Orchard fair, or Garden-ground,
Spreads witching smiles, and whispering odours, round;
While all the bosom beats elate, and gay,
Rapt vision shoots its indistinct survey;
With nice discrimination, then, no Novice sees
True signatures of shrubs, and plants, and trees:
But when such temporary transport's o'er,
And high-wrought raptures now enchant no more;
While scientific Wisdom seeks to find
Class—order—genera—of each separate kind;
All soon display'd when fuller foliage spreads,
And open blooms baptize their petal'd heads,
Then all, within, perspicuously declare,
What all their families, and friendships, are—
But Summer's hotter sunshine brings to birth,
The clear criterion of each fruit-tree's worth—
When, consonant with Nature, all produce,
The sour, or saccharine; pure, or poisonous, juice,
Tho' leaves and flow'rs may note specific name,
'Tis only full-ripe fruit-tree's price proclaim.
Thus genial Vanity's full-rays, unfold,
O'er Ostentation's growths gay flow'rs of gold,
Which waft fond Flattery's loved effluvium round,
To draw from others richer in rebound;
But all, soon sullied, which, at first seem'd fair
Mock modest Cultivator's toil and care.
And, when they ripen their autumnal fruit,
They none but Sots' and Children's palate suit.
On such luxuriant shrubs no fruitage grows
But Bitter sweets—harsh Crabs—or acid Sloes—
Still more offensive trick each simple trust,
Like Sodom-apples, fraught with ashy dust—
Or rear'd on rubbish heaps, and barren soil,
Like deadly Nightshade, cheat, with cherry smile;
Which, ate with eagerness, distress the breath,
And shortly end in misery—madness—death!
But let not prompt Anticipation paint
The curse of Servitude, with rude restraint;
Or, here, illustrate, with poetic plea,
Momentous truths in shadowy Simile—
Nor, like a cold Narrator, hitch, in rhyme,
A weak anachronism, forestalling Time;
Or dull Historian, whose prosaic phlegm
Incurs that guilt grave Critics must condemn.
Some prudent Friends, with comprehensive view
Extended plans, for lasting profit, drew—
In well-pois'd scales plac'd arguments of weight
And tried to turn each way his wavering fate.
Some urg'd the Town, and literary Trade—
Some agricultural Arts, and sylvan shade—
Where Crispin, fully free from anxious care,
With Office might the Muses' Friendship share;
And Daphne's duteous Mind, from labour free,
Might nurse and nurture tender Progeny—
A multitude of votes the City yields,
Amidst few voices for the Woods and Fields;
Yet, lo! the rough, rude, rustic tods go down,
Against the golden, polish'd tons in Town!
The Bard, far banish'd, now, from native Plain,
With faithful Daphne, and her infant Train,
In heedless haste from Friends, and Freedom, drawn,
To prospect unexplor'd—without a pawn—
Lax Honour, undefin'd, the only tie
On which his hopes, and comforts, could rely—
From fond Acquaintance, and Connections, flown,
To people, lands, and languages near unknown!
Amidst ill-cultured, rude, extensive, Scenes,
Where scarce a fertile acre intervenes,
He pitch'd his tent—the wilderness explor'd—
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Where Superannuation long had snor'd,
And base Inebriation daily doz'd,
With nought but wiles, and wicked waste, inclos'd!
Where headstrong Tyranny, dispensing fate,
With Ignorance long had kept his petty State;
While slovenly Indifference dull'd the Swains,
Diffusing opiates o'er the poppied plains.
Cold Inattention Idleness had nurs'd,
Till woods, meads, fields, forlorn, wild chaos curs'd;
The Teams were weak—and old—and lean—and small—
Unable to comply with Ploughman's call.
The scanty Kine were ag'd, and thin, and dry—
Not form'd to fill the purse, or please the eye!
The fellow-Flocks could charm no skilful choice,
And scarcely ever heard the Shepherd's voice—
Theft—riot—lust—call'd forth his time and care,
While Swine and Cattle claim'd what these could spare,
All badly hous'd, and folded, nurs'd, and fed—
Basely neglected, both in board, and bed—
In Winter, starv'd—in Summer wandering, wild,
The infant hay, and embryo harvest, spoil'd!
To rectify each folly, cure each fault,
And reach fair thrift, he urg'd each pow'r of thought—
Impress'd each passion of his labouring breast—
Lent all his leisure—shorten'd needful rest—
Nor took one portion of his precious time
To spend in reading, or to sport in rhyme.
The task was arduous; trust and risque were large,
'Twas Judgment's—Duty's—Honour's—Friendship's—charge!
Supplies of every want embark'd for life,
For Self—for Offspring—and for much-lov'd Wife!
One vast alternative involv'd the Case,
His failure must inflict a deep disgrace,
While fair Success might furnish clothes and food,
For Crispin—Daphne—and their feeble Brood.
To keep marauders from forbidden grounds,
He form'd new fence by raising mightier mounds;
Huge parapets to stop each prowling foe,
With trenches, deep, to drain the bogs below;
And, to remove each danger, and each dread,
Rear'd thorny ramparts on each boundaries' head—
For what avails, tho' meads, and fields, unfold
Their grassy treasure, or autumnal gold,
If every forager, from fold, or stall,
Can ramble uncontroul'd and ruin all!
