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

Long did Crispinus duteous tasks discharge—
And proud Scintilla's train, and pomp, enlarge—
Her pow'r support—her property protect,
And none accus'd of crimes, or lax respect,
Obedient bending to each harsh behest,
Yet less and less he mark'd his cause caress'd.
Still cutting Taunts, and Petulance, conspir'd,
And full, at Friends, their light artillery fir'd,
While many a cruel Scheme, and wicked Whim,
Were, like mask'd batteries, levell'd all at Him;
And levied forces, with their lighter arms,
Disturb'd his days, and nights, with new alarms.

He thought such acrid, hostile, conduct strange,
Yet ne'er predicted thence the destin'd change—
Feeling his heart was faithful, true, and just,
And, careful, still, to execute his trust,
He ne'er imagin'd Mischief could be near,
Felt not, nor fancied, either doubt, or fear;
Nor deem'd disaster ever could arise
From what gave Justice claims, and conscience joys.

No glorious prospect of augmented store
Could disappoint her Fancy as before—
Nor, as before, to stir her subtle Soul,
With specious plea, a sly Supplanter stole,
To skulk about the place with specious art,
Till taught to plan and act his compound part,
Who, with a shabby Partner, could not shift
To fill Crispinus place when turn'd adrift.
At home, when Crispin view'd the servile Host,
He found no rival who could fill his post—
No empty Puppy of her treacherous Train,
His multifarious tasks could e'er sustain—
While, to her narrow schemes a constant Slave,
He strove each economic sous to save.
Thus, looking round, with philosphic eye,
He saw no prospect of expulsion nigh;
No hook where Jealousy could hang a doubt,
That Cruelty, so soon, might cast him out—
That he, like any Demon might be drove
While bent to imitate blest Hosts above.

Had he been conscious his base heart conceal'd
Atrocious tricks, or Vices, which, reveal'd,
Must stamp a stigma on his noisome Name,
And hold him up to Time's perpetual shame—
Or had he perpetrated devilish deeds,
O'er which a Christian's Conscience burns, and bleeds;
And, ruminating o'er each foul offence,
Had fear'd some judgment from just Providence,
Condemning Conscience had foretold disgrace,
With lasting loss of Patronage, and Place.
Then might his heart have felt prophetic dread
Of heavy vengeance hanging o'er his head;
Of poverty, and shame, and pain, and woe,
Embittering all his hours, of Life while here below!
But how could he expect such dire desert,
Who wish'd from Earth, all evil to avert?
How doubt, or danger, e'er disturb his Mind,
Who sought the happiness of all Mankind?
Who ne'er contriv'd perfidious plot, or plan,
Against the interests of one mortal Man;
Not even his greatest Enemies, much less
Against his cruel, once kind, Patroness!
No! he besought the God his heart ador'd,
And, as her highest good, His Grace implor'd
To fill her, here, with Faith and Hope, and Love,
And guide her Spirit, safe, to bliss above!

Borne down with trouble, and harsh taunts, he bore,
His heart would oft, his present lot deplore,
And, spite of threaten'd woes, from thorny want,
Again for glad emancipation pant;
No longer forc'd fair Liberty to stake
But hazard every ill for Freedom's sake.
Freedom, with want of bread, were better, far,
Than thus, with plenty, wage continual War—
Better than stoop a voluntary Tool,
And learn harsh lessons in a Tyrant's school—
Better to wear out Age in endless Work—
Than bear the stripes of arbitrary Turk—
Better to leave this labouring, anxious, Life
Than live in Scenes of endless hate and strife;

