University of Virginia Library

I, II. VOL: I., II.

The Life and Lucubrations of Crispinus Scriblerus.

A Novel, in Verse, Written in the Last Century.

CHAPTER 1st.

DUDLEY.

Close on the skirts of neighbouring northern height,
Let Dudley's crowded domes arrest the sight;
Where, o'er each sacred fane, and social roof,
Rude feudal reliques lift their heads aloof;
To hint how despot Pow'r, and hostile Strife,
Rear high their foreheads o'er domestic Life:
Swell o'er the supple throngs of humbler Birth,
And stalk, with slavish Terror, o'er the Earth;
All civil rights, and liberties, to chain,
And subjugate Religion's blissful reign!
Now nods each Edifice in tottering state,
To warn all Tyrants of their woeful Fate;
And tell, by batter'd tow'rs, and wasted walls,
How each dier Despot, in confusion, falls!
Behind, extensive Romish Ruins hide,
Once haunts of Idols, base, and bigot Pride!
Where papal Antichrist the sceptre sway'd,
And Superstition plied her pagan trade;
But now, pure Piety, with righteous joy,
Beholds those Domes in desolation lie.
Nor longer ignorant zeal's false ardour, now,
Repeats vain pray'rs, or vents the idle vow;
No more inflam'd with Demon's fell desires,
Again to kindle Smithfield's cruel fires;
But that blest Profidence, which orders all,
Has forc'd each Fiend to fly, each tow'r to fall!

HIMLEY.

DISTANT PROSPECT.

Think not that Crispin's meditating mind,
Was e're so silly, bigotted, and blind,
As wish to see such tracts of turf produce
So little fruits for beauty, or for use—
No reasoning Soul could murmur, so misled,
Who wishes all Mankind well-cloth'd and fed;
Nor longs that Man alone, but labouring beasts,
Might find their comforts, and enjoy their feasts.
None touch'd with sympathy, or blest with taste,
Loves barren wild, or drear deformed waste—
Nor longs mere wildernesses still might lie
The scourge of conscious heart, and tutor'd eye.
Earth, in such sterile state, can ne'er afford
Full food for beasts, or bless Man's festal board—
But when Wealth's greedy pow'r, and grasping paw,
Urg'd on by selfishness, and back'd by law—
When lordly Chiefs extend the fatal chain,
To mark exclusive claims o'er all the plain—
When, o'er each heathy height and grassy glade,
Large lots to Competence, and Wealth, are laid,
Should not Compassion point out some restraint,
To lighten labour, and preclude complaint?
Should not some plots for Poverty be found?
Some petty portions of contiguous ground?
Some spots to nurse the progeny of Need?
Where Pigs and Cows, with Families, might feed?
While Goose and Gander stepp'd their small extent,
From pinfolds free, and clear of lease and rent?

OBSERVATIVE REFLECTIONS.

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

MORE REMARKS.

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

SHROPSHIRE.

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

ENVILLE.

STOURBRIDGE AND OLD SWINFORD.

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

HAGLEY.

LESSOWES.

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

MORE GENERAL OBSERVATIONS.

RECAPITULATION.

GENERAL.

BIRMINGHAM AND WOLVERHAMPTON.

GENERAL.

CRISPINUS' BIRTH, EDUCATION, &c.

Here Crispin's infant face first learnt to smile,
Without base views to flatter, or beguile!
Nor e'er in after-time, when grave, or gay,
His Friend, or Fellow, studied to betray.
Then strove no smiling feature to restrain,
Unwitting of that Parent's toil and pain;
But, after, felt pure pleasure, or sad pang,
As pristine proofs of Vice, or Virtue, sprang.
There, first, his aided footsteps feebly trod,
And tript light gambols o'er the grassy sod—
Lisp'd broken syllables with stammering tongue,
Unconscious of the skill, or sweets, of Song!
Tried all the little tricks of human Elf,
To draw attention to sweet idol, Self—
An impious passion! which, still, actuates all
The human Race, around this earthly Ball;
Endeavouring worship, still, as Gods, to win,
Since Nature felt Man's fatal lapse to Sin;
Nor operates only on the infant Mind,
But o'er each Age, Sex, Class, amongst Mankind!
Here stored low Learnings rudimental types,
Without expence of pains, or tears, or stripes;
And soon to notable attainments grew,
In that sole tongue his intellect e'er knew.
Here first the Pen's important labours plied,
And powr's of Integers, with Cyphers, tried,
But little progress, or proficience, found
Ere call'd to grasp the tool, or till the ground—
Here catechistic answers aptly learn'd,
Remember'd full, by him, by Folly, spurn'd—
Read Heav'n's blest Book! which Memory kept, in part,
Religion's compass! each true Christian's chart!
Oft, in Life's voyage, laid aside, or lost—
Oft overboard, by Pride and Passion tost;
Or if bold Conscience recognize the Book,
Avarice and Lust, each holy rule o'erlook,
While Sloth and Indolence its laws neglect,
Till Mariner and Vessel oft are wreckt!
Here, pleas'd, in childhood, with the chime of words,
He learnt like practice with imprisoned Birds;
Or Priests, who read by rote, but never pray,
Repeating pious phrases day by day.
Here, 'mid lov'd exercise of Wisdom's lore,
Caught some plain, simple, truths from letter'd store,
Which, tho' but badly spoke, or badly spell'd,
His faithful heart, still fond, in future, held.
Was taught that all things felt, or seen, or heard,
Were made by One who ne'er to Sense appear'd.
Who gave all Creatures form, and life, at first,
And all, thro' Nature, cloth'd, and fed, and nurst.
How he, and all his Friends, that self-same Pow'r,
First fram'd, and still sustain'd, from hour to hour;
Demanding, and deserving, all the Love,
Of all that reason; round, below, above!
Learnt He must neither cheat—or swear—or lie—
Because that wonderous Being was always by—
Watch'd every word—and saw each silent thought—
And whipt each Child, whose aim, or wish, was naught,
But lov'd and cherish'd all whose hearts would strive
To keep His honour, thro' their love, alive.
His Parents, both, must honour and obey—
Not think himself so good, or wise, as they—
Nor, for the sake of pleasure, ease, or pelf,
Neglect to love his Neighbour as himself.
Must none offend, thro' wickedness, or whim,
Or think one Fellow-mortal made for Him;
And might all others needs, and miseries, know,
By what gave him offence, or pain, or woe.
To know what other's wants, or comforts, were,
Might search his Soul and find their feelings there.
That churlish Children who increase their crimes,
Become base monsters, or mere brutes, betimes.
That He's the vilest Child, the basest Boy,
Who mocks, and mows, while other's weep, or cry—
That He's the happiest, and most honour'd, Youth,
Who loves his Like, and always tells the truth;
And He the wisest, best, and bravest, Man,
Who does least ill, and greatest good, he can.
That honesty's the highest interest, still,
Let Craft and Cunning say whate'er they will;
And they who least deserve their Parent's rod,
Will best obey, and gain the Love, of God!
To read God's word, to reverence His great Name,
And honour all, who honour, justly, claim.
That all must die, and, after death, arise,
To meet their Saviour, Christ, within the Skies;
And when they stand before His presence there,
Must give account of all their conduct here—
That they who best their God, and Fellows, love,
Shall share the highest happiness above;
They who hate Man, and 'gainst their God rebel,
Will feel, with Fiends, the heaviest pains in Hell!

REFLECTIONS ON EDUCATION.

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

GENERAL REFLECTIONS.

GENERAL REMARKS.

CHAPTER 2nd.

GENERAL VIEWS OF NATURE.

DEPRECATION.

Scoff not, proud Critics! while I note this Youth,
This Child of Song, Simplicity, and Truth!
Nor mock, rash Muses! while my artless Rhyme,
Declares the schemes and practice of his prime;
Who ne'er fair Morals, or Religion, flew,
But honour'd God, and gave Mankind their due!
May not the Swain, who, slides thro' noiseless Life,
Remote from fame and flattery, trick and strife,
Pattern more pure, more useful facts, display,
Than Kings who scourge the World with sovereign sway?
Statesmen, whose Systems base, and Spirits blind,
Thro' Pride, and Passion, ruin half Mankind?
Or Heroes, who both Mind, and Might debase,
By murdering millions of the human race?
More Piety than impious, proud High-priests,
Who look like Cherubs, but who live like Beasts?
Teach others how to live, and how to die,
But act, themselves, as tho' 'twere all a lie!
May not his Penury purer lessons give,
Than Wealth, which scarce on kingly Incomes live?
Than courtly Commoner, or pension'd Peer,
Who pinch on twenty thousand pounds a Year!
Who, ruin'd by their Pride, and Lust, and Sport,
Become base Beggars, cringing round a Court?
How much more noble are those honest Clowns
Who court not Mortals' smiles, nor fear their frowns;
But, with clear converse, prompt examples, pure,
Convince by Virtue, and with Love allure!

GENERAL OBSERVATIONS AND DESCRIPTIONS.

CALM ADVICE.

MORE SERIOUS REMARKS.

PURSUITS OF LOVE.

LOVE'S RESOLVE.

REFLECTIONS ON TASTE.

CHAPTER 3rd.

NARRATIVE CONTINUED.

GENERAL REFLECTIONS.

GENERAL REFLECTIONS.

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

SOCIAL REFLECTIONS.

FRIENDLY PROPOSAL PROVED ABORTIVE.

CALM REFLECTIONS!

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

AT HOME.

Nature instructs, as Reason travels round,
O'er starry firmament, or teeming ground;
While God's blest Book, the Soul's instructor, true!
Enlivens, and illustrates, every view—
Where Faith, and Hope assist the strengthen'd sight,
And His pure Spirit wills—“Let there be Light!”
Faith sees celestial radiance beam above,
Tho' vapours, dense, eclipse the sapphire cove,
Veil each faint sun of night, and planet's sphere,
She knows uncounted numbers twinkle there.
Tho' murkey clouds obscure the Sun's bright blaze,
The spungey Air imbibes his trindled rays;
And, while those meteors melt in sighs and tears,
Its covenanting arch the rainbow rears!
Thro' thickest mediums of misfortunes, dark,
Love gathers light from every sprinkled spark;
And Hope, fair Sister! wandering by her side,
With borrow'd beams illumes the welkin wide,
While Faith, on both their full-grown shoulders borne,
O'er Earth's horizon looks, and marks Heav'n's opening Morn!
He holds the balance, with suspended weights,
Which poises temporal and eternal States—
Hangs Life's most valu'd boons on Nature's beam,
All drawn, unheeded, to Life's last extreme—
A lovely Consort's faithful, fond, embrace—
Cherubic Daughters—Sons of godlike race—
Chaldean Kingdom—Wit—with boundless Wealth—
Firm Peace—full Pleasure—length of Life, and Health—
While Fancy, Pomp, and Flattery, still, conspire
To raise each monstrous estimation high'r—
Yet, on each object, and its best delights,
His rectifying finger, TEKEL, writes:
While, sliding slow'r, at length Life's motion stops,
Then, from the broken link, down, down, each bauble drops!

FURTHER SERIOUS REFLECTIONS.

CHAPTER 4th.

HISTORIC AND DOMESTIC REMARKS.

NEW SCHEME.

PATRONESS.