From upland pastures, steril, dead, and dry;
That mock'd kind influence, both of Earth and Sky;
Which nought but rough, and acid, herbage bore,
The matted mass of starving couch-grass tore;
O'er fallow'd surface spread, while Summer shone,
Till all its vegetative strength was gone;
Then, gather'd round, in heaps fierce fires reduce
The former mischief to prolific use.
Fed, by the saline ashes, first was seen,
O'er the glad space fair Turnips' vivid green;
Which, to fond Herds and Flocks, thro' Winter, yield
Rich, fat'ning food, and meliorate the Field.
Next, when prepar'd with pulverizing toil,
Full crops of silver Barley bless the Soil,
To furnish Cattle with sustaining food,
And stregth'ning beverage for the human brood.
Then, o'er the plain the clustering Clover spreads,
Bright verdure, deep, and odourous purpling heads;
And while its thickening garments cloth'd the ground,
And opening blooms breath'd fragrance far around,
It makes fair Sheep with fuller fleeces shine—
With larger udders loads the cumber'd Kine;
Or forms full wintry stores of wither'd Wealth,
To feed the Flocks, or keep the Herds in health.
Last rose the scepter'd Wheat's imperial race,
With golden grandeur prosp'ring every place;
Producing home-born bliss, and general joy,
From welcome wages won by pleas'd employ—
From Ploughman's whistle, and prompt Seedman's song—
Colloquial Weeders' chat, with whisperings long—
Assembled Reapers' happy motley rout—
Wild harvest wassail, and shrill-echoing shout—
The rustic dance, loud laugh and concert's roar,
Where Dearth long dwelt, and barreness before!
From Parents he'd imbibed some prudent rules—
Adopted many more from skilful Schools—
Read each Agrarian tract that grac'd the shelf,
And studied—paus'd—and ponder'd, in himself.
In sunshine hours his six days' labour sped,
While countless projects occupied his head;
To plan improvement, or contrive defence—
To heighten profit, or reduce expence—
To mark each wood and field; each mound and mead—
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Fair herds and flocks that batten—milk—or breed—
And reconnoit'ring Teams, and Hinds, the while,
To help their purpose, and appoint their toil.
The drenching rains distinct attentions taught;
New tracks of labour, and new trains of thought;
To guide their streamlets o'er the gutter'd sod,
Turning to use neglected gifts of God;
To irrigate the glebe with small expence,
Thus gathering Manna show'red by Providence.
On Hinds, and Horses, tho' the Sabbath shone,
And all their weekly drudg'ry, then, was done;
Or sacred Festival their toil relax'd,
Still care and toil, Saint's-days, and Sundays, tax'd.
For Vice then pour'd forth low, licentious Pests,
Which range, and riot, while Religion rests;
Disgorg'd from Town, or grovelling Village, near,
Vile mints of mischief! Founts of grief and fear!
Like beasts of plunder, and like birds of prey,
That prowl, and pilfer, both by night and day!
Ere matin hymn had hail'd the holy morn,
He watch'd the Woodlands, and survey'd the Corn;
And, after evening vespers, duly stray'd,
To search, again, each Wood's obnoxious shade;
While shame-fac'd Luna shed unwilling light,
To aid their depredations thro' the night!
Nor were such neighbouring nuisances, alone,
Around those persecuted precincts known,
But, boldly ranging thro' the whole domain,
Like Arab hords on Afric's pillag'd plain,
Vile Gypsey vagabonds beset each place;
Pilfer'd, and spoil'd, and damn'd, with dauntless face;
Who, lawless, long each civil pow'r had spurn'd,
While Nature mourn'd her savage state return'd.
These he expell'd, in spite of threats and taunts,
From all their open camps, and private haunts,
Till, driven, day by day, from post to post,
He extirpated every treacherous host—
No more pert cant was heard, or curse, impure,
But fowls, and flocks, and woods, became secure!
Here all his mental strength, Man's properest pride,
And time, and talents, Duty's posts, employ'd.
He rais'd an Host, well-skill'd in warlike deeds,
To fence the fields, and undermine the meads;
To make more kind communities increase,
And plenty spread, with all the arts of peace.
There gathering groups of plough-impeding Sloes,
And talon'd band of rude, forbidding Rose,
In troops, repulsive, mischievously swarm'd,
And every dry, and healthy, knowle deform'd—
Or quick-encroaching Brambles, rambling round,
Usurp'd large tracts of long-neglected ground;
With rapid runners seizing subject Earth,
Extirpating fair troops of better birth;
Like Goths and Vandals, with wild rabble-rout,
Driving all civiliz'd possessors out.
Where swampy willows push'd unwelcome roots,
And paid but paltry rent with shabby shoots;
Or alders bred aquatic brood
In straggling stems o'er many a marshy rood—
Where hedge-rows, rough, in fritter'd fields appear'd,
Nor prosperous fence, nor grateful fire-wood, rear'd;
But tangling brakes, uncurb'd, at random run,
Devour'd the shaded soil, and damp'd the genial Sun—
Obstructed shining share's, and coulter's, track,
Nor paid utility, or beauty, back;
Their pioneers, who knew their proper trade,
With apt utensils, pickaxe, bill, and spade,
In strong and skilful hands, their pow'r employ,
Those culprit bands to conquer, and destroy.