For not alone the Ruler of his hours
Convuls'd his Spirit by her vengeful pow'rs—
His nerves still harrass'd with new toils and cares,
But sought to trap his heart with soothing snares—
Still practising the Serpent's cunning wiles,
With winning Words, and soft familiar smiles,
His caution to relax, his lips unfold,
Some truth to broach, or tale, before, untold,
And each clear sentiment, or secret hint,
Firm, in malignant memory deep imprint,
To shape impeachment at some future time,
And make each cast of Mind a monstrous crime;
By waspish Wit, and cunning, cruel, Art,
Form'd into feather'd shaft, or poisonous dart,
To fix each barb in his tormented breast,
By spiteful Passion, or by rancorous Jest.
Nor only thus She exercis'd Her pow'rs,
To stab his heart in those ill-fated hours,
But mov'd her Myrmidons, of either Sex,
By impudence to teize, or Art to vex
The sensibilities that sway'd his Soul,
To thwart his thoughts or virtuous views controul,
Till gross audacity of conduct grew
To heights which savage Nature seldom knew.
Not only was a desperate, foreign, Dupe,
Selected from the male unliveried Troop,
Meet instrument of every foul offence,
For murdering manners, or insulting Sense—
The Tool of Passion—Slave of Lust and Pride—
Of every Virtue—all Religion, void,
Except pretence to stupid papal plan
Which saps the Morals, and the Sense, of Man
Vers'd in all vile impiety of speech
Which circles, in night-cellars, rarely reach;
And conduct, so abominably base
As well might flush the brassiest blackguard's face:
By craft encourag'd in such service, vile,
With partial favours, and applausive smile;
Which, when he found himself no more caress'd
In fits of spleen, and penitence confess'd.
Nor this malicious Agent, only, urg'd,
That Crispin's patience might be amply scourg'd,
And his firm fortitude completely tried,
A dauntless female menial, thus, employ'd;
One who all decent sentiment might crush;
Might make a gambling-house, or brothel, blush;
With foul effrontery modesty defy,
And daunt all truth with dark, audacious, lie,
To grieve his Spirit, and his pow'r engage,
With matchless impudence, and daring rage!

Scintilla's secret, Machiavelian, aim,
Was, Crispin's wakeful feelings to inflame,
That Word, unwarranted, or Sentence rash,
Might lay him open to her waling lash—
Some sentiment, imprudent, might escape,
Which skill could hammer into twisted shape;
Or some intemperate, unintended, Act,
Might serve to slacken long-experienc'd pact;
That Cunning might contrive some apt pretence
To drive the persecuted Culprit thence:
But calm reflection kept his bosom still,
In meek submission to his Master's Will,
Whose Providence had fix'd that hapless Place,
To grieve his heart and exercise His Grace;
His Faith, and his Affection's pow'rs to prove,
Then from those Tears, and miseries, remove.

When that conjecture struck the dubious Bard,
He shunn'd aggression—fix'd a double guard—
From principle, and prudence, circumspect,
No relaxation suffer'd—no neglect—
With watchful diligence constrain'd his lips
To keep his tongue from all offensive trips—
With scrutinizing care each charge survey'd—
With greater accuracy told, and weigh'd;
In each department to prevent abuse,
And leave impeaching Spleen without excuse:
For, tho' his comfortless experience, there,
Was ever mortifying—oft severe—
Yet was his daily sustenance ensur'd,
His clothing, couch, and shelter, all secur'd.
But small emoluments would ill afford
His absent Family a starving board;
While countless articles much more require,
For lodging, raiment, furniture, and fire.
His poor Dependents found but scanty fare,
From all his self-denying Soul could spare;
Whose fond affections never would deny
All his confin'd finances could supply;
Small gains, mock-majesty, with grudgings, gave,
To recompense a poor, insulted Slave!
Much less could strict economy renew,
The needful dress, for such connections due,

From those revenues that her narrow Soul
Deem'd ample wages, with an added dole;
Tho' they, with endless industry, the while,
United nightly to their daily toil,
To ease his anxious care, assist his need,
To educate, and clothe, and fence, and feed.
He never found their cravings could be fill'd,
With dribbling drops her hollow heart distill'd;
Or fatten'd on the crumbs their wants could find,
From sorry morsels from her selfish Mind—
Ne'er hop'd one Individual's frame to fence,
With the fam'd fruits of her beneficence;
Or one lank limb with decency to shrowd,
With all her heart his toil—care—zeal—allow'd.
He ne'er once wish'd his Family were fed
With heedless bounty, or with idle bread;
Nor, from pert views of Vanity and Pride,
To deck, with finery a frail Outside—
With beastly luxury to drink, and carve,
And let poor Piety, and Virtue starve—
With ostentatious ornaments to clothe,
Which simple Souls, with true Religion, loathe—
But that their youthful Frames might duly thrive,
And, in old Age, kept more than half-alive;
While Wife and, Children cloth'd in comely dress,
Might honour Husband—Parent—Patroness;
But not appear in ragged, squalid Case,
Their shame-faced Friends, and Family's disgrace.