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!
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.
As Philomel, thro' sylvan shades, is sought;
Pursued for profit, or for pleasure caught—
Art tries her limetwigs—Cunning lends her Lure—
The silky net's prepar'd to keep secure—
Not to yield richer health, or rapture, high'r,
Than native glens might give, or spouse inspire;
But in gilt cage, for ostentation shown,
That Pride might call the Chorister its own—
But, when deep Cunning's clos'd the entrance door,
Love's fondling Melodies are heard no more!
For when that Art's put out poor Minstrel's eyes,
And check's due range, delight, with Freedom, flies!
His close-clipp'd plumes, and sad, extinguish'd, sight,
Preclude his prospects, and forbid his flight;
While fluttering round and round, he feels his wrongs,
Mopes—grieves—frets—sorrows—and frogets his Songs!
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!
But, ah! how fickle, and how fleet, the joys,
That e'er from Earth, or Heirs of Earth, arise!
Pure transports only spring from Spirits pure,
No steril soils, or steril Souls ensure.
Growing, alone, on gracious loams of love,
From seeds, celestial! scatter'd from above,
O'er plough'd, and harrow'd, hearts, which, tillering, spread,
From heavenly show'rs, and heavenly sunshine, fed;
Well-weeded, and well-watch'd, it ever thrives,
Till the strong reaper, with full pow'rs, arrives;
The sickle, at his Sovereign's will, to wield,
And close the labours of the cultur'd field!
Such seed, and care, alone, can crops produce
For Landlord's honour—grateful Tenant's use—
To fill, with fruitful sheaves the favour'd land,
The binder's bosom, and the gleaner's hand;
All cleans'd from chaff, and tares; still kept in store,
For faithful Servants, when the harvest's o'er!
Predestin'd limits bound all earthly things,
Terrestrial Kingdoms, and terrestial Kings!
A providential point still strongly stands
Like polar ice, or Ocean's rocks and sands!
Some ne plus ultra runs all Nature through,
No art can counteract, or strength subdue!
No sooner Suns meridian heights ascend
But tow'rds the goal their curving courses tend;
Or full-fac'd Moons assume their circled shine,
But, soon, unequal cheeks prove deep decline!
Above the clouds tho' Alps and Andes rise,
And each proud summit seems to pierce the skies;
Yet, to their tops, when venturous traveller soars,
Each point beyond, still every footstep low'rs—
So Man, by Time, perch'd on Life's proudest head,
A moment views the visual prospect spread;
But, still impell'd, he quits the giddy height,
And sees, each pace, some prospect sink from sight—
Like Suns descends—like Moons full wax'd, must wane,
Then set, like them, beneath the blackening plain!
Shall Farms and Farmers look for longer date
Than Crowns and Kingdoms in this temp'ral State?
Those honours hope Heav'n's Wisdom has denied
To Seas and Mountains—Moons—Earths—Suns—beside?
But oft, by Fable, Wisdom well descries,
From small mistakes, what mighty mischiefs rise!
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!

CHAPTER 5th.

No labour, care, or skill, can e'er perform
Crude schemes that wake Imaginations warm,
That spawn or sprout, with quick successive train,
In teeming mansions of a moon-struck brain;
Which no spring-rains, or ripening suns, require,
But breed on hot-beds, forc'd by Fancy's fire.
Like mushroom-births, which reach their boldest height,
Born, nurs'd, and rear'd, in one productive night—
Or sallad-plants by preternatural heat,
In one nycthemeron grown to crops complete.
But corn and cattle rise by slower growth;
Not rais'd by Madness, or matur'd by Sloth.
Can skill and labour, by intense turmoil,
Break flints and pebbles down to procreant soil?
Will peaty swamps, or spungey marshes, yield
Earth's rich gramineous growths like fertile field?
'Tis counteracting Nature—fighting Fate—
Expecting Desarts turn'd to proud Estate—
Converting stoney tracts to mellow mould—
Transmuting iron to ingots form'd of gold—
Attempting wonders to excite surprize—
Exploring lands all strange, with hooded eyes.
Pushing discoveries, in each unknown part,
Without Cook's genius and consummate Art.
Conceit encourag'd as skill's giddy guide—
Opinion setting Practice quite aside—
Pride wresting Pow'r from Reason's royal hand,
And robbing Judgment of its calm command—
Strapping Experience down to maniac bed,
And ordering Ignorance to rule instead—
Stretching, full strength, thro' perils round each pole,
While spurning learn'd Lieutenant's kind controul;
Devoid of compass, card, or cool advice,
'Mong promontoried Alps of wedging ice,
To find, on swallowing sands, and foundering rocks,
Spontaneous harvests—well-fed herds and flocks.
With wild impetuous course in phrenzies, run,
To seek for snows beneath a zenith sun—
To strain the cordage—bend each swelling sail,
And drive, regardless, with each dangerous gale,
Till, wearied out with effort—stung with shame—
Lamenting loss of honour—badg'd with blame—
The purblind Pilot strikes, on hostile strand,
Amidst insulting Foes, in foreign Land.
Another effort, now, must needs be tried,
For gathering pelf, and gratifying pride.
A Hero, chosen by superior Chief,
Must yield the baffled Lady bless'd relief;
All former losses fully reimburse,
And fix her transport while he fill'd her purse.
Well—what was He? and what was His success?
In serving Self, and pleasing Patroness?
Why he was crazy! he play'd such stupid pranks
As neither prosper'd thrift, or purchas'd thanks.
That Kine might cram the more, and more digest,
His enterprizing genius judg'd it best,
With one grand scheme more milk and cream to gain;
He stripp'd the haystacks to admit the rain—
Dug monstrous drains, where fields were dry before;
And folded Sheep in ponds, like pigs in store—
To stop such frantic tricks, and sundry others,
She sent him packing like his peerless Brothers:
And yet still more to mortify her pride,
One more, derang'd, in Luke's asylum died!

CHAPTER 6th.

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

INVOCATION.

CHAPTER 7th.

This common adage dullest Rustics know;
That, “Money, only, makes the mare to go;”
And Crispin, to his cost, completely found,
That, tho' 'twas common, 'twas most strictly sound.
In Wealth's communities, accounted wise,
A golden Sun confounds the strongest eyes.
When, on a Throne, by Politicians built,
An Idol's plac'd proud Art has grav'd, and gilt,
No spot, no wrinkle, courtly Flatterers find
While Wits and Blockheads gaze till both grow blind:
So when inferior Idols Dupes behold,
Adorn'd with grandeur, and enrich'd with gold,
The dazzling Object so disturbs their sight
They note no difference whether black or white.
O'er-pow'rd with Pomp, would Prejudice declare,
A Dwarf was tall; a Negroe, fresh, and fair—
That coxcomb Sparrows' chirps, in pompous cage,
Might more than Nightingales, in woods, engage—
That caws of Crows and Rooks, round sumptuous tow'rs,
Outvie the Redbreast's trills in woodbine bow'rs;
And chattering Daws be deem'd much nobler Birds,
Than sapient Owls ne'er using silly words.
No Eagle soars sublime till Pimps behold
And tell its pinions glow with plumes of gold—
No Dove is docile—woodland Songster sweet,
Unless hatch'd—hous'd—fed—taught, in Wealth's retreat.
Poor Crispin's Muse ne'er grubb'd in golden Mine,
Whose produce made his purse, or pinion, shine;
But dug for peat, or delv'd in gravel ground,
Where no bright diamonds, but dull flints, were found,
Had he plough'd silver ore, in place of sands,
He'd ne'er been driven back from distant lands—
Had he discover'd pearls, instead of peat,
He'd ne'er been banish'd from that sordid seat.
But he acquir'd no praise, amass'd no pelf,
To please Employer, or enrich Himself.
The best endeavours, urg'd with utmost might,
When unsuccessful ne'er are reckon'd right;
Tho' every step with care, and skill, be trod,
No single slip escapes the scourging rod.
From sordid Souls no gratitude's obtain'd,
Who fancy greater profits might be gain'd,
Nor hankering heart feels thankful for much store,
Which deems its factor might have furnish'd more.
But censure falls on that afflicted Soul
Which comes within such tyrannies controul!
Romantic views, and visionary schemes
Fade like frail flow'rs, and melt like morning dreams!
In sublunary life scarce more appears,
Than plans, pursuits and failures; hopes and fears!
With cruel troubles every station's curst,
And Wisdom's office is to shun the worst.
Man's best distinguish'd from the Fool, or Beast.
When two ills offer, still to chuse the least:
Here, no alternative, no choice, was giv'n,
By strong Necessity on danger driv'n!
From shelter'd moorings forc'd, at once, to flee,
With scanty stowage—on uncertain sea—
Still firm on Faith and Hope Endeavour stood,
He knew his Pilot pow'rful—wise—and good!
The great Creator, ever just and true!
Must rectitude and order still pursue;
Ne'er Men, invested with such gifts, reveres,
Who outstrip Him, and trample on their Peers!
He looks on all Mankind with equal eye
Who sway proud sceptres, or in dungeons die!
No golden God is rear'd by His command—
No summon sent thro' every slavish Land,
With martial trumps, and instruments of mirth,
Convening vain inhabitants of Earth,
To bow, with awe, before such haughty Shrine,
And hold dead Metal, or dull Man, divine;
Nor lights fierce fires, to make Men's Lives a prey,
Who dare such Despot's mandates disobey!
He casts no Culprit down in lion's den
Who practises pure pious rights of Men;
Or destines multitudes to burn or bleed,
Whose Conscience execrates each papal Creed!
Such phrensies every hour infest Mankind,
Thro' native pride, and impotence of Mind.
Clerics and Laics both alike disturb,
Till true Religion strains her tighten'd curb.
All honour, pow'r, or property, pursue,
Some greater goods to gain, or, ills, eschew—
While each with wealth—pow'r—pomp—and pride, possest,
Hopes adoration paid by all the rest!

CHAPTER 8th.

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

CHAPTER 9th.

The Bard, from prompt philanthropy, was prone
To tune his periods in true Pity's tone,
Or touch his tenderer notes to lays of Love,
In unison with hearts and harps above—
But when his warm Benevolence was checkt
By frigid coldness, or unkind neglect,
He laid aside the simple oaten flute;
Both plaintive pipe, and pensive Muse, were mute:
But such harse insult, such outrageous wrong,
Stirr'd up the strains of keen satyric Song;
While his meek spirit moved, by pungent smart,
These measures murmur'd from his injur'd heart.

CHAPTER 10th.

When congregated Ton attends the Choirs
Of voices—catguts—tubes—and tinkling wires—
When Mara squalls, and Rubinelli squeaks;
Cramer's and Crosdill's fingers play strange freaks;
With numerous others, of inferior name,
Who get some solid pudding tho' poor fame;
The tweedling Troop will earn in twice two Hours,
More than in Weeks Mechanics' equal pow'rs—
More than in Months by Husbandmen are made,
Or annual profits of a petty Trade;
Beside such cates, and wines, consum'd in waste
As Artists, Hinds, or Tradesmen rarely taste.
Crispin's next care was, warily, to look
For some clean—clever—economic—Cook.
St. George's—James's—Marybone—must range—
Along Cheapside, and all about the 'Change,
To find a Man of prudence, and of parts,
Well-skill'd in all the culinary Arts—
A Man of management—of taste—of sense,
To dress large Dinners at the least expence—
To spread abundant plenty round the board,
Yet spare prolific Larder's endless hoard;
That every Guest much gewgaws might, behold,
But still be tender of the Giver's gold,
Domestic troops were then employ'd, complete,
Exerting tongues—ears—eyes—arms—hands—and feet—
All exercising utmost strength and skill,
At high behests respective parts to fill;
Full intellectual, and corporeal, pow'rs,
With heavy drudg'ry thro' a dozen hours,
Just to indulge a dozen Appetites,
For one short hour, dull animal delights;
While tried Artificer, who fram'd the feast,
With sport, and spoil, the cost, and crime, increas'd—
Whose wanton task, demanding little toils,
With waste preparing roasts, and bakes, and boils,
In eight hours earn'd, with comfort, near the fire,
As much as labouring Hind by three Weeks' hire,
Who cultivates the fields for various use,
To furnish Luxury for such base abuse;
Expos'd, in want, to suns—rains—frosts, and snows,
When Summer burns, or wintery Boreas blows.

CHAPTER 11th.

CHAPTER 12th.