Or, manual strength, and human toil, to spare,
The strenuous teams, shrubs, stems, and pollards, tear,
And, with one instantaneous effort, strong,
The firmest phalanxes were laid along—
Each garrison, and fort, attack'd, in form,
By ambuscade and battery, sap and storm—
Destroying evil—substituting good—
Till Corn and Clover grew where nuisance stood!
He drain'd the fenny swamp's unfruitful sod,
Where Scythe ne'er swept the swarth, nor Cattle trod—
Completely banish'd, from the splashy plain,
The speary weapons of each hostile train—
The Cat-tail's halbert, high, with sable brush;
The bayonetted Reed, and javelin'd Rush—
The quiver'd Equisetum's arrowy race—
The rough-rob'd Moss, that cloth'd, but clamm'd, its place,
And made, in lieu of Earth's abandon'd breed,
Each sweet gramineous progeny succeed.
From each rebellious, unproductive, lugg,
Of quivering bog, black, spongey peat was dug;
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That useless, and unnotic'd, long had lain,
Tho' oft laid open with dissecting drain—
Now, on each hearth, exhilarating, glow'd,
Whose rich cinereous refuse, widely strew'd
O'er every freshen'd field, or moist morass,
Encourag'd trefoil tribes, or gainful grass;
To make fair sheep, and labouring cattle, smile,
Let from the fold, or loos'd from daily toil.
Made Art, and Industry, with Care, combine,
To sink the fosse, or form the latent mine;
Conducting springs thro' adits, hid, below,
To cut off secret aids, and starve the foe;
Drawing their humid food from oozey bed,
Whose founts combin'd, and o'er the surface led,
Invited emigrants of noblest Race
To occupy proscrib'd Usurpers' place.
To prosecute sharp war, in every shape,
He let no short-liv'd enemy escape;
But drove each weedy camp from upland height;
The yellow Crow-foots—Campions red and white—
Restharrows' stinking stem, and ropey root—
The spreading Mayweed's fulsome, fringey, shoot—
The spiney Thistles' multifarious breeds,
O'er districts winging wide their cursed seeds—
Charlock's and Mustard's multiplying pests,
And pompous Poppies, bright, with scarlet crests—
Chrysanthemums, whose tents large tracts infold,
Deckt with gay uniforms, of green and gold—
Stiff Docks, erect, mere Subalterns in mien,
Whose flag-staffs, long, like ensigns fluttering seen—
White Mulleins, tall, with velvet robes array'd,
Of paler green, but crown'd with gay cockade;
Which proudly look'd like Colonels in command,
Heading large gangs that grieved the fruitless land:
These he assail'd in front, in flank, and rear,
Till scarce a troop, or straggler, dar'd appear;
From covert—citadel—and fastness torn,
Replac'd by ampler colonies of Corn!
Thus our small Hero urged the force of Arms,
While Art and Nature spread forth rival charms.
The woods were watch'd—patrol'd—and bastion'd round,
Till pilfering thief, or poacher, scarce was found;
Confronted vagabonds but rare appear'd,
Nor sly, soothsaying Gypsey seen, or heard,
But every lane, or lurking corner left,
Extinguish'd fires and vestiges of theft.
Free Hinds from heedless lethargy awake,
Augmented wages, and full work, at stake,
All former faults, and failings, to atone,
And finding industry desert, alone;
With strengthen'd hands, and renovated will,
Exerted corporal pow'rs, and mental skill;
Their hopes encourag'd, and their hearts at ease,
For profit labour'd, and aspir'd to please:
Soon, ampler barns requir'd, were built anew—
Cramm'd bays, throng'd stacks, transport the Owner's view—
Steers fed the commons—Lambkins fill'd the cote—
Peace, plenty, joy, full diligence, denote,
While frantic exultation ey'd such store.
As Hope ne'er found, or Fancy dreamt, before;
When annual produce rose, on wretched grounds,
From nearly nothing to ten hundred pounds!
These were the fair effects of thought and toil;
Improved-police, and meliorated soil;
When all, concern'd, with one consent, exprest,
Crispinus' care, and skill, such fruits confest,
And Heav'n had all his duteous labours blest!
But, ah! how fickle, and how fleet, the joys,
That e'er from Earth, or Heirs of Earth, arise!
Pure transports only spring from Spirits pure,
No steril soils, or steril Souls ensure.
Growing, alone, on gracious loams of love,
From seeds, celestial! scatter'd from above,
O'er plough'd, and harrow'd, hearts, which, tillering, spread,
From heavenly show'rs, and heavenly sunshine, fed;
Well-weeded, and well-watch'd, it ever thrives,
Till the strong reaper, with full pow'rs, arrives;
The sickle, at his Sovereign's will, to wield,
And close the labours of the cultur'd field!
Such seed, and care, alone, can crops produce
For Landlord's honour—grateful Tenant's use—
To fill, with fruitful sheaves the favour'd land,
The binder's bosom, and the gleaner's hand;
All cleans'd from chaff, and tares; still kept in store,
For faithful Servants, when the harvest's o'er!
Predestin'd limits bound all earthly things,
Terrestrial Kingdoms, and terrestial Kings!
A providential point still strongly stands
Like polar ice, or Ocean's rocks and sands!
80

Some ne plus ultra runs all Nature through,
No art can counteract, or strength subdue!
No sooner Suns meridian heights ascend
But tow'rds the goal their curving courses tend;
Or full-fac'd Moons assume their circled shine,
But, soon, unequal cheeks prove deep decline!