Here, for a moment, pause, while I relate
Rare deed of goodness in their abject state;
An act of bounty Affluence ne'er can boast
While Wealth, superfluous, feeds its hungry Host!
Conceal'd by those concern'd; here, penn'd, to show
How far Philanthropy's kind pow'r can go.
An Act beyond the bounds of proud pretence,
The poor parade of blythe Benevolence!
An Act to shame the shining Rich, and Great,
Who boast Mines—Manors—on their vast Estate—
And show sham feasts, and benefits, abroad,
That Children may be charm'd, and Dupes applaud;
Or those that Hospital, or Almshouse, build,
That each Fool's mouth may with mock Fame be fill'd—
An Act all idol-eulogies to stop,
And make vain Statues of vile Donors drop!
An Act far nobler than the noisy deeds
Of hypocrite Professions publish'd meeds,
Which ne'er in heavenly Registers exist,
But blazing bright, alone, in earthly list!
Past pure Beneficence's common claim;
And Might most Christians' cheeks suffuse with shame,
While calculating large remaining store
Blushing their bounty had disburs'd no more!
One solitary instance, so sublime,
In all the long-revolving tracts of Time
Appears, display'd in Truth's historic Page
In any Nation, or in any Age—
One faithful Fact recorded in that Book,
Where Wealth—Pow'r—Pomp, and Pride, but rarely look;
Produc'd their doles, and bounties, to contemn,
By One more pow'rful—rich—and great—than Them!

Thro' London-town, one Autumn's even-tide,
Compell'd to wander, Providence her guide!
Crispinus' Daughter trod her weary way,
Which Labour's constant calls forbad by day—
Not to exhibit her attractive charms
And draw admirers to an harlot's arms,
Which wild nefarious Fancy might surmise,
And malice dar'd assert with dauntless lies;
Malignant Falshood! which She dared assert,
Who felt a Fiend's delight in other's hurt.
She scorn'd all carnal sport; all cursed pelf!
Thus, injuring others to undo herself
By moral, pious, Parents, better taught,
To spurn such practice and constrain the thought—
Still, with a virtuous, vigilant, intent,
On commendable business solely bent,
To find such useful, honest, pure employ,
As yields the offspring hope, the parent joy!

'Twas this kind Individual's hap to meet
A decent Stranger wandering thro' the street,
Who stopp'd her steps, and bow'd his body low,
And then began a bitter tale of woe!
A tender narrative of hapless loss!
Of cruel troubles! and of trials cross!
With many a grating circumstance of grief,
Soliciting, polite, some small relief.

But she alas! had nothing in her charge,
And Pity long'd to tender something large!
She felt, with pain, intense, an empty purse,
In such sad case, an aggravated curse!
What could she do? she, pensive, stepp'd before,

Leading the Moaner to her Mother's door;
And entering in, where Neatness cover'd Need,
To tell the tale—the Plaintiff's cause to plead—
She needed not to act a specious part,
To search the secrets of her Mother's heart;
Nor practice eloquence of look or speech,
The ready feelings of that heart to reach;
She only sought the simple truth to show—
Conscious all Want could spare her Kindness would bestow.
Ah me! my Muse ne'er can, in rhyme, recite
How Sorrow choakt all Charity's delight!
What mixt emotion struggled to repress
The modest Matron's painful wretchedness!
How Disappointment her meek heart dismay'd;
When her sad look her starving stock survey'd;
Sighing to see her treasur'd hoard so small,
For one poor silver piece composed it all!
Her eyes, averted from the store,
Were drown'd with tears to mark it was no more!
Yet this, when weighing the disastrous Case,
And, hoping Heav'n might soon the sum replace,
While her warm Soul, with fine sensations glow'd,
Her eager heart, and ready hand, bestow'd!
That heart, ne'er, after, felt a niggard grutch,
Or deem'd Humanity had done too much—
Ne'er once repin'd o'er that penurious Need,
Which might such Prodigality succeed;
Nor felt reflecting Consciousnesss recoil,
With selfish fears at future care and toil;
But, when she found the poor Complainant fled,
And calm Reflexion cool'd her flurried head;
Tho' she'd imparted all the pence she had,
She felt afresh her troubled bosom sad,
That no solicitation urg'd to eat
Some chearing morsel of her choicest meat!