Had only common, paltry, Clerks appear'd,
In Playhouse oftener seen, than Pulpit heard—
Who, in the Fox-chase, more than Closets, toil,
And lay their Bibles by to study Hoyle—
Who flatter Folly—ignorant Dupes endure—
Catching all interests to obtain a Cure—
Presumptuously neglect Christ's public Courts,
For sacrilegious schemes, and private sports—
Mix with the idle—volatile—and vain—
In quest of Pleasure, or in hopes of Gain—
Pursuing both by flattery—folly—lies,
This ne'er had caus'd one symptom of surprize—
But for the sake of such low fame, and lust,
Gave Crispin's Conscience pain, and deep disgust.
How then did secret indignation swell,
Beholding Bishops point the way—to Hell!
Misleading Laics, and poor priestly Elves,
By wandering downwards tow'rd the gulph themselves!
Breaking that Law by levity and pride,
With which Man's countless mass ought all be tied!
Not separately confin'd to humble Cots,
To regulate, alone, mean Mortals' lots;
But high imperial Rule, subjecting all
Who wear a Crown, or occupy a stall,
As well as Boors, who to the Sceptre bow,
Or, at a Prelate's feet confirm their Vow!
A Statute paramount to all the pleas
Of Canons' Conclaves, or dread Pope's decrees!
Which constitutes a Part of that pure Code,
That circumscribes each reasoning Creature's road;
A perfect Part of that most perfect Whole,
Which stamps the Duties of each deathless Soul!
'Tis like all Heav'n's unfathomable Arts—
Like God, Himself! one Whole, compos'd of Parts!
One adamantine Chain! all Agents, Yoke!
Whose force is lost if but one link be broke!
Thus every Soul that breaks this single Clause,
Incurs the curse that lies on all its Laws;
And all that keep not every Clause entire,
Must meet Heav'n's frowns; may feel Hell's endless fire!
None but true Saints can hope the blest reverse,
Who look to Jesu's Cross to 'scape the Curse;
As Israel's legions, in their journeying state,
View'd brazen Serpent, to reverse their fate.
What hope, then, can such Culprits entertain
To shun the penalty, and 'scape the pain?
Who not alone on Sabbaths break Heav'n's Laws
But every hour infringe with numerous flaws!
Ev'n in their dull Devotion's public Parts
By cold affections, and with heartless hearts;
While not a true Believer, now, below,
But sees, and sorrows, o'er these Ways of Woe:
Nay, not a Saint, who now inhabits Heav'n
But mark'd, and mourn'd, on Earth, this fleshly leav'n!
Each, now, must find, tho' fix'd in bliss, above,
Some imperfections in his filial Love,
When looking back on blest experience, here,
And what God's Grace is still bestowing there!
Ev'n the pure Cherubim that chaunt on high,
Must feel some symptoms of their Love's alloy,
While, fill'd with wonder, each sublimely sings,
And hides his face with wide-unfolded wings!
How then shall those dire condemnation 'scape,
Who break Love's holy Bonds in shameful shape?
Who quench Heav'n's fires with sordid, selfish phlegm,
And spoil its Rest with puerile sports like them!
This is a theme demanding deepest thought,
Which Laymen may discuss, but Clerics ought—
Some small return for what they deem their rights,
Dues, privileges, pow'rs—all dear delights!
A subject proper for each priestly place;
But Bishops, chief, should shun such deep disgrace,
While God allows them Life's uncertain Lease,
For present welfare, and for future peace—
To fix affiance in each doubting Mind,
Securing Heav'n's best gifts to all Mankind!
This is a most important paradox,
The Priesthood should explain to all their Flocks;
A paradox that ought still prompt their pow'rs
To studious toil, each Morn's and Evening's hours;
But most in days ordain'd, by Heav'n's Behest,
For Faith's reflections on its holy Rest—
Should knowledge—learning—reason—exercise,
To clear its judgments, and secure its joys!
Instead of mad frivolity and mirth,
And wit, and eloquence; all but little worth!
The God of Grace, with warmest ardour, urge,
With heavenly light their mental pow'rs to purge,
That each those Truths, and Mysteries, may discern,
All Pastors ought expound—all People learn!
By comments clear, that seeking Souls may find,
Full satisfaction for their thoughtful Mind;
Deliver'd from all doubt, and dreadful fear,
And feeling genuine joys, while wandering here;
With full assurance of eternal store,
When, with their Life, their labours will be o'er—
But by their blind misleadings all may miss
The way to earthly peace, and heav'nly bliss!
While views and visions of infernal dread
Must haunt their daily path, and dying bed,
For thus neglecting their eternal trusts
To feed their follies, and indulge their lusts!
Heav'n's Truths, and Mysteries, many a Soul can solve,
Whom labour, care, and poverty, involve—
Whose heads no learning bear; no knowledge boast—
Ne'er mix'd with cleric herd, or courtly host;
But constant Courtiers round God's gracious Throne,
Who makes to such His Truths and Mysteries known—
While King, and Priest, yea, ev'n prelatic Clerk,
Purblind with Pride, grope daily in the dark.
Not only this perplext poor Crispin's breast,
On days ordain'd, by God, for sacred Rest;
But more intense emotions hurt his Heart
When Pow'r compell'd to take an active Part.
On Sabbaths, oft, were splendid Tables spread,
That Sycophants, and Courtiers, might be fed.
Furnish'd with costly, and with curious, fare,
Where Crispin was oblig'd his lot to bear:
At side-board bound to take accustom'd stand,
As mighty Marshal of inferior Band,
Endeavouring there to dignify the Place,
With looks of Gravity, and airs of Grace;
Lest Pimp, or Parasite, with seeking eye,
Should mark a careless look, or limb awry,
And make some spurious criminal report
Before his Queen's inquisitorial Court.
This harrass'd, sore, his philosophic Sense,
But aching Conscience felt much more offence,
To see so many Souls' immortal Pow'rs
Urg'd hard to labour thro' those holy hours—
Such Pow'rs, all capable of bliss, sublime;
So sacrific'd to things of Sense and Time;
While all those mental Pow'rs should find employ,
To fit them for that bliss Heav'n's hosts enjoy!
Compell'd to occupy such carnal Posts,
In lieu of worshipping the Lord of Hosts;
Merely that Troops of Epicures might taste,
Pernicious pleasures, of an hour's repast!

CHAPTER 13th.

But their blest Prince possesses wealthier Worth
Than all the haughty Potentates on Earth!
Not only all that fluid Ocean fills,
And countless Cattle on Earth's Plains, and Hills—
Nor only all its furnish'd lap unfolds—
All Gems and Ores its hidden bosom holds;
But all the thousands that compose the throngs
Of numerous Nations, and of untold Tongues,
With all their mental pow'rs, and corporal might;
Ev'n all their Sceptres, and their sovereign Right!
Yet He His best-Belov'd but rarely lifts
To risque the dangers of such dazzling Gifts,
But making most oft sharp experience feel
Of pains and sorrows for their future weal—
Of mockery—spite—yea, every shape of Woe,
His human Soul sustain'd for Man below,
To purge their Spirits from foul earthly leav'n,
And fit for liberty, and bliss, in Heav'n!
Not only Crispin felt this lot forlorn,
In suffering, for his Saviour, hate, and scorn,
But each Believer liv'd alike abhorr'd,
Who lov'd and reverenc'd his redeeming Lord—
Those most who cherish'd most that glorious Guest,
And copied His beloved example best!
And why? when Lives, oppos'd, Mankind compares,
The Christian's heavenly Conduct libels Theirs!

CHAPTER 14th.

This calm Instructor chiefly was concern'd
To teach the Languages himself had learn'd—
To store his Pupil's intellect with tools,
So frequent misapplied by Fops and Fools;
That he might properly ideas pen,
To shine, thro' Life, among the greatest Men;
Or play learn'd, eloquent, and witty, pranks,
Among St. Stephen's mobbish, marv'lling Ranks;
Till he became, perchance, a brilliant Peer,
And shone the greatest of the great-Ones there!
But, to obtain these fascinating hopes,
He must adopt his Aunt's emphatic tropes;
Her Art acquire, her Eloquence imbibe;
To emulate that fam'd sophistic Tribe—
That confidential Pedagogue, divine,
Must store his Mind from Learning's golden Mine—
Thro' all its puzzling labrynths to trace
The veins of Knowledge—Wit—Sense—Grammar—Grace.
There he must grub thro' wonder-working ground,
Where Wit, and Wisdom can, alone, be found.
Must meditate within those magic Cells
Where every Art, and every Science, dwells—
Whose plastic Walls mere Ideots may inspire,
With clear conceptions and poetic fire;
While inbred beams, devoid of outward aid—
Teach every intellect true Logic's trade—
Keep Judgment clear, lead purblind Reason right,
And yield weak Understanding heavenly light,
Lounging at leisure, on each classic Soil,
Prevents all study, and precludes all toil.
There not one high, or affluent, Student, need
Hear Lecture, or dispute—or write—or read—
For that pure Air, those blest Collegians breathe
Pours Genius—Wisdom—Wit—on Blocks beneath—
Sheds true Divinity, on each, full share,
And makes them pious without thanks, or pray'r!

CHAPTER 15th.

CHAPTER 16th.

No gracious Governor, with calm Content,
Would see his Subjects, all of like Descent,
Some every pleasure, pow'r, and pomp, enjoy,
While Thousands pine their luxuries to supply—
Much less all bounties on such Band bestow
With rigour forc'd from every Rank below!
He, greater than the greatest of Earth's Great!
Assum'd no Honour—sought no Pomp, or State—
But what from purest principles arose;
Still mortifying Friends, and favouring Foes.
Ne'er partially, on proud distinctions stood,
But went about, each day, in doing good!
Indulging neither Arrogance, or Sloth,
But labour'd, ardently, to banish both.
He ne'er was known in pageant Pomp to ride;
Puff'd up with Pow'r, or Pamper'd high with Pride;
But, Pride and Ostentation to controul
Once meekly mounted on an Ass's Foal.
Whence came the Grant, which Government Men call,
The privilege of Few, for ruling All?
All Pow'r, originally, rests with God—
To yield Rewards, or exercise the Rod;
And, equally, must every Soul alive
From that vast Depth all springs of Pow'r derive—
'Tis He, alone, on mortal Man bestows
All he possesses—all he feels or knows—
Corporal Beauty—Strength—and Spirits' Pow'r,
With wonderous Faculties, alike, His Dow'r—
The only difference human Minds discern
Are different Pow'rs to think—speak—act—or learn—
And every Individual Will and Sense,
To form distinctions, and repel offence.
Not One, with arbitrary Pow'rs endued,
To govern and command a Multitude.
That was, at first, by mutual Compact made,
In Time, become a mercenary Trade;
Where all with Wealth—or Wit—or Pow'r—possest,
Invent and use vile Arts to rule the Rest.
While each endeavours to acquire frail Fame;
Some empty Honour, or some noisey Name—
Labour, by Skill, or Cunning, to obtain
More faithless influence, or more graceless Gain—
To persecute—oppress—deceive—betray—
And govern others with tyrannic sway.
What right had their Forefathers, thus to bind
Their Children to churl Kings, of either Kind?
As well they might oblige their Brats to lie,
Bound down in lake, or bog, till both were dry;
Nor suffer from the mud to leap, or crawl,
Till Summer-Suns had broil'd, or bak'd, them all—
Meantime lamenting o'er their lot forlorn,
And cursing Fate because they there were born.
What madness must it be, if e'er 'twas done
That foolish Sire should so confine the Son,
And thus with Kings, and graceless Knaves, engage—
To bind his injur'd Brood from Age to Age!
Could we conceive a large Land-owner wise,
Who should with honest Servant so devise,
That He, and His, to Time's compleat extent,
Should act as Stewards, and receive his Rent—
Make all Agreements what each Hind must give
That each, in Peace, and Competence might live;
While selfish Offspring, at some future Time
Should grow regardless both of Cost, and Crime;
And, heedless of Dependant's deep distress,
Still, proudly, on complaining Tenants press,
By that rude Pow'r claiming much more than dues;
Condemning all as Foes who dared refuse—
When, in default, the small remainder seize,
Robbing their Frames of rest, their Hearts of ease:
If still deficient fix in prison fast,
To vex, and starve, till robb'd of lives at last;
And all for selfish, vain, or vicious Ends,
To serve Themselves—their Families—and Friends—
Without attention to deputed Trust
And right regard to what was true—or just.
While, to support their Pomp—their Pride—their Place—
And shun the shameful danger of disgrace,
With neighbouring Breed litigious claim commence,
In spite of Justice—Truth—and simplest Sense;
And risque to ruin, midst their clamorous cry,
His Heirs who gave their Parent first Employ.
But must not Men be base—or frantic Fools,
To make twelve millions one weak Tyrant's Tools?
Or must not those in Pow'r be arrant Knaves
Who aim to make all others abject Slaves?
Striving to keep a Successor in Pow'r,
Whom Providence denies Man's common Dow'r?
Tie every Man of Wit, or Wisdom, down
By trammels only meet for Fool, or Clown?
As well might Blocks oblige gigantic Heir
The pigmy Parent's cast-off Cloaths to wear;
Or Titan Sire's by dwarfish Sons be worn
Proud Spectacles of ridicule and scorn!
With childish toys groups of grown Men amuse,
All reasoning Tyros would with scorn refuse;
Or go to Goody's scolding School agen,
To con their Alphabet when classic Men.
Were any earthly Kings become discreet,
Knaves only would disturb their snug Retreat;
Or when found just, and watchful, tho' not wise,
Fools only would affront, or Dupes despise;
For now the wicked World's become so bad,
Such necessary Evils must be had—
But when they aim at arbitrary Pow'r,
To spoil—oppress—to vex—or to devour—
All, who love Justice, and respect the Poor,
Must wish such worrying Monsters were no more—
Yea all who worship Heav'n, and honour Worth,
Must beg such Brutes may soon be swept from Earth!
Draw Contrast close, and see how ill they suit,
'Twixt British George, and Gaul's Imperial Brute
Each Vice and Virtue weigh, then truly tell,
How this is fit for Heav'n and that for Hell!