Above the clouds tho' Alps and Andes rise,
And each proud summit seems to pierce the skies;
Yet, to their tops, when venturous traveller soars,
Each point beyond, still every footstep low'rs—
So Man, by Time, perch'd on Life's proudest head,
A moment views the visual prospect spread;
But, still impell'd, he quits the giddy height,
And sees, each pace, some prospect sink from sight—
Like Suns descends—like Moons full wax'd, must wane,
Then set, like them, beneath the blackening plain!
Shall Farms and Farmers look for longer date
Than Crowns and Kingdoms in this temp'ral State?
Those honours hope Heav'n's Wisdom has denied
To Seas and Mountains—Moons—Earths—Suns—beside?
But oft, by Fable, Wisdom well descries,
From small mistakes, what mighty mischiefs rise!
When eggs of gold a wond'rous Goose had laid,
And vast advantage all expence o'er-paid,
The sordid Owner, greedy, grows for more,
In eager haste to grasp the glittering store,
With prompt attention plann'd a scheme, sublime,
Anticipating tedious acts of Time—
To seize, at once, the treasure and the joy,
The poor prolific Bird was doom'd to die—
But when the sharp, dissecting, fatal, knife,
Had cut the thread of grateful Goose's life,
Impatient Expectation saw, destroy'd,
Its present hopes, and all its future pride!
So when poor Crispin's cultivating care
Had reap'd the golden harvest, rich, and rare!
He was directed, like a plodding dunce,
To make the Goose give all her wealth at once.
Each weak and idle whim—each wild-goose chace,
That Fribbles blunder o'er, or Fools embrace—
That theoretic Dunderheads adore,
Or injudicious Booby slabbers o'er,
Must by our hapless Hero be essay'd,
To learn, complete, the agricultural trade.
All half-inform'd Philosophists suppose,
In whose bleak brains each cold conundrum grows;
Or Fancy-Farmers' vanity invents,
To grace the glebe, and raise the conjur'd rents.
All wild and paltry projects must be tried,
To nourish nonsense, and to pamper pride.
Tried at vast risques, without a glimpse of gain,
With prostrate credit, and increasing pain—
By harsh behests, that best suit ignorant Hind,
And trampling Tyrants, only, e'er enjoin'd:
To gratify a greedy Dupe's desire—
Raise rash Ambition one gradation higher—
Add one fresh flash to Admiration's flame,
The fond experimental Farmer's claim;
To wealth—ton—letters—boasted long before,
One sounding brass, or tinkling cymbal, more!
No reasoning—loss—or ridicule, suffice
To open prejudic'd Projectors' eyes,
When visionary views all strongly tend,
Thro' hopes insane, to Ostentation's end.
On Fancy's soapy bubbles, fix'd astride,
With Maniac's wild career, they, rambling, ride;
Eying the rainbow brilliance, round the top,
Till, bursting sudden, down the Boobies drop—
And, when deliver'd from the burst balloon,
In which Imagination reach'd the Moon,
Had not the groveling Fool, who form'd the gas,
Been somewhat worse than ideotic ass—
They might have gather'd much more golden store,
Than any bold adventurer gain'd before:
Amidst their ramblings, still repeating, oft,
What sights they saw, when lifted so aloft;
And, still to Fellow-travellers, fondly tell,
Their strange astonishment when, thus, they fell!
But, pardon, Reader, (should this e'er be read,)
Nor Crispin deem to all improvements dead—
Suppose Him not attach'd to bigot dreams
By merely antient agricultural schemes;
More than pert prejudice of elder date,
To Superstition's plans in Church, or State—
He courted Candour, and celestial Truth,
With all the open ardency of Youth.
Ne'er stalk'd through sloughs on theoretic stilt,
Nor project spurn'd, on Reason's basis built;
But, lest Deception, sly, in secret, lurk'd,
81

He circumspectly walk'd—with caution work'd
While mere Opinion, and Surmise, appear'd,
Alone, to prop the fabrick Fancy rear'd;
But, when Conviction had each doubt remov'd,
Let Practice sanction what Experience prov'd.
Some maxims, immemorial, standing still,
Pervade all ranks, and influence Men of skill;
That seeds successive sown debase the breed—
That different soils demand a different seed,
That, sown on parent Earth, repeated years,
A fatal smut, or barren blight, appears.
That sown too frequent, in propinquant place,
Degenerate offspring stamps the ruin'd race;
Poor, shrivell'd, plants prove deep declining brood
Too weak to propagate, too lean for food.
Whether these rules will stand the final test
Of trying questions, Judgment may suggest,
When counter-arguments, in full array,
Brave the bold combat, in unbloody fray,
Let antient veterans, practis'd well, repeat,
Accustom'd to the field, and warlike feat—
But balancing Experience, long has found
Each plant, and tree, thrives best on parent-ground;
Ev'n Animals deteriorate, in time,
Remov'd to distant coast, and different clime.
These facts let farming Artists reconcile;
Whose hearts and heads have long sustain'd such toil;
The first pleads best for speculative pride,
But Nature's Lovers for the last decide.
If distant district makes the evil less,
Then distant country must have more success;
But best of all, when reasoning thus, by rote,
From parts imported, lying most remote.