Mark this, ye Misers! this plain tale compare
With what your character, and conduct, are!
Look back o'er all your Life, with blushing shame!
Contrast them with this kind, this dow'rless Dame!
O'er all your multiplying heaps repent!
Consider whence, and why, such wealth was lent!
See in each pile a complicated crime!
Weigh well their uses, and redeem the time!
Look round and read, with arguments mature,
What Industry, and doitless Worth endure!
Your bounties might remove unnumber'd ills
Could Kindness influence your froward Wills—
Would Sympathy apply her prompt relief,
To lighten loads of aggravated grief!
But bosoms, dead like Your's, can never feel
The rapt rejoicings o'er another's weal!
Your iron hearts o'er misery never melt,
Nor feel the thrillings her pure pity felt!
Your cold conceptions ne'er can once declare,
What sweet delight such happy Spirits share!
Nor can your sordid Souls this boast believe,
“'Tis greater joy to give than to receive!”
Could your awak'd affections once o'erflow
With rapturing pleasure such soft Natures know,
No more your breasts would that rich bliss resign,
For hapless ponderings o'er your canker'd Coin;
But gladly all the gather'd heap impart,
For those rich transports that expand the heart—
And Gods of gold indignantly despise,
To share such social, sympathetic, joys!
I urge you not, in Need, like Her, to live,
Nor like her your last scrap of coinage give—
Not your last Sixpence on the Poor to spend,
And starve; or stint Yourselves, to feast a Friend—
But not to hoard and idolize your wealth—
To risque your Soul, and hurt your Body's health—
Not like an Elwes, with a million mass'd,
Live Wretches, loath'd and die with want at last;
But learn, like Her, the proper us of Pelf,
And love each needy Neighbour as yourself!

All ye that feel the philanthropic spark,
This pure, this unexampled, Matron, mark!
No more Your vast beneficence to boast,
Tho' Vanity may feel a numerous host!
No more Your mighty charities proclaim
Who clothe a few for ostentatious fame!
Thro' social channel Deity design'd,
To spread pure happiness amongst Mankind.
But do You, Worldlings! who proud wealth possess
Thus labour to diffuse full Happiness?
Do You like Her endeavour to fulfil,
This equal Maxim of Your Maker's Will?
Do You, round all your ample, rented Lands,
Strive, thus, to strengthen all the labouring Bands?
Or from Your teeming Mines' revenues, large,
As well Your duties, and Your debts, discharge?

Your breasts with such consuming conflicts burn,
In such full bounties Heav'n's free loans return;
And at Compassion's unresisted call
With gladness give Necessity Your all?
On weeping Penury all that Wealth expend?
To God, ungrudging, all Your livings lend?
On base Indulgence ne'er one doit bestow,
But pour your ample Pelf on Want and Woe;
Till Bounty, thus, of minted means bereft,
And not one solitary Sixpence left,
The force of fellow-love still strongly feel,
And proffer part of Need's remaining Meal?

She had no rich resource—no heapy hoard,
To clothe her callow Brood, or crown her board—
No irrigated grounds, nor mines, immense,
To make her mindless of such prompt expense;
But constantly compell'd to reimburse
Her household spendings from poor Crispin's purse.
He had no perquisites to spend, or sport—
No sinful sinecure from Camp, or Court—
No Church emoluments from whence to draw;
No fees from Physic, and no bribes from Law;
Nor could he grasp one grain from tricks in Trade,
Where oft, by Bankruptcies, much Fortune's made:
He only had poor Salary to spend
To answer every right and useful end;
With what fond Children's fingers could create;
And mangled hands of his industrious Mate;
Who yielded her short Wealth, and wish'd to share;
With Want, the small remains of needful fare.