CHAPTER 17th.

Think not, ye restless Rich! low Malice lurk'd
Within the labouring breast, while Anger work'd—
He'd ne'er his Peace, and richer Hopes, resign,
For all your Wit and Wealth—your Show and Shine;
Nor wish like Riches—Honours—Place—or Pow'r;
Unless God's Grace would bless each bounteous Dow'r,
By shaping both his Heart, and Will, to share
Those blessings with the Broods of Toil and Care—
For God, and gracious Conscience, must condemn
Such Pomp and Luxury whilst neglecting Them!
His Heart ne'er hanker'd after Fame, or Wealth,
To risque Heav'n's better blessings, Peace and Health;
Nor could his Conscience covet Pow'r, or Place,
Gay Pomp—and Pride, and Lust, with loss of Grace;
Or to seek to purchase, at such countless price,
Such negatives as Vanity, and Vice;
With all the Folly—Falshood—Flattery—found
To cheat the Soul, on such enchanted Ground;
The Troubles—Cares—Anxieties—of Mind,
The frantic Votaries, of those Idols, find;
That, in the present State, all peace destroy,
And banish all just hopes of heavenly Joy:
Ah! no—pure Pity struck his aching Heart,
Beholding You perform your frantic Part;
And swelling sighs oft hove His troubled Breast
To see You, 'mid such Blessings, so unblest!
To see You thus the World's and Satan's Slaves,
With loads of Guilt all hurrying to your Graves—
Each moment subject to your Maker's call
To leave, for ever, this enamouring Ball;
When Life no more shall feel one moment lent
To seek your Spirit's Ransom, or, repent!
When full Accounts must, faithfully, declare
All Talents' use committed to Your care;
And how those bounteous Loans were all bestow'd,
While wandering o'er Life's sublunary Road!
He inly mourn'd to mark Your Lives devoid
Of all pursuits but Passion—Lust—and Pride;
And grieved to note your Time—your Pow'r—your Pelf—
Fully consum'd on that frail Idol—Self—
None spent on Penury, ev'n at Heaven's call,
Nor for His glory, who first gave You all;
Or scanty doles, by dread of scandal driv'n,
If more enlarg'd, all for Self-glory giv'n.

CORONATION OF GEORGE III. AND QUEEN CHARLOTTE.

COLINET.
A fatted steerling from the stall,
That never bare the yoke;
Low shall his brindled forehead fall,
Beneath the fatal stroke.

DAMON.
Of all my choicest mellow fruit,
I'll drain my summer's hoard;
—Such might the nicest palate suit,
Or grace a prince's board!

COLINET.
The apple's heart some sparkling juice,
To shepherds ever dear!
Young Mopsus smiling shall produce,
In heavy goblets clear.

DAMON.
While nymphs and swains, in lovely pairs,
From neighbouring cots advance;
And to the Haut-boy's sprightly airs,
Shall frisk the wanton dance.

COLINET.
Between each dance ye jovial crowd,
With all their vocal powers;
In rapt'ring chorus long and loud,
Shall hail the blissful hours.

DAMON.
In rural strains we'll sing our joys,
To Europe's King of Kings;
Nor shall great George the swains despise
Whence all his glory springs.

COLINET.
—But still the flocks imprison'd fast,
Their hungry Vigils keep;
And while we scheme our rich repast,
We pine the murmuring sheep.

DAMON.
This happy day our fleecy charge,
Shall barren rocks exchange;
And o'er the meadows fat and large,
Without restraint shall range.

COLINET.
—Go fly ye harmless prisoners, fly,
Heaven's richest blessings share;
Come Damon to thy cottage hie,
And for the feast prepare.

DAMON.
But stop; where yonder stately tree,
With heavy branches bends;
I, Thrysis, learned shepherd see,
Who swiftly this way tends.

COLINET.
'Tis he the dear beloved youth,
With ever tuneful tongue;
Renown'd for loyalty and truth,
And mild enchanting song!

DAMON.
Or when his pipe with warbling notes,
Resounds fair Delia's praise;
So sweet the magic music floats,
The flocks forget to graize.

COLINET.
To him we'll frankly all bequeath,
The bards illustrious place;
And with a shining Laurel wreath;
His Iv'ry temples grace.

DAMON AND COLINET.
What lovely swain has thee befell?
Why glare thy steadfast eyes?
Tell, gentle Thrysis, quickly tell,
The cause of thy surprise.

THRYSIS.

COLINET.
Oh Thrysis in Sylvan lays,
Shall every voice contend;
And with great George and Charlotte's praise;
—The mirthful day shall end.

DAMON.
We'll quaff the deep capacious bowl,
A well-fed steer shall bleed;
So with a free and loyal soul,
Has Colinet decreed.

THRYSIS.
Nor shall our songs Britannia's Lord
With Cæsar's name disgrace;
Nor Briton's valiant sons record
With Rome's inferior race:

COLINET.
No, George and Charlotte most sublime,
Shall fill th' historic page;
And in immortal Whitehead's rhyme,
Descend through every age.

THRYSIS.

COLINET.
See Shepherds now th' unwearied sun,
Has travell'd up the East
And half his toilsome four has run,
Haste, haste provide the feast.

TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq., IN HIS SICKNESS,
By Mr. WOODHOUSE.

POEMS ON Several Occasions

AN ELEGY TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq., OF THE LESSOWES.

ELEGY II. WRITTEN TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq., OF THE LESSOWES.

BENEVOLENCE.

AN ODE. Inscribed to my Friends.

SPRING.

THE LESSOWES.

A POEM.

WROTE AT THE LESSOWES, AFTER Mr. SHENSTONE'S DEATH.

PALEMON AND COLINET.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

PALEMON.
I still frequent dear Damon's matchless bow'rs,
His limpid springs, and sweet umbrageous vales;
Where I was wont to pass the blisful hours,
When Damon's voice attun'd the scented gales.

COLINET.
Sure, never shepherd sung so sweet a strain,
None could in soft instructive tales excel;
None could, like him, express a lover's pain;
But, all his fame his songs alone can tell.

PALEMON.
A gentler soul ne'er warm'd a shepherd's breast,
He spurn'd not pen'ry with imperious air;
Low worth exulted, with his bounty blest;
Each tuneful swain was his peculiar care.

COLINET.
But, ah! no more his voice shall charm the grove,
From lowly worth his future bounty's fled;
No more shall tuneful swain his goodness prove,
He's gone to mix among the vulgar dead.

PALEMON.
Ah! now I feel, again, the pangful wound
Which late I felt, lamenting o'er his grave,
With vulgar turf and twisted brier bound,
Nor less prophan'd than that which shrowds a slave.

COLINET.
While murd'rous chiefs, and crafty statesmen's dust,
And titled vice, and scepter'd ignorance, lie
Beneath the sculptur'd stone, and polish'd bust,
Where lying motto's catch the cheated eye.

PALEMON.
When Damon's brother fell by partial fates,
His pious hands fraternal trophies raise;
And one, his tuneful friend commemorates,
And one, proclaims the beauteous Dolman's praise.

COLINET.
What tho' no grateful soul, with gen'rous hand,
Nor marble urn, nor common tombstone give,
In shepherds' hearts his character shall stand,
And, in his lays, his fame shall ever live.

PALEMON.
My only ram should quit my little fold,
(Nor would Narcissa that profusion blame)
To see bright marble Damon's dust enfold,
And lasting epitaph support his fame.

COLINET.
Perchance, in future day, some friend sincere,
Of tuneful genius, and of soul sublime,
Some monument may o'er his ashes rear,
And snatch his mem'ry from the wreck of time.

PALEMON.
Mean-while, from Damon's fields, and Damon's bow'rs,
What charm'd him with their tints, or soft perfume,
We'll yearly cull, sweet shrubs, and glowing flow'rs,
And spread the grateful wreath upon his tomb.

TO THE Right Honourable LORD LYTTLETON.

TO THE Right Honourable LORD LYTTLETON.

AN EPISTLE.

My Lord,

VERSES Addressed to ------ On receiving some valuable Books.

As orphans mourn their tender parents dead,
Unknowing whence to hope their future bread;
So I, an intellectual famine fear'd,
When, snatch'd by fate, my Shenstone disappear'd.
Some scanty morsels mock'd my eager mind,
Now half replenish'd, now with hunger pin'd;
Till all my painful, anxious craving ceas'd,
When your kind hand vouchsaf'd a constant feast.
So Israel's offspring, on the desert plain,
Bewail'd Egyptian roots and herbs in vain;
Till bounteous heav'n, to ease their discontent,
Show'r'd luscious manna round each murm'ring tent.
But, like that lustful, that insatiate race,
Shall I still murmur, and the gift disgrace?
No! grateful as a pining wand'rer's heart,
When christian hands a plenteous dole impart;
And call'd to share the fire's reviving heat,
While frigid storms around his temples beat;
As warm to you, to all, my bosom glows,
Who sympathiz'd with mine and Daphne's woes.

GRATITUDE.

A POEM. To ------

TO THE Right Honourable the Countess of ------ On the Death of a Daughter.

ODE TO APOLLO.

What, while my best oblations thus I pay,
Shall I request? great God of verse and day!
Not all the golden grain Britannia yields,
Or fleecy flocks that throng her fertile fields;
Not meeds and villas washed by silver Thames,
Or endless wealth that loads his smiling streams:
Let fortune's fav'rites prune their subject vines,
Let merchants quaff in gold the gen'rous wines,
While prospering Gods each wealthy bark sustain,
That frequent plows the wide Atlantic main:
Me, herbs and fruits and simple viands please;
O grant, Latona's son! O grant me Ease,
Content and Health—an ever-tuneful lyre—
Rever'd old age—these bound my full desire.

POEMS ON Several Occasions ... WITH An Address to the Public.

RIDICULE.

ELEGY ON A FAVOURITE CHILD WHO DIED OF THE SMALL-POX.

ELEGY Written in 1784, from the Country.

ODE TO THE LILY.

A MORNING RHAPSODY.

Norbury Park, A Poem; With several others, written on various occasions.

NORBURY PARK.

A POEM, Inscribed to W. LOCK, Esq.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG LADY OF TITLE, ON SEEING HER, OFTEN, AT DIVINE ORDINANCES.

EPISTLE to the Rev. Mr. SELLON, ON HIS WEEPING IN AN ADDRESS TO YOUTH.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, In Answer to this Question—
Why do Trees Shoot Strongest Upwards?

ODE TO A FRIEND, On his Marriage.

EPISTLE TO THE SAME, On his desiring the Author to point out the striking Passages in Cowper's poems.

EPISTLE TO SHENSTONE, In the Shades; .

On reading his Rural Elegance

TO MY WIFE AND CHILDREN, Under a severe affliction in my Eyes.

Oh! dire disease! why would'st thou come,
To vex a wanderer far from home?
No place is home, no home is dear,
Unless my gentle Hannah's there.
Why haunt me here in lonely cell,
Where neither Friends or Lovers dwell.
Had you been here, with wonted smiles,
To soothe my pains and ease my toils,
My heart had felt from troubles free
While blessing Thine embracing Thee—
My eyes had found far happier lot,
Their pain, not known, or soon forgot,
My youthful Friends, had fondly spread
Soft blandishments about my head;
My love had fill'd a fuller part
By pouring balm thro' eye and heart.
Tho' sallow Sickness leagu'd with Pain,
They'd shoot their leaden shafts in vain;
My tender Girls, my worthy Boy,
Would fan me with incessant sigh—
Would watch, should burning pains appear,
And shed their cooling dew-drops there:
My veteran Mate would take the field,
With fortitude which ne'er would yield,
And courage, which no fears appall,
Resolv'd to triumph, or to fall!
Should venom'd point transpierce my heart
She'd eager suck the poison'd part,
And rather fall of life bereft,
Than be by her lov'd Comrade left—
Amid the world's mad wars and woes,
Would smile and sigh o'er slighter blows;
Would smile that now I far'd no worse,
Yet sigh for fear of future curse;
And, when she found fell mischiefs miss,
Would seal the scape with ardent kiss.
But should I feel the fatal wound,
With you my Wife and Offspring round,
My mourning Spouse would speed her pray'r,
My lot in Death, as Life, to share;
Nor covet longer grief and toil,
To work, and weep, and pine a while,
But wish with him her Soul might go,
And meet like boon as here below.
But, ere our Spirits pass'd away,
And fix'd our faith, and mix'd our clay;
We'd urge you, Friends, our rising race,
With melting look and warm embrace,
To cherish, here, your mutual love,
And strive to join our Souls above—
To take the cross and kiss the rod,
Of Saviour—Sanctifier—God—
And, when we dropp'd our last adieu,
Leave living epitaphs in you!