By spurious arguments, thus loosely laid,
The sacred cause of Truth is oft betray'd:
And here, a case in point, poor Crispin found,
When seed was sought on Caledonian ground;
The trial of experience prov'd so sad,
It show'd both argument, and inference, bad.
Such strings of reasoning might be stretch'd much more,
Might reach remote Kamschatka's frozen shore;
Or fav'rite freight be brought from calid lands,
Even Afric's cape, or Egypt's burning sands;
In temperate zone, on flinty fields, to raise
Fair, fruitful, crops, for profit, and for praise.
'Twas far enough—too far our Hero saw,
As he beheld, foreboding, weeks withdraw;
Employing every needful art the while,
With painful forecast, and accustom'd toil!
His dung he'd scatter'd—mingled compost spread;
While mellowing ploughs prepar'd maternal bed—
But festal rites had clos'd their Christmas round
Ere Scottish cargo reach'd the groaning ground.
Autumn had smil'd with more than usual grace,
While Suns, fast southing, run their shortening race.
The light-rob'd clouds, like vernal vapours flew,
Just sprinkling from their skirts a kindly dew.
The yawning, fretting, furrows, idly lay,
Sighing with every wind from day to day;
And every hungry ridge, impatient, stood,
To close its famished lips o'er needful food.
The Man, more eager still, with heavy heart,
Saw hapless morns appear, and days depart!
Beheld each golden gleam, with anxious eye,
While tedious weeks, and months pass'd, troublous, by!
Meantime, with woe, Anticipation, pale,
Survey'd the prospect of each hill and dale,
And, while he counted all the fruitless cost,
Predicted boundless blame, with labour lost!
The freight, arrived, afforded small relief—
Faith saw bad harvest—Foresight saw but grief!
'Twas all a multitude of mongrel sorts,
The granary's garbage—and the market's orts—
What sloven slattern'd, or town-tollman mix'd—
With no specific signatures affix'd—
All interspers'd with smut—and, tho' unsown,
Long soak'd in fields, or fix'd in stowage, grown;
No more to pierce, thro' earth, its pointed head,
Its vegetative germs all dry'd, and dead—
Mere caput mortuum! buried, ne'er to rise—
Nor fit for food, in coops, or stalls, or styes!
Now days reduc'd to short, and showery, space,
The Labourer, like the Sun, soon run his race!
The fields were drench'd with driving, drowning, rain,
Each furrow smote and smooth'd their surface plain;
And, oft, when seed was sown, on muddy soil,
Some sudden frost, untimely, mocked the toil—
Like stoney pavement stopt the harrow's way,
While half the scatter'd corn, uncover'd, lay;
Expos'd to priestly birds, whose greedy mind,
Rapaciously collect their tythes in kind.
82

Perch'd on the topmost boughs of bordering trees,
They snuff'd this folly thro' the floating breeze.
In convocations, vast, collected round,
Survey'd, with eager eye, the corny ground;
While hideous croaking fill'd, with wild alarm,
Poor Crispin's breast, and sad, ill-fated farm—
Both doom'd to bear rebellious Jonah's lot,
The only victims, then, their hunger got.
Long, neighbouring farms Levitic dues had paid—
On this, alone, the levy, now, was laid.
Rectorial Rooks, and Crows' vicarial bands,
And lawn-sleev'd Magpies, from far-distant lands,
Mix'd in one clamorous chorus, harshly loud,
Each echoing wood—grove—tree and hedgerow, crowd;
And, in one morning, or one evening's Hour,
Full half the hopes of the whole year devour!
Nor could the thin, and small, remains, escape
These cruel miscreants' iterated rape,
For, when the few, and languid germs, at length,
Put out their puny vegetative strength,
Oh! 'twas a sad, a melancholic sight,
To see, while fields around, wav'd fresh, and bright,
These but a scene of brown, and barren earth,
With here, and there, a thin, and feeble, birth;
Those, in thick, shaggy, shining robes array'd—
These, speck'd with points of blue, and needley, blade—
Those, rooted deep, defying frost and snow;
These, flinching from attacks of every foe!
The scissar'd frost shear'd off their shrivell'd shoots,
And sapping snows unfix'd their flimsy roots;
While these wing'd depredators, wavering nigh,
The ridges blacken'd, or obscur'd the sky—
Till Spring appear'd, dire desolation spread,
By rended heart, or decollated head—
And while they waged fierce rapine, far and wide,
The voice—the rattle—and the gun defied!
They, like their proud compeers, the lazy Priests,
From others' toil partake their fattening feasts;
Ne'er handling plough—or spade—or hook—or scythe—
Yet every year extort a double tythe.
Nestling and brooding round the Rich and Great,
The pert appendage of each large Estate.
Their fond employment still to prowl the field,
And claim the harvests care and labour yield.
When found in duty, on pretence of good,
Perch'd far from Earth on elevated wood,
Exerting loud, and harsh, their thrumming throats,
With rude, unmeaning, immelodious notes.
Would Priests, and they, their proper tasks pursue,
Destroying cursed sins, and insects' crew,
Instead of spoiling blessings, ere their birth,
By injuring all the precious fruits of Earth—
Then would the Husbandmen, and Hind, rejoice
To view the Rook, and hear the Rector's voice;
Nor grudge the gleanings of his hard-earn'd grain,
Or proper tythes from every fertile plain.