Hide your diminish'd heads, ye rich and proud!
Who stalk, like Titans, thro' the shrinking Crowd;
Or swell, aloft, on moving thrones, and throw
Contemptuous glances on the Throngs below!
Your haughty hearts depress, nor proudly dare
With Worth unparalleled, like hers, compare!
Pique not yourselves on pelf, or vast estate,
Nor think that gold, or glebe can make You great!
Let not mean Pride or Prejudice mislead,
To judge too harshly of Man's humbler Breed!
Let not your Bodies tho' if more nobly born,
Push by poor Brethren with contempt and scorn;
While all the parts of your corporeal frame
Are dust, like theirs—and must decay—the same!
Nor let your Minds, which constitute the Man,
And, like low Equals first from God began,
Like them for good or evil thoughts—words—deeds—
At length receive their everlasting meeds!
You never know what Merit you may meet,
'Mong multitudes, in Towns, in every Street!
What Piety, or Virtue, on the Plains,
Among the mass of simple Nymphs and Swains!
Your Souls perceive not what superior Worth
May dwell with lowly looks, and humble Birth—
How oft You pass sublimer Spirits by,
With supercilious air, or heedless eye!
How many, more than You, might claim respect,
Tho' treated by Your kind with cold neglect!
Of Education, and of Wit devoid
No pomp, or splendour, deck a gay outside;
Nor one external charm the World to win,
Still every Christian Grace may glow within—
While they may gain, from God's impartial pow'r,
A better title, and a brighter dow'r;
And hope, in future, from His sovereign Grace,
In happier Kingdom, some superior Place—
With fairer frames, and robes of richer hue,
Than e'er His Providence bestow'd on You!
Your Pow'rs percive not how true Wisdom warms
Some Hearts, enshrin'd in most forbidding Forms!
What sentiments, sublime, some Spirits feel
Which plain attire, and passive looks, conceal!
What Graces may elude your ignorant eyes
Beneath deep-blushing Modesty's disguise!
Chaste Charity, firm Faith, and heavenly Hope,
May 'scape Your Penetration's utmost scope!
High Courage, and true Fortitude, be found
Where Meekness and Humility abound!
Clear Wit, and solid Sense, may rest unseen,
Close cover'd up with unassuming Mien,
And shrowded by a soft and suasive Air,
The Mind may, hourly, heartfelt dangers dare;
For godly Fear can keep that Spirit down,
Which would not dread Earth's fiercest Despot's frown,
While conscious guilt could that gall'd Courage quell
That boldly dar'd, before, Death, Heav'n, and Hell!

Who would conceive, inspecting Crispin's Spouse,
Within whose Heart those heavenly Virtues house;
Her simple manners, and her accent meek;
Her tranquil temples, and her chearful cheek;
Sweet lip, and soft serenity of eye;
That underneath such loveliness could lie

Heroic courage! firmest fortitude!
Which dar'd withstand oppressive Tyrant rude!
Yet would that Heart with tenderest motions melt,
When thus the force of Sympathy was felt!

Ye supercilious Maids, and haughty Dames,
Who boast Your Beauty's fascinating flames,
And deem not choicer Charms can ever dwell,
Or higher Virtues, in such humble Cell!
Recline your crests, and all your honours give
To this fair Heroine of my narrative!
You who, with grandeur 'dizen'd, proud and vain!
Extort false worship from Your servile Train;
And, as You roll in State, or trail along,
Expect prostrations from each thoughtless throng!
What are Your rights? Your fancied Worth from whence,
To silence Reason, or to ravish Sense?
And what are all your high conceited claims?
Rest they on Riches? or mere noisy Names?
On boasted Beauty?—or on gaudy glare?
And may not brighter Merit boast its share?
Is there no value in a virtuous Mind
That loves, and longs to succour all Mankind?
Do you possess the sympathetic Heart,
That feels, for all Mankind, like friendly smart?
Those prompt emotions which her Soul impell'd
To yield the little all her treasury held?
With such uncertain hopes before her eyes