TO MY WIFE, ON HER WISHING TO SEE ME HALF AN HOUR.

Dear Hannah!

THE BOY AND BUTTERFLY.

A FABLE.

AUTUMN AND THE REDBREAST.

AN ODE, Written from the Country, 1787; Inscribed to my Wife.

LOVE LETTERS TO MY WIFE;

Written in 1789.

LETTER I.

[Tho' to Thee 'tis nothing rare]

Dear Hannah,

Tho' to Thee 'tis nothing rare,
That I pronounce I'm fond, and Thou art fair—
That Love, attending Time, thro' many a round,
Unfluctuating still my Faith hath found—
And still my Mind, were every Fair-one free,
Would feel thy charm the same, and fix on Thee.
Should such positions meet the Public's eyes,
All would pronounce them mere poetic lies;
For each, while beastly lusts their bosom sway;
Would judge the rest were all as vile as they.
And it must needs appear exceeding strange,
In eight and twenty Years to feel no change!
Strange! in a foolish, fickle, World, like this,
Which boasts in change alone, its choicest bliss;
But, if a change in Us, unlike our Betters,
As facts will prove before I close these Letters.
A Letter to a Wife! the subject Love!—
This must seem stranger still to Folks above,
Whose wandering hearts in countless channels stray,
Ere Hymen hails their eight and twentieth day.
But 'tis not so with Us, in deed, or will,
As Heav'n hath witness'd and can witness still—
Thou ever lov'd, and ever loving Wife!
Substantial image in the dream of Life!
Chief sweetner of my Being's mawkish cup,
Which prompts me, maugre dregs, to drink it up!
Thou swell'st each joy, and soften'st every woe:
Heav'n's noblest bounty in my lot below!
Except that purer bliss, which still descends
On true Believers, from their best of Friends!
Twelve tedious weeks have, slowly, crawled along,
Since thy transporting presence made me young;
When my responsive, palpitating, heart,
In all thy raptures bore its ready part;
When each fond nerve in lesser joys would join,
And strike its tones in unison with thine!
If twittering Red-breast caught thy listening ear,
To me no Nightingale was half so dear!
But if thy tongue attun'd the vocal strain,
Whole woodland choirs might urge each song in vain!
The faintest flow'rs that sprigg'd the gloomy glades,
Or, void of scent, peep'd pale thro' sickly shades,
I found, when pluck'd, and on thy bosom plac'd,
All Flora's pride by Thee and them disgrac'd,
Tho' Summer-sweets from grove and field were fled,
Thy opening lips their essenc'd odours shed—
Tho' rose and lily long had left the year,
I view'd thy face and found both blooming there—
Tho' fogs, autumnal, shut out half the day,
Thy azure eyes could look that loss away;
And when discarded quite, with wintry shrowd,
Thy vernal charms still shone without a cloud.
If whistling winds were thy enamour'd theme,
I sigh'd no more for Summer's fanning stream;
Or shew'd'st affection for a show'ry sky,
I never wish'd a single hour of dry.
When grinding Gout convuls'd my tortur'd toe,
'Twas rapture, even then, with Thee to go;
For tho' each grating step provok'd a groan,
'Twas happier, far, than pining here, alone—
And oft, while here, when seated near thy side,
I dar'd the Despot's amplest pow'r deride;
For while my eye survey'd thy matchless charms,
My heart forgot, or spurn'd his dire alarms—
Or, where the Tyrant struck his ruffian fangs,
Thy hand's soft stroke asswag'd the sharpest pangs,
While each calm'd tendon took a quiet nap,
So sweetly lull'd within thy cradling lap!
The fell Fiend, now, with tenfold rage returns—
Deep-agonizing gnaws, and throbs, and burns.
Without controul dissects his destin'd prey,
Whilst Thou, Physician fair! art far away;
Anatomizing still with tenter'd claw,
He leaves each tender nerve to torment raw,
But while his talons tear each morbid part,
Thy absence wrings, much more, my wretched heart!
No soothing Friend, sweet antidote! is nigh,
While wintry horrors Nature's charms destroy;
December calling up tempestuous trains,
With warlike arms to persecute the plains—
Keen barbed blasts, with meteors dense at night,
The welkin chill, and chase the short-liv'd light!
No smiling leaf appears—no fragrant flow'r—
No song survives to glad the gloomy bow'r;
But tragic rooks bedim the dusky spray,
And caw, with clamorous plaint, for lingering day!
The pilfering frosts, and furious hostile floods,
Bedrench the dales, and pillage hills and woods;
Dark desolation shrowds the ghastly ground,
While storms, undenn'd, howl horrid mischiefs round,
And thou, my gentle Hannah! art not near,
Smiling again to Spring the pliant Year!
Imprison'd fast in dismal monkish cell,
With owls, and bats, and spectres, doom'd to dwell;
Coop'd like a recluse swine, in cloister'd stye,
Cut off from every sweet and social joy!
Or shackled savage, in sequestered den,
Expung'd from all the chearful haunts of men;
Except such haunts as beasts of prey approve,
Hermits affect, or sots and dullards love.
Such fate we servile Slaves must, frequent feel,
While scourg'd with scorpion whips of biting steel,
Which, proud of pow'r, all petty Tyrants wield,
Rejoic'd to make we sturdy Truants yield;
Yet Nature's common claims start, uncontroul'd,
Tho' Will and Sense are prodigally sold—
Sold to some selfish Arbiter of Earth,
To proud to estimate Man's genuine worth,
Whose Liberty and Time are truck'd for nought,
The Soul's fair commerce! merchandize of thought!
'Tis Esau's curse; who, like our abject troop,
His birthright bartered for a mess of soup!
Men, thus degraded, must assume new shapes,
As camels—asses—lap-dogs—pointers—apes.
Bear heavy burdens—learn to fetch and carry—
Play monkey tricks—but never, never marry!
For Wives will claim affection, thought, and time;
And Children aggravate the deadly crime—
Spontaneous impulse must be thrust aside,
The love of Offspring, and of tender Bride;
Friend—Husband—Father—all mere mock repute—
In bondage duteous; but, at home—a Brute—
A Despot's dupe! a Family's fell rod!
Fulfil his office, but forget his God!
His actions must be shap'd—his air, and mien—
A plain repeater! copying machine!
His words and looks conform to mimic laws,
Like puppets—magpies—parrots—jays, and daws.
Go back to pupillage; and, promptly, learn,
Head, eyes, and ears, and arms, and legs, to turn—
Soft sentiments and accents fitly form
To mould and tone, or meet perpetual storm.
The head, like barber's block, propp'd up by pride,
With freestone curl, or crape, on either side;
And lengthen'd cones of hair, which downward shoot
Like parsnip, radish, beet, or carrot root—
With store of stiffening filth to roll behind,
Like stuccoed tails of greasy, grunting, kind;
Forg'd full in lumps, and ballasted with lead,
Appendage fit for dolt's unfurnish'd head—
Or, plaited, powder'd, swell'd in antic taste,
Like twisted vermicelli, or puff-paste:
The rest with roasted frizz, and flow'r, bedight,
Like foppish furze-bush on hoar-frosty night—
I look, and look again, but scarcely can,
In conscience, call such mongrel creature, Man.
None suffers Nature, now, in genuine way,
To grizzle aged heads, alone, with grey—
Let Youth's and puberty's loose tresses flow,
With varied tinctures, and with vivid glow—
Lank, pencill'd locks, without a curve, descend,
Or curls, in endless combinations, bend;
To give Diversity her beauteous range,
And keep Identity from treacherous change;
But all from Heav'n's establish'd order start,
And spoil their charms by childish tricks of Art.
Were comeliness Mankind's conspiring aim
To fix fond Admiration's rambling flame—
With Beauty's blaze to kindle warm desire;
Fan transient Lust; or feed Love's lasting fire;
All would pursue pure Nature's simple plan,
Woman be Woman still, and Man be Man;
Age still appear as Age, and Youth as Youth,
With unaffected traits like rapturing Truth:
For Nature only shapes those magic charms,
That furnish Beauty's most resistless arms—
Those lines and colours, innocence and grace,
Which throw enchantment o'er Thy form and face;
Knit the sure knots with which those nets are wrought,
That fetter fancy, and entangle thought—
That spread the spell, and modulate the lure,
Which fascinate each eye, each heart secure.
Taste, wonderous Talisman! with perfect ease,
Preserves the sure, the happy, pow'r to please—
Variety, with wild, bewitching, air,
Tho' changeful, chaste; tho' fanciful yet, fair;
With pure Simplicity, sweet Sister-twins!
The one securing what the other wins;
Attending constant, in their Mother's train,
Still help her conquests and enlarge her reign—
But handmaid, Art, leads Nymphs and Swains astray,
Thro' many a devious, many an irksome, way—
By flattering prospect fluttering Hope's betray'd,
Whose visions vanish, and whose objects fade.
Art wantonly invents, with varied whim,
To tinge the features, and the form to trim;
Till by ambiguous care, and endless cost,
All Nature's hues, and lineaments, are lost—
While Love lies vexing o'er her vanquish'd charms,
And throws away, with tears, his useless arms;
Or, to the rural plain, impatient, hies,
To fix his reign, and feast on fadeless joys,
Where thy bright beauties, Hannah, long have blown,
To crown his altar, and confirm his throne.
To tell how heads, and arms, and legs, we train,
A well-known simile will best explain—
Hast Thou not seen, in March, or April, morns,
When buds and blooms begin to deck the thorns;
Behind the clean, colloquial, bird-cage walk,
Where beaux and belles recline, or strut and talk;
(Why call'd so Antiquaries may discuss,
Who o'er mere trifles make a tedious fuss)
Near that fam'd structure, whence the worshipp'd Pair,
Brought forth to view, made Ignorance gape and stare,
With reverential wonder, to behold,
Two Mortals glare with frippery and gold—
Or, to keep up the price of kingly pride,
Fools' empty tongues, and vulgar eyes, avoid;
Box'd up in close sedans, with curtain'd glasses,
To scape the peeps of twice ten hundred asses.
Which sacred Personages, when within,
By close economy shun beastly sin;
Abstemious eat and drink, while, free from fear,
They stock the Earth, like Us, each teeming year—
Near that said Mansion, on the grassy plain,
Expos'd to heat, and cold, and wind, and rain,
Spruce ranks of brick-dust-colour'd beaux are seen,
Like Statues stiffly stuck athwart the green;
While, full before their face, with martial wand,
And high majestic air, their Masters stand:
Whose churlish looks, by strong mysterious charm,
Move every jointless leg, and awkward arm;
Or oaths and threats, miraculous like blows,
New hinge the knees—articulate the toes—
Full shoulders flatten—bloat the hollow breast—
Till, like proud puppets, swivell'd, wir'd, and dress'd,
They fiercely look—whirl round—and roll their quids,
Just as the conjuring Shewman bluffly bids.
Thus we must manage heads, and hands, and feet,
As our sublime Commanders deem most meet.
Must skip like apes—like prudes look pure and prim,
To tickle haughty pride, or flatter whim;
And when harsh act, or speech, or look, reprove,
With patience listen, and with promptness move.
The tortur'd heart may swell—or burst—or break—
No trammell'd tongue those throbbing pangs must speak
But looks must fondly fawn, and lips must lie,
The supple back must bend, and feet must fly,
And hands, alert, perform their tasks, with speed,
Tho' eyes are drown'd, and bosom throb and bleed.
Should honest office, e'er so kindly meant,
In jot or tittle fail the full intent,
No virtuous views explain'd, or clearly known,
Can for such slips, or slight mistakes, atone;
But while on treacherous Memory's boggy ground,
No wholesome herb, or scented flow'r, be found,
Yet, like the trench the Grecian barber made,
And there fool Midas' fatal trust betray'd;
If ever dubious deed, or sentence quaint,
Or ought that scandal's blighting breath can taint;
Or just resentment, rationally stirr'd,
Produce one louring look, or waspish word,
Forth from the spongey soil, like pointed reed,
With dog-rose thorny smile, sharp sounds proceed,
In lie, or libel, two-edg'd taunt, or jeer,
At every change of sky throughout the year;
While Treachery cheats, or stabs, fair Friendship's trust,