But Crispin passions found, more painful, still,
Excite, and turn about, his balanc'd will;
Descrying chorists of celestial song,
Join'd in the riots of this rabid throng—
Collected Skylarks, from surrounding farms,
Assembled there, in thickening silent, swarms,
On freshest Clover, scorning, now, to feed,
Or greenest grass that clothes the marshy mead:
But, finding dishes of far daintier taste,
In wanton forage lay the furrows waste—
To cull sweet sallads from the milky corn,
Tearing each tender blade as soon as born!
It hurt the feelings of the simple Swain,
To fright poor Poets from the hapless plain;
Much more endang'ring Life's uncertain date,
By sending forth decrees for cruel fate!
Bewail'd those warbling Bards that lost their breath
By pitfalls—silken snares—or leaden death!
It damp'd his Soul one Songster to destroy,
Or mock their wishes of one moment's joy;
But, these were joys, and wishes, so impure,
No Bird should e'er indulge, or Bard endure!
Such practices as Man should ne'er maintain,
Deriving pleasure from another's pain!
'Mid Crispin's countless, multiplying, cares,
He lov'd the Minstrels, and admir'd their airs;
Nor ever could indulge a base design
To vex one votary of the tuneful Nine!
But, when pure Conscience, and plain Duties, call,
Feeling must suffer—fondled idols fall!
But tho' he fled such feelings' bitterest fruits,
Deputing others to those dire pursuits;
Compell'd to kill, tho' such mandate scarr'd
Crispin's torn breast, to slay some feather'd Bard!
'Twas needful, now, soft sympathy to thwart,
Such foes must be expell'd, tho' near his heart.
83

'Twas self-defence—not weak despotic will,
With wantonness, or pride, to scout, or kill;
But, bent on Duty, dared fine feelings wrong,
By sacrificing feasts of sylvan song!
He once, in whim, attempted to attend
Such fell amusement, with a murderous Friend—
And, once, complying with that custom, rude,
Had fix'd to try such test of fortitude—
But pow'rs poetic ne'er can fully tell
What pangs he felt when one poor culprit fell—
How every nerve was torn, with torturing smart,
Whilst blood seem'd trickling from his aching heart—
And as he view'd his Victim steep'd in gore,
Resolv'd to meet such pain and grief no more.
They, with their bold, gregareous, light-arm'd groups,
Atchiev'd more mischief than the weightier troops,
Which, while their warlike shouts, and dark attire,
Directed where to face, and when to fire,
These, cloth'd in colour like the fallow field,
Each cavalier the smallest clod conceal'd;
And, in sly, silent, secret, ambuscade,
Still carried on their dire, destructive trade,
Till all the hostile plain, at every pace,
Was throng'd with myriads of the martyr'd race!
Was this that prospect, this that proud success,
Which Patrons boast, or Providence could bless?
That fill the barn, and figure in the book,
While wondering rivals, round, with envy, look?
Alas! enlarged emoluments, alone,
Can please Employers, or mistakes atone!
And tho' Heav'n's blessing constantly attends
All prudent means, pursuing proper ends,
It ne'er substantiates Fancy's foolish schemes,
Or crowns, with miracles, what Madness dreams!
Here Crispin's case was cruel—horrid, hard!
To force the measure yet to blame the Bard!
Nor did he only now, his fate deplore,
But felt like smart in countless cases more!
The empty Barn with hollow murmurs sigh'd!
O'er cypher'd columns sunk, Pomp mourned with Pride!
While Emulation pass'd in triumph by,
With biting babble, and exulting eye!
The pensive Swain, with melancholic look,
Pined o'er blank pages in his barren Book;
And thence predicted Peace must fall a prey
To the sad sentence of his judgment-day!
He felt Earth's blessing from his bosom fled!
Saw Fortune—Fame—Content—ev'n Hope, drop dead!
But, tho' these favourite Friends all disappear'd,
His Heart, Integrity, and Conscience, cheared;
Yet, while he long his dreary lot endur'd,
The wounds his heart then wail'd could ne'er be cured!
Not only this, but many a wilder, whim,
Compell'd to practice, still tormented him.
Some sown, on smaller scale, of bitter shape,
Plump'd up, by sun-beams, at hot Afric's Cape,
Here, only sapless sands, and flintstones, fed,
Or agues pined, upon a clay-cold bed—
While, dwindling down, with northern blasts embrace,
Rear'd but a weakly—lean—and wither'd race.
—Some from Siberia's frigid climate came,
To pour in ready rent, and full-mouthed fame—
To shoot first blades beneath warm Auster's wing—
And smile with youthful charms in tepid Spring—
To feed while bigots fast—grow gross in Lent,
And heedless laugh while culturing dupes repent.
—Some rear'd with rancid Oil, must wonders yield,
With Nitre mix'd, to mend the morbid field—
Some thickly strew'd with refuse dregs of Salt—
Some sprinkled with the magic dust of Malt:
To give fresh vigour to the steril soil
And make those barren knowles like banks of Nile.
—Here stood Tartarean Oats, erect, and tall,
In promise, lavish; in performance, small—
With roots extensive—constitution strong—
Whose haughty heads, with floating tresses hung,
Unlike fam'd Sampson's energetic hair,
No proofs of pow'r—but mocking toil and care;
From richest earth all nourishment to draw,
Repaying little but poor chaff and straw.
—Siberian Barley, there, unthrifty, grew,
Deceiving fancy with rich silvery hue—
Grain light, tho' chaffless, rang'd in naked rows,
While from its produce weakly profit flows;
Deluding labour—baffling Art's intent—
Defrauding tythes, and retrograding rent.
—Absorbing Chalk its filtering substance spread
O'er every sunny swell's hot, arid, head;
Whose gasping pores both rain and dews devour,
And pant and pine for more each passing hour.
—Exsiccant Soot, procur'd at large expence,
84

Was stor'd, with care, in magazines immense;
Then strew'd o'er scorching stones, and thirsty sands,
Assisting Suns to roast lean shrivelling lands.
—Dry sandy loams from central depths were dug,
And thickly-laid o'er every ruin'd lugg,
By men and cattle hir'd, at heavy cost,
While better soils from native surface, lost.
Females, in flocks, with children, rambling round,
O'er steril Commons' long neglected ground,
And every barren bank, in lonely lane,
With feet all froze, and hands all pinch'd with pain,
Collected steril moss, in tiny scraps,
Dispos'd in distant heaps from loaded laps—
While mowers, ranging o'er heath, hill, or knowle,
The spreading fern, from starving pauper, stole—
Dragg'd leagues, from ev'ry wind, in loitering wains,
Amidst astonished Nymphs, and simpering Swains:
At home, heap'd high, in proud prodigious piles,
O'er which each wondering Traveller stares and smiles.
The same, assembled, full-grown, female, bands,
While pulverizing ploughs slit cultured lands,
In proper furrows this new manure spread,
To form potatoes' fructifying bed,
Where each might propogate much prosp'rous brood,
To help the purse, and furnish household food—
But—on their barren mossy mattrass placed,
All culturing skill their stinted growth disgrac'd!
No hopeful haulms full-appled fruitage rear'd—
No swelling bulbs o'er surface soil appear'd—
Display'd no vivid shine, nor vigorous shoot,
But stretch'd on starveling couch each wretched root—
All shrunk to sickly size, with famish'd face,
In pity pining o'er their dwarfish race—
And when, in time, to greatest stature grown,
Ill-omen'd signs in minish'd shapes were shown—
For, when in summer months hot sunshine burn'd,
Each shriveling plant, with impotency, turn'd,
While each poor leaf, prognosticative, lops,
Presaging sorrow from earth's future crops!
With this weak race, when badly boil'd, or raw,
Were sordid Swine to cram concocting maw;
And thus mere mites, when multiplied to pence,
And pence to pounds, must swell to sums immense!
Success was certain—the grand scheme secure—
Stock still augmenting crops, and crops manure;
The whole increasing, in continual rounds,
Would swell finance, and fame, beyond all bounds!
How oft such vain, imaginary, views,
Projectors ruin, but Mankind amuse—
And oft, alas! fond calculations fail,
As proves the sequel of this simple tale—
Like stars, erratic, pigs some progress made,
Like them, capricious, quickly stopp'd—and stay'd—
Then soon run, retrogade—and—sad to say,
To meteor's turn'd—decay'd—and, died away!
Thus, as a rustic Maid, in days of yore,
From market, eggs, in osier-basket bore,
Still calculating, as she stalk'd along,
Without all thought of chance, the chicken-throng;
From chicks fresh eggs; and, from those eggs, again,
Chickens, and eggs, a multiplying train,
Till riches rose, to such an endless height,
That sovereign pow'r appear'd in Fancy's sight—
When, in a transport, o'er those views of State,
Her fame and fortune turn'd to direful fate—
For, as she bounded o'er the blissful dell,
Her footstep slipp'd, and down the treasure fell;
And, when Ambition, thus, the eggs had broke,
The witless Wench became her Country's joke!
These vain vagaries would the Bard rehearse,
In plaintive prose, or elegiac verse—
In rumination, sigh—in speech deplore
Such mad mistakes, with countless whimsies more!
A monstrous catalogue of megrims, quaint!
Enough to stir chagrin in Soph, or Saint!
Such a long list of wild conundrums, queer,
Credulity, itself, would start to hear.
Things, Crispin's prudence hardly dar'd relate,
A servile Slave in pure despotic State!
Which, more contempt than couplets must inspire,
Beneath all Song on soft bucolic Lyre!
Plan, after plan, and scheme succeeding scheme,
Like Politician's, dull, or Poet's, dream—
Plans, ball'd, and batted round, from Fool to Fool,
All tried, by Crispin, in his culturing school—
The chief recorded clear, in different forms,
While strength was weathering Time's convulsive storms;
In hopes his Muse might reach some safer port,
No more a Trifler's toy—a Despot's sport—
Where he might shape each rude elastic part,
To show the workings of his worried heart;
85

Or some kind Friend the matter might arrange,
Should Heav'n confirm them, ere his final change.
Amid misfortunes, thus, with pains oppress'd,
A racking conflict rent his throbbing breast!
He felt past favours—dreaded foul disgrace—
And wish'd, while deprecating, change of place!
Felt kind affection grown to fix't regard,
While dreading shame, and benefits debarr'd.
He long'd to fly, but fearful to be rude,
And bearing blame for gross ingratitude—
Of keen reproach, and calumny, afraid,
With persecution's torments, whilst he staid.
His Spirit still unbroke, he could not brook
Dissecting censure, or contemptuous look;
Much less by Self-abasement's test atone
For freaks, and faults, he could not call his own.