Like Judas' devilish kiss, or Joab's jealous thrust.
Despots, tho' cruel, deem it monstrous queer,
Respectful duty should to dulness veer,
Then turn to strong dislike; while, weakly, they
Hope Tools, chastiz'd, more chearful will obey—
Think base Plebeians never know they're hurt,
But bear Pow'r's stripes, and still look more alert—
That beaten Slaves will fawn on Fools above,
And persecuted Louts, like Spaniels love—
As soon might Earth's antipodes unite,
As cruelty kind sentiments excite.
As soon an Angel from a Fiend be born,
As kindness flow from insolence and scorn:
Affection springs, alone, from tender ties—
Love only will from genuine love arise—
Benevolence must ever mutual be—
The Soul's delightful reciprocity!
Man, godlike Man! tho' sunk to servile state,
Feels not, like burden'd Beasts, the force of fate,
To tame obedience by keen lashes broke,
And go more freely, gall'd by bloody stroke—
Not like the mean domestic breed of Dogs,
That crouching, fawn, and lick the hand that flogs—
Nor like the Worm that slinks to sly retreat,
And scarcely turns when trampled under feet;
But basely twists while Tyrants bait their hook,
By which tom-culls or minnies may be took—
Still, tho' thro' Time by Providence depress'd,
He feels true dignity expand his breast;
And, knowing his descent, his heavenly birth,
Spurns Earth, and all that appertains to Earth!
Can arbitrary influence e'er controul
The in-born bias of Man's soaring Soul?
Can Mammon's votaries vainly hope to bind,
In shining shackles, his immortal Mind?
Put on some tinkling bells, and tinsel chains,
And hope he'll trudge with joy, 'mid griefs and pains?
Hope, tho' degraded to Man's meanest shape,
'Mid scoff and ridicule he'll act the ape?
That prison'd Minds will cease to pine, and mope,
'Tis Fools' absurd philosophism to hope.
Not bulls from Popes, or warrants back'd by Kings,
The Martyr's burning piles, or Miscreants' strings,
Can faithful Souls by fear, or force, subdue,
Who know their crimes are cross'd, and Heav'n is true—
For tho' imperious Popes, or Kings, may kill,
No earthly pow'r can bind the free-born Will:
'Tis like the thwarting elements at strife,
Or adverse interests torturing Man and Wife—
'Tis oil with water join'd, or fire with phlegm,
What Dolt would ever dream of mixing them?
Sooner might foolish Coachman hope to force,
The kind esteem of beaten, batter'd, horse—
Or pert Postilion, mad with megrims, think,
By whips and wales to make the creature drink:
I may by dint of discipline, compel
The fear-struck animal to travel well,
But never can by any force, or fright,
Produce pure love, or prompt an appetite.
Search Laws, reveal'd, or Nature's system, through,
Heav'n works, in all, with order strict, and true.
No Reptile, Insect, Fish, Bird, Beast, or Man,
By fraudful force, or stratagem, e'er can
Produce each other; but in form and mien,
The parents' portrait's in the offspring seen.
No beauteous Couples of the northern race,
With tropic black their progeny disgrace;
Nor Sires of sable hue, and woolly hair,
Produce the flaxen, or the fresh and fair:
So human Minds beget on human Minds
Similitudes in colours, shapes, and kinds;
In fellow Souls producing mental tone,
Of lusts—affections—passions—like their own—
O'er the whole frame their tranquil traits diffuse,
Or force contortions, vile, and heighten'd hues;
Depicting lights and shades, in face and form,
The smiling sunshine, or the frowning storm.
If Reason, with her tutor'd pencil, trace
Mild lineaments and lights, o'er form and face,
The soft attraction each beholder feels,
While, to each heart, she makes her mute appeals;
O'er all, around, the living lustre breaks,
And each calm countenance approval speaks:
So the smooth surface of the tranquil stream,
Enlighten'd by the Sun's celestial beam,
To all things, near, a faithful mirror holds,
And each clear form in earth and sky unfolds;
Delighted, every eye the vision views,
Distinctly trac'd, in sizes, shapes, and hues;
But when a passing cloud obscures the light,
No more enchanting landscapes charm the sight—
Or, when the winds in ruffling breezes blow,
And break the surface of the lake below,
A wild confusion every object blends,
And all the fairy fascination ends;
So, when perturbing passion stirs the breast,
No more the troubled form and features rest,
But every eye perceives the alter'd frame,
And every sentient heart partakes the same.
If Anger's brushes draw the harden'd lines,
No more the heavenly portrait, placid, shines;
But, Necromancer like, o'er magic book,
The vengeful visage, the malignant look,
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and flaming eye,
Transfer infection to each stander by,
Till every face is like a fiend's impress'd,
By fire and fury gender'd thro' the breast—
Or when fierce Hatred fires the tortur'd soul,
While bosom roars, and burning eye-balls roll,
Each neighbouring breast will feel the imp inspire,
Each blazing eye betray infernal fire,
Till foes and friends with canine fury yelp,
Stab, to revenge, or fiercely curse to help—
But Love, celestial Love! sweet Grace, divine!
Makes all hearts melt; all angel-faces shine;
And looks—longs—labours; sighs, and weeps, and bleeds,
Less to supply her own than others needs.
Nor christian Providence, nor pagan Chance,
In loving-kindness, or in casual dance,
Nor blindfold pow'rs of Fortune, or of Fate,
Make Hate engender Friendship, Friendship Hate;
Nor all the pow'rs below, or pow'rs above,
Can make malignant Passions procreate Love,
Can devilish Spite, in her delirious pet,
Meekness, and modest Gentleness, beget?
Humility be natural child of Pride?
Or Vice or Virtue bring forth ought beside?
Base Lust may fondly bid, or foully bribe,
And gain gross favours from her sister-tribe;
But Love, pure Love! can ne'er be bought, or sold,
By thirst for fame, or hunger after gold—
She feels no force in pow'r, or pomp, or pelf,
But simply barters, blessed Self for Self!
Sometimes, mayhap, the smiling, artless, Maid,
May be by serpent wile, or wit, betray'd—
May be, a time, enclos'd in Treachery's trap—
Recline her harmless head in Cunning's lap—
But ne'er by frowns, or threats, or ravings, rude,
The independent Paragon's subdued:
If trapp'd by trick, or snar'd by subtle lies,
She breaks her bonds, or ponders—pines—and dies—
She never cringes like a servile Slave,
But Freedom finds, or greets a welcome grave—
She seeks no service but her heavenly Sire's,
Who, kindles, fans, and feeds, her sacred fires;
His semblance bearing tho' in small degree,
And feels, tho' always serving, always free!
Shall noise and nonsense, giddy pomp and glare,
The simple, systematic, Swain ensnare?
Falshood and flattery, turpitude and pain,
Cajole his judgment? rend his heart in twain?
Seduce from guileless chat with modest maid,
To seek some vile, corrupt, and jilting Jade?
Despise the graceful garb, and comely coif,
With all the pure felicities of life,
For false and vicious lust, and vulgar lore,
With twice-dy'd, cast-off, cloaths bedizen'd o'er;
Head puff'd like owl's, with pigeon's bloated breast,
In ribbons, lappets, wires, and gauzes dress'd?
Have patience, Hannah; while I truly trace
The crafty city-crowd, and rural race—
No highly pencill'd picture's my design,
But just to sketch the clear, and bold, outline;
It calls a veteran Cowper's tutor'd hand,
To make each figure strong, and fitly, stand,
In high and rich relief, distinct and true;
My Muse's aim's a far inferior view,
Wrought rough and rude, for fellow-Rustic's eye,
To hint some caution; urge my Peers to fly,
And shun that gulph, the sober Boor's disgrace,
Where hiss'd Religion hides her hated face—
Where pure Morality her laws conceals,
Still stifling what she knows, and what she feels—
Where modest Merit hangs her bashful head,
While whooted Truth, and Liberty, lie dead.
How proudly would they trace Titanian Sire,
In wrath destroy'd by Heav'n's electric fire;
Or prouder still from ant'deluvian birth,
Close-dated down from giant Sons of Earth:
But, sad to tell! what must such claim confound,
That impious, proud, pragmatic, brood was drown'd!
Their title's clear to Ham's obscene descent,
Who sham'd his Father, drunk within his tent—
But, maugre all! Dan Pryor's honest boast,
Must level down this huge gigantic host,
Whose riven hearts, with indignation, grieve,
That all, alike, descend from grandam Eve!
Ah! did they feel that far superior claim,
Thy nobler boast, and mine, my dove-ey'd Dame!
Deriv'd from that great Being, most sublime!
Who rules all Worlds! continues thro' all Time!
Unbounded fountain, whence all blessings flow;
All bliss above! all wealth and pow'r below!
By titles, names, and epithets, disgrac'd,
On highest Angels, or Archangels plac'd;
Degraded more, compar'd with earthly things,
Whether the Lord of Lords, or King of Kings!
Him, tho' the King of all created hosts,
Him! Friend, and Father, each true Christian boasts,
While Mammon's offspring, haughtily disclaim
The real substance, yet usurp the Name.
No longer, then, let Bodies, equal born,
In fellow-dust dissolv'd, alike forlorn;
Nor let Fame, Wealth, or Titles, Pomp, or Pow'r,
The shadowy pageants of a passing hour!
Tempt the mistaken Soul to swell with pride,
Or humble Want and Worth with scorn deride;
God's only Son, when He, in lowly guise,
To bless rebellious Creatures, left the skies,
To preach repentance; urge regenerate birth;
And shew fall'n Man his fullest hopes on Earth—
His Spirit calling, still, to quit the dust;
To mortify false pride, and banish lust—
He, guiltless of all guile, and free from sin,
With Love, while striving, sinful Souls to win,
Was persecuted still by cruel Pow'r,
And vengeful Envy, to life's latest hour;
Then crucify'd and kill'd, with devilish Hate,
By whom?—the worldly Wise, and worldly Great!
Perhaps, my Hannah! Fraud, or hostile Force,
In Law's chicane, or conquering Bastard's course,
Have stol'n from peaceful, pristine, Ancestry,
What should, in right, attach to Thee and Me:
Then be it so; our blessedness consists,
Not in a Norman Plunderer's pilfering lists—
To blaze in herald registers enroll'd—
In large domains, or magazines of gold—
But interests and honours, still far high'r,
Christ's riches ours! His Father for our Sire!
And, tho' of earthly pomp and pow'r devoid,
Of golden treasures, and dominions wide,
Still we've a title, with all christian Clowns,
To heavenly Kingdoms, and celestial Crowns,
Unbounded glory, in the World above,
And here, below, the noblest bliss of Love!
If Genius haply lie in Penury's lot,
'Tis faintly notic'd, or 'tis soon forgot;
For hungry Ostentation constant craves
Fresh treats of flattery from her feudal slaves—
Claims myrrh and frankincense as rightful dues,
From priestly censer of the servile Muse—
As meagre bitterns, ever-sateless, roar,
And, while with dainties gorg'd, still gape for more.
When Flattery's food from Vanity's withdrawn,
And Cooks and Scullions, o'er their office yawn;
Pride thinks their scanty wages never earn'd,
Their care's all scouted; prompt attention spurn'd;
Till, pinch'd with hunger, Petulance discards
Each frail purveyor, even it's household Bards.
The nicest dish ne'er long affords delight
To puling Pride's fastidious appetite;
But Fancy must thro' Art and Nature rove,
Drain every lake, and river; plain, and grove;
Then bring the boundless spoils, as deem'd most meet,
And lay them, humbly, at the Harpy's feet—
Fantastic Taste still want of change bewails,
And, as it loath'd the Manna, loaths the Quails.
To Pride's imperious, stiffneck'd, Jewish train,
Their Maker wills, commands, and works, in vain;
All Wealth's and Fashion's Children, Slaves of Art!
Push God and Nature out from head and heart;
Adoring Titles, Honours, Pow'r, and Pelf,
But chiefly worshipping the idol, Self:
Like Chaldee's King, or Hebrew Priest, of old,
Rearing gigantic Gods, or Calves of gold,
Till heavenly vengeance doom their Pride, and Lust,
To bite Earth's bitter herbs, and drink the golden dust.

LETTER II.

[Now I'll prosecute my theme]

Dear Hannah,

Can righteous Heav'n regard ungracious Elves,
Whose worship centers wholly in themselves;
Adoring face, or form, or gaudy trim?
While God proclaims, that all shall honour Him—
That He's a jealous God—nor will forego,
One jot or tittle of his rights below—
That He'll inflict on culprits every curse,
Who dare His Will withstand, His views reverse.
What can such treasonable crimes atone,
Usurping, thus, their heavenly Sovereign's throne?
'Tis sacrilege; and Heav'n resents the wrongs,
When Creatures challenge what to Christ belongs!
'Tis Image-worship when a Mortal's shewn
The honours that pertain to God alone!
And are not such offences ever found,
In graceless Grandeur's fashionable round?
For is not all its glitter—all its gold—
Form'd into Images with Fancy's mould?
And tho' the Idol be a Knave or Fool,
When finish'd nice with Fashion's graving tool,
The reverence paid looks more or less divine,
In due proportion to the shew and shine.
All's calculated by the glow, and glare—
Frail, short-liv'd things their full affection share—
While Vanity unveils her whiffling flags,
Her glittering trinkets, and her tawdry rags—
Spreads spangled nets, and fills her philter'd bowl,
To fix each Sense, and fascinate the Soul—
Her birdlime twigs contrived with such sly Art,
That while they tangle thoughts, they trap the heart,
Thus to impair her strength, and spoil her wings,
No more to mount o'er temporary things,
But, drunk with spurious Pleasure—cag'd in State—
Forego true Freedom, and forget her Fate!
Thus God's disgrac'd, and thrust from thought, by stealth,
Thro' all the regions of unholy Wealth;
And each proud fabrick fill'd with Idols base,
By Pride's and Dissipation's impious Race—
But soon will Death arrive, and Time decay,
While Judgment sweeps these Works, and Them, away!

LETTER III.

[In my last, Thou'lt fully find]

Dear Hannah,

In my last, Thou'lt fully find
How Creature-worship will degrade the Mind—
How Vanity and Riches, Pomp and Pow'r,
The small remains of Innocence devour;
While from such fate, We feel Ourselves exempt,
No Wealth to wilder, and no Pomp to tempt—
From Fashion's wild bewitching influence free,
And Customs which corrupt each high Degree.
Still, tho' our hearts experience inborn Pride,
Its insolent demands are all denied;
And still, let us, my Hannah; live such lives
As well may shame all Courtiers and their Wives—
Our strength of Mind to moral duties turn'd,
Which Heav'n has taught, or Love, and Reason, learn'd.
Our noble energies confin'd, alone,
To pay their due devoirs at Heaven's throne—
To waft each Wish, and wing each dull Desire;
To graft each Grace, and rear each Virtue high'r,
Till all our Souls, inflam'd with heavenly Love,
Spurn Earth's frail toys, and soar to bliss above!
All weedy growths with ghostly tools root out;
Not dung and dress, like Them, each poisonous sprout,
But lop off every Lust's luxuriant head,
By Pow'r and Riches, Pomp and Luxury, fed—
Deprive the parent, Pride, of fattening food,
And strive to banish all its bastard brood.
With Affluence pamper'd or supine with Ease,
Pride scouts the very first of God's Decrees—
Heedless, or ignorant, of the sacred text,
In countless views Pomp violates the next;
And, still revolting from Heav'n's holy word,
Blind Passion and Prophaneness, break the third.
When God in Love his gracious Law declares,
And stamps with guilt each graceless Soul that swears;
Did He intend His vengeance to confine,
To mere blasphemers of his Name divine;
Whose impious hearts, in jollity, or joke,
Contemn His Anger, and His Pow'r provoke?
Those who in Passion His fix'd will defy,
Or use His Name to seal a solemn Lie?
Did He not comprehend, in that command,
As well the careless, hypocritic Band;
And mean the punishment alike for all,
Who on that Name in sacred Temples call;
When thoughtless, thankless, Worshippers appear,
And oft repeat those awful accents there,
As inattentive, idle, heedless, loud,
As oaths and curses in a vulgar crowd?
Pure Appellation! which, when Seraphs sound,
They bow their heads with holy awe profound!
And when His praise the high'st Archangel sings,
He veils his visage with his shining wings!
Yes—shameless Hypocrites must share the curse,
Whose bold audacity's the vile reverse!
Whose folly, falshood, or indifference, dare
Profane that Name in thanks, or praise, or pray'r—
Worse than vain Wretches who in sport, or pet,
Swear by that God, and swell their damning debt!

LETTER IV.

[Could thy artless eyes behold]

Dear Hannah,

LETTER V.

[Do not Thou begin to think]

Dear Hannah,

Should Wealth attend the Church, in Woman's form,
With head ne'er cool, and bosom never warm,
In works like that, when Melancholy's prey,
Or spiteful Spleen's, 'twere better be away.
Beside, such fondly deem 'twould weakly waste
Time happier spent in powder—paint—and paste.
Or, while a French frisseur adorns the head,
New Play, or luscious Novel, might be read.
Perhaps the sports and joys of Evening past,
With lov'd remembrance might thro' Morning last;
Or closely hid from every Creature's sight,
Absorb'd in dreams of future dear delight!
Still, on their couch reclin'd, indulge repose,
Till matin Pray'rs, and Psalms, and Sermon, close.
Perchance may stir by Two; get breakfast o'er
In time to dress, for all the Day, by Four:
Their irksome hours soon hoping to relieve,
By motley troops, in rabble-rout, at Eve;
For Fashion, when it entertains its Friends,
Begins its work when sober People's ends.
Do those that constitute this impious Band,
Religiously obey God's great Command?
Leave mad Amusement's vile collected Crews
At Gaming-tables—Taverns—Clubs—and Stews—
Relinquish wanton Lust, licentious Whim,
All Vice, and Vanity, to honour Him?
Frequent his Temples—reverence all his Rites—
And in his Service find their first delights?
Or do they honour those that gave them birth?
Mark'd as most excellent of all the Earth?
Or, still indulging devilish Sports, and Play,
Their Parents' honourable hopes betray?
Their anxious Cares, and Labours, all, beguile?
And thus become the vilest of the Vile?
And are not Man's most execrable Hords,
The broods of 'Squires—Knights—Baronets and Lords?
Or shameless Progeny of proudest Rates,
Viscounts—Earls—Marquisses—Dukes—Potentates?
Who seem best priviledg'd the palm to win,
Of every devilish Vice, and sordid Sin!

LETTER VI.

[Do not Thou too fondly deem]

Dear Hannah,

Do not Thou too fondly deem
My Muse is running to a rash extreme;
Or, led by Fancy's fascinating lure,
Is painting courtly Pictures too impure.
Didst Thou behold, with thy discerning Eye,
What oft, in Me, provokes the groan and sigh—
Perceive, obtruded on Thy tender Ear,
What sometimes prompts, in Me, the pitying tear—
Or find Thy heart, like Mine; from pains exempt;
When listening tales exciting stern contempt;
Then, Thou'dst no longer feel the faintest ruth,
Or blame my Muse for telling hateful truth.

LETTER VII.

[I no proud exemption plead]

Dear Hannah,

I no proud exemption plead
From folly, or from fault; in word or deed—
Aim not to stand aloof, distinct from others,
My sinful Sisters, or debased Brothers;
For, whether more, or less, my Body's found,
Tall, active, graceful, fair, strong, sweet, or sound—
Mind, witty, more, or less, or learn'd, or wise,
In Heav'n's endowments all the difference lies.
Yet still I wish, with Thee, to stand the test,
Which of the twain are best, and blessedest:
Whether Wealth, Pow'r, and Pomp, can counterpoise
Our moral pleasures, and religious joys—
Whether our station, and unnotic'd Name,
Secure not comfort more than public Fame—
Whether we find not fuller happiness
In simple Diet, and in simple Dress,
Devoid of foolish, and affected, airs,
Than they, in all the Luxury of theirs;
Or, whether our simplicity of Speech
May not Man's heart, and Heav'n's kind audience, reach,
As much, or more, than their exalted Sense,
With all the tropes of tutor'd Eloquence!
How gladly would my sympathetic Soul,
Their follies counteract! their faults controul!
Then should the Tyrants of our sentenc'd Earth,
Lay by the pride of Pow'r, of Wealth, and Birth,
And, warm with chearful zeal, at Church, or Home,
Hear—read—and ponder, Heav'n's instructive Tome—
To understand the Truths—the Rules apply—
To live with lustre—free from doubtings die—
And, full of Faith, and Hope, and fellow-Love,
Direct their looks and steps tow'rds bliss above,
While marking, accurate, and copying, fair,
One well-depicted, full-length, Portrait, there;
The Portrait of a Personage, so supreme,
He shines its Author, and its chiefest Theme!
Not hoping lights so strong, or tints so pure;
But faintly sketch'd in humble miniature.
Then God, complacent, from his gracious Throne,
Would view all Worshippers, in Love alone;
And ne'er with vengeance, or with wrath, review
A careless Crowd, or bold rebellious Crew.
Then Lust would ne'er attempt a Neighbour's wrong—
No speech, impure, contaminate the tongue—
But every phrase profane, and falshood, then,
Give place, in peace, to yea, and nay—Amen!
Then blissful Love would each fond bosom fill—
All subject Wills obey His sovereign Will—
By that blest Book, and Exemplar sublime,
All hearts be happy thro' the reign of Time!
And, when they feel their Foe's last, cruel, call,
With Hope, and Faith, in full assurance fall!
Obeying still, thro' Life, his righteous Laws,
With Conscience clear, yet void of Self-applause.
And hath not He a right, who form'd the Whole,
To stablish Laws His Creatures to controul?
And may not He, with Justice, punish those
Who quit His Kingdom, and become his Foes?
And hath not He sufficient Pow'r to quell
All Rebels' malice, both in Earth and Hell;
As well as Love, all Creatures to requite,
That learn His Law, and in His Name delight?

LETTER VIII.

[Let's again, distinctly, try]

Dear Hannah,

Nor only female Prudes, but male,
In which these Passions mightily prevail,
Partaking all expences, toils and pains,
For such mere negatives, or airy gains;
While all their private conduct ill accords
With what should be a Lady's—or a Lords.
Such Ladies, oft, will smuggle—fib—and plot—
Whisper—and wink—and wheedle—and—what not—
Such Lords o'er Slaves, and Vassals, domineer,
And practice countless tricks beneath a Peer—
Yet both will bend to proud Superior's nod,
And worship Kings, as Christians worship God.
Ev'n troops whose titles swell with loftier sound,
Will stoop to Tyrants, awfully profound—
To mortal Monarchs reverently bow—
Vent loving elogies—allegiance vow—
But ne'er on God, with gratitude, attend,
Or neck, or knee, to Christ, e'er bow, or bend.
Nor are those numbers of exalted Name,
Devoid of tyranny, or moral blame—
Viscounts and Earls oft sink beneath such Ranks—
Sometimes their Spouses play strange faux-pas pranks—
While Marquisses and Dukes degrade their places;
And prudish Duchesses forget their Graces—
Prelatic Priests, to glory, gold prefer,
Deceive and swear—with some few foibles more—
Kings may be caught in Faults, or Folly's snare—
Some Queens, in selfishness, resemblance bear;
And, like the Ladies, and their Lordships, shew
Most fondness for the fleeting things below.
Thus Rich and Great, the most Sublime, sometimes,
Grieve God, and Conscience, and forget their Crimes—
Pervert their talents, and their time destroy;
Refuse all Grace, and flout all genuine Joy!
Among mere Mortals, then, what can we trace
Distinguishing the Clown's, and Courtier's Race?
What, that can satisfy a reasoning Mind,
Among the various Ranks of human Kind?
Princes and Princesses, or Queens and Kings,
From Us, uncouth, and despicable, Things!
If Toys, and Trinkets, form the mighty claim,
Money, for Thee, and Me, might do the same,
Were able Artists properly employ'd,
Our bodily defects, like Theirs, to hide.
If Titles can produce such wonderous pother,
Rustics might add the like to one another—
Might call this Clown a Lord; and that a Duke;
Nor care a fig for Court's, or King's rebuke—
Yea, oft we hear, when Nature has been slack,
And plac'd a hump on poor Plebian's back,
Whether his furniture be fair, or foul—
His features form an Angel, or an Owl—
Whether he proves a Genius, or a Dunce,
His Title's clear—He's dubb'd a Lord at once.
Then what are Titles, if such dregs of Man,
Nature's worst refuse! thus can join the Clan?
They're but a set of noisey, silly, sounds,
Bereft of weight, where Worth, or Wit, abounds!
What are blue Ribbands, drawn across the breast,
With which a Dunce, or Monkey, may be dress'd?
Brighter, at Balls, on School-girls, oft are seen,
Or Morris-dancer's on the daisied Green;
And, when conjoin'd with glittering, tinsel, Star,
The May-day Chimney-sweeper's finer far:
While all the Shew, with which the Ladies shine,
Is mostly dug from dark, and dirty mine;
Or filthy worms, and sordid shells, supply,
To deck the body, and delight the eye!
Be but their trinkets, and their trim put off,
How Louts would laugh! and Common-sense would scoff!
And when Religion's deep-discerning view
Looks all their close-conceal'd recesses through;
Sees them, when every avenue is stopp'd,
And all their proud appendages are dropp'd,
She looks with langour, and with pity grieves,
To see fall'n Adams, and frail naked Eves!

LETTER IX.

[My dearest Hannah; Let me now, once more]

My dearest Hannah; Let me now, once more,
The conduct of the Rich, and Proud, explore.
From full experience, or clear knowledge, state,
The Arts, and Habits, of the Gay and Great.
Line out a little more this mighty Race,
Whate'er their Titles—Property—or Place.
Inspect each Frame—scan all their Conduct o'er,
While Reason rummages their mental Store,
And well infers, from every Act, and Word,
What Common-sense deems wicked, or absurd—
Mark well the traits, and tones, with ears, and eyes,
While Judgment weighs as Understanding pries—
Examine all their Language—every look—
Long figur'd down in Memory's faithful Book—
Endeavouring every step to trace some proof,
Why thus they hold their heads so far aloof,
O'er Us, and others; poor Plebians born!
And, if they look at all, look down with scorn;
Tho', maugre all their malice—Pomp—and Pride—
From Clowns and Artists are all wants supplied—
Still daily Debtors to the boorish Brood,
For toys and trinkets—covering—clothing—food—
As I, with more precision, hope to prove,
Ere Providence to Heav'n my Soul remove.
Meantime I'll labour at my moral plan,
To state the common Character of Man;
And sketch each Gift and Grace, that, clearly, shew
The Courtier and the Clown; the High and Low.
Deem not, my Muse, dear Hannah, idly halts,
Describing Courtiers' foibles, Grandeur's faults;
Or, while she registers Wealth's righteous Debts,
Devoid of gratitude, Our own forgets;
Or thinks the boons bestow'd on Boors, the while,
The just reward of temperance, care, and toil—
No! Heaven, to all, gives all they are, or have,
From first conception till they reach the grave!
Nor was it mere unconsciousness of mind,
That made me leave that humbling thought behind,
But, knowing well, if e'er the Rich should read,
They'd thank me to omit the Christian's Creed;
For any subject yields them more delight,
Than bringing that bless'd object so to sight;
And why? It makes their Self-complacence less,
Exhibiting full proofs of nothingness—
And Honours, Titles, Pomp, and Pride, must fall,
Confronted, thus, with Heav'n's Great All in All!
As Nature's complicated wants impress
They swill and swallow down the motley mess;
And, when replenish'd, their impulsive pow'rs
Throw off all fog and feculence like ours.
Like us pure atmospheric air inspire—
Like our's their foul mephitic streams retire—
Like our's their moist, and musty matter, all,
That filters from the skin, or skirts let fall;
Unless their richer food, at every vent,
May happily improve each higher scent.
Her more delicious impulse we obey,
In general usage, just the self-same way,
Except with such supreme enjoyment cloy'd,
The pure beatitude of hallow'd Bride;
The concubine embrace; and harlot range;
Fastidious grown with cheapness, choice, and change,
Their bosoms burn with fierce, unnatural fires,
Committing crimes beyond ev'n Brute's desires—
Tho' mark'd in males, with females own no name,
Sodom's destruction! Corinth's noted shame!
Nor let this well-known simple truth surprise,
We boast as many ears—as many eyes—
A nose, like theirs; whose accuracy tells,
As nicely, fetid, and all fragrant, smells—
A tongue, which dainty tastes as well discerns—
But not so apt untruths, and flattery, learns.
Two limbs, like theirs, as upright frames support;
More fit for toil; not so to cringe at Court—
Not laid at length, indulging dangerous ease,
Till fulsome indolence brings forth disease,
But hourly filling up some useful plan,
For honouring God, or benefiting Man.
Two arms, and hands, more active—hardy—strong—
Not all unskill'd in penning prose, or song,
To tell corporeal wants, or mental woe,
Which, from their tyrant conduct, frequent, flow;
But more in culturing or mechanic skill,
To aid their wants, or gratify their will;
Or, skill'd in curious Arts, each pow'rs employ'd
To prompt their Vanity, and puff their Pride.
We feel as tremblingly alive as them—
More free from insipidity and phlegm—
Are conscious what is courteous, true, and just—
More faithful to our promise, troth, and trust—
Our sense of Justice much more finely feels;
Our injur'd Honour makes more pure appeals—
Their's, still to vengeful arms, or art, applies;
Our's to that Will which governs Earth and Skies.
Like them we sometimes laugh, more frequent weep—
Like their's our Souls and Bodies sink in Sleep—
But, unlike Gentlemen and Ladies, We,
In hours, and times, and manners, disagree.
Then, the Ladies who ne'er forgot their cates,
That throng their larders, or their procreant pates;
With many a solid, and substantial, dish,
Yclep'd, in common, Game—Fowl—Flesh—or Fish—
Roots—Herbs—and Fruits—but so by skill compounded,
Poor Taste and Language, both, become confounded!
No Auther names them on the kitchen shelves,
Nor Cooks can scarcely stammer out themselves!
Choice wines of every flavour—every clime—
Whose titles puzzle thought, and baffle rhyme;
Class'd, and consider'd, which, and when, most meet
For pompous Peers, and Diplomatique's treat—
Or else reflecting on inferior sorts,
Which, well arrang'd, and added to the orts
Of all the manag'd meats that then remain,
May humbler Friends, and Authors, entertain.
Now view their various debts, and stock in trade—
Visits to be return'd—and visits paid—
Some, principals must pay—some, Servant's blanks—
Cards of condoleance; or, returning thanks—
Billets, polite, irrelevant, or vague—
A moment's pleasure, or a moment's plague.
These Understanding needs must set to rights,
With vast events that pass'd preceding nights—
What bows and curtsies, compliments and smiles,
Made ample recompence for pains and toils;
What careless looks, nods, dips, or hints unkind,
Stirr'd Anger up, and urged Revenge behind,
Forming her plan to point keen Hatred's glance,
Or meditating speech for Spite's advance:
Sweet billet-doux in some snug corner sleep;
And assignations, near, just, slily, peep;
While deep-laid schemes, and intrigues, huddled by,
Shun all but Her's, and—one all-seeing Eye!
While sylphic Fancy runs these objects o'er,
They hurry up, and sip one breakfast more—
Then order dinner—dress, for Morn, by Twelve,
That Fashion in her farm may dig and delve,
And call her Servants, and her Cattle, out,
To push her pressing businesses about.
Her daily labour's much; and must be done;
Her Team is, therefore, order'd out by One:
But, for convenience, and to 'scape reproach,
Custom has made her Cart become a Coach.
Two Beaux, behind, of spruce, pragmatic, look,
With live-long list, prepar'd from Porter's book,
Of names, on cards, or strips of cards, in store,
They rattle round, and fly from door to door.
With milk-white hose, and heads full fraught with meal,
On tiptoe standing, with high-lifted heel,
Dancing on cushions, or on solid planks,
With little comfort, and as little thanks;
The pair of Macaronies, propp'd on high,
Encounter all the storms of Earth and Sky—
Descending show'rs of rain—hail—sleet—or snow—
Or whirling winds, and clouds of dust below.
One, while the other stands erect, and pert,
Is often forc'd to foot it through the dirt;
And, ere the clamorous carriage turns, and stops,
Down from his elevated perch he drops;
Compell'd by duty, maugre spot, or splash,
Across the muddy street, half-way, to dash,
That no demur, such urgent matter stay,
Or precious time, like theirs, be thrown away.
Some People's more polite occasions call
That doors, like day-light, should be free for all—
But, chiefly, on the Sabbath's hated hours,
When cruel Custom dearer joys devours;
That Fashion, Rank, and Riches, then may find,
A common market for each trading Mind;
When every stamp of Merchants may attend,
By barter, all their various wares, to vend.
On equal terms all individuals treat,
Whether their articles be small, or great.
'Twould introduce confusion to refuse
Their stock of Knowledge, or their stock of News.
Their traffic's not like merchandise at large,
Commercial People cast up cost and charge;
And, with maturest Wisdom—judgment—sense—
Compare the profits with the whole expence:
But profits and expence they scorn to learn,
Such low pursuits are never their concern.
They only wish to teach, or strive to hear,
What to their hankering hearts is doubly dear,
News, which in each gazette of Fashion's found,
And grows, like weeds, on Scandal's dungy ground—
Knowledge, which serious Christians never sought;
The follies of their Friends, or Neighbour's fault—
But, while they make these faults and follies known,
They cautiously contrive to hide their own.
I never bore an honourable part,
In trade, or commerce, at such curious Mart,
But have been told of matters, mighty strange,
Transacted on such fashionable 'Change—
When parties met, and could not well agree,
On trading terms, in common Coterie,
They've hinted assignations, tête-à-tête,
To make a private bargain quite complete.
Disinterested Souls! so pleas'd with play
They mutually would give Themselves away.
Like little Children; doubling all their joys,
By chaffering trifles, or exchanging toys.
Sordid Self-love so foreign from their heart,
None courts increase, but labours to impart,
All but such copies of each other's face
As carry scandal, or produce disgrace;
Or characters, in gross caricature,
Of other's sought, but none of Self endure.
No simple action, sentiment, or thought,
In such Bazaars is ever sold or bought—
Nor are Truth, Innocence, or Love, sincere;
Or Piety, or Morals, ever there.
In such commodities they never deal;
These they affect not, those they never feel.
Flattery, and Falshood; Vanity and Vice;
Are the main objects of their Merchandise—
While feathers, tinsel, toys, are bought and sold,
Dearer than diamonds, pearls, or purest gold.
Spite's credulous reports, and Envy's tales,
Are current, cent per cent, at all their Sales;
And every Dealer's eager as a Jew
Catching old clothes, to seize on something new.
At every high exchange each other hustle,
And, o'er their bargains make such mighty bustle,
In full confusion, Women mixt with Men,
It looks like antient Chaos come agen—
Like jostling Jonathan's loud hue and cry,
Where every One has Stocks to sell, or buy—
Or like St. Luke's, or Bedlam's, wild abuse,
When every frantic Patient's just broke loose.
Is this the properest plan for spending time,
To quiet Conscience, and escape from Crime?
The path a Christian Spirit should pursue,
To help a Neighbour, or give God his due?
Is this a course to keep the Soul aloft,
Above all sin, and make a sick-bed soft?
The conduct that will ease the dying breath,
And glad the bosom in the grasp of Death?
Assist firm Faith to look, with lifted head,
When Jesus comes to judge the Quick and Dead?
Is this devoting Soul's and Body's pow'rs
To Him who gave them all their gracious dow'rs?
Do Spirit's energies, and fleshly Frame,
Thus laud and magnify their Maker's name?
Are these the best returns their Hearts can pay,
For providential blessings, Night and Day?
For all His bounteous boons of Ease, and Health?
Each privilege of Reason, Pow'r and Wealth?
To Him, for stronger obligations still,
Subordinating Sense, and Time, and Will?
To Him subjecting Passions—Pride—and Lust—
Who, for the love of them, embrac'd the Dust?
For love of them resign'd his heavenly Crown?
From boundless bliss to scorn and death came down
And bore all sufferings, for their sakes, below,
To save their Souls from endless pain and woe?
Alas! their Lives but little proof afford,
They love his Person, or respect his Word;
But all their shameless Conduct clearly shews
They loathe his Lovers, and affect his Foes!