He wish'd, with ardour, to resume, agen,
The pristine callings of his tools, and pen,
But dreaded conflicts of severer kind,
More murd'rous tryals of a tortur'd Mind!
He fear'd Acquaintances' obscure surmise
More than Malevolence's looks and lies!
Fear'd more what mute Relations might suppose
Than foul aspersions from professed Foes!
Much more what pious Parent might predict
Than fiercest persecution's pow'rs inflict!
His old Companions, tho' devoid of spite,
Needs must imagine all things lookt not right.
His moral Relatives, with virtuous view,
Might whisper wishes all the hamlet through;
And, with a kind, interrogating tongue,
Raise dangerous doubts that somewhat must be wrong!
But most he deprecated that keen pain
He knew a tender Mother must sustain,
While, with a labouring breast, and tearful eye,
Her justling spirits fought with fear and joy!
Lest, thro' the conflict strong, her harrass'd heart
Should sink, with dread and her pure soul depart!
He could not practice hypocritic tricks
Nor Art, with Morals and Religion, mix;
Ne'er thrown, by Fortune's freaks, within the calls
Of flattering levees—simpering routs, or balls—
Ne'er nurs'd, 'mong swindling smiles, at hoaxing Courts,
'Mid compliments profane, and poisoning sports;
But early vers'd in Virtue's wary ways,
Still taught what ills await the Wight who strays,
What pains and terrors, plant his thorny path—
What wretched miseries from almighty wrath—
Distress thro' Life; and, at its awful close,
Time's horrors heighten'd with unending woes!
By parents guided round the gulphs of Youth,
He, o'er his horn-book, learn'd to lisp the truth;
Tho' after taught, by deep dissembling Dame,
The talk of flattery for the task of fame!
But he escap'd untouch'd the tainting blight,
Tho' neither novice, monk, or eremite;
For, while She impeach'd such faults on honest elf,
She only shaped him something like Herself.
He scorn'd to copy crimes his heart abhorr'd,
Tho' class'd with puppy packs which whin'd accord;
Still conscious whereso'er his footsteps trod
His heart lay open to the eye of God!
And, lest that God, or Conscience, should arraign,
Watch'd acts, words, thoughts, foul—false—perverse—or vain.
Each wicked wish, and devious, dark, desire,
Brought before Conscience, and all-seeing Sire!
Correcting all their tendencies in time,
Ere ripening to resolve's condemning crime!
The presence of that awful Pow'r he felt,
Where'er he wander'd, or where'er he dwelt—
That boundless Being! who o'er all presides,
And all, thro' Heav'n and Earth, controuls and guides!
Rules every ample orb, that rolls and runs;
Planets, opaque; or light-dispensing Suns!
Impels their speed, or holds restraining reins,
As millions move o'er Space's boundless plains!
Still kindly nourishing, and ruling, all
That range, or rest, o'er each obedient ball!
Not Men, alone, their Maker's kindness share,
Each living Creature finds that Father's care!
Ev'n animalcules, creeping, round the Earth,
And down to vilest, vegetable birth!
But tho' His providential Pow'r's display'd,
In all His Wisdom—Will, and Goodness, made,
The base and being of His wonderous plan,
All center'd here, on His frail minion Man;
While, tho' he daily disobeys His Will
His Loving kindness centers in him still!
Not on proud Wealth alone, o'er whom His Pow'r
Hath scatter'd shining gifts, in golden show'r;
86

Who deem the dow'rless herd all doom'd for use,
Their mere amusement, or their base abuse;
To torture—kill—insult—cheat—chase away—
Like kindred Cats, or brother Beasts of prey!
Yet, tho' their Penury, Power, and Will, withold—
Proud domes—gay trappings—costly cates—and gold—
His kind attentive Love, so, turns aside
The strong provocatives to Lust, and Pride;
Still nobler boons their lowly lot have reach'd,
Who humbly hear the glorious Gospel preach'd!
Our universal Sire's complete designs
No passion prompts—No selfishness confines—
But, mixing Love and Wisdom, thro' the Whole,
Combines the bliss of every human Soul!
Like rain and sunshine, His unshaken Love
Keeps all that show'r, below, or shine, above!
Tho' labouring Virtue mundane blessings miss,
No well-meant aim will fail of future bliss;
But all who cultivate the Soul, or Soil,
Will find rewards for each right care, and toil!
Not recompenc'd with crops for skill their own,
But products from celestial seed when sown.
Not by Man's deeds deserv'd, or wisdom won,
But, fed by heavenly air, and rain, and sun—
Harvests, proportioned to the pains endur'd
By Heav'n on all well-manag'd tracts matur'd—
For Christ will culturing toils, and cares, requite,
On Lands luxuriant, steril, strong, or light—
Lands, intellectual, bounteous Heav'n bestows,
Still blessing every gracious blade that grows!
Not lands mark'd out, by Mortals' measuring chain,
Nor hoping produce from corrupted grain—
Not claiming tythes for Folly's temp'ral feasts,
To live like blockheads, and to die like beasts;
But seeking crops of durable delights,
From duteous industry, and managed mites—
Raising those mental mites to pence, and pounds,
While hours—days—nights—run on in annual rounds;
Till Worth's Redeemer welcomes to His Dome,
And there prepares an endless Harvest home!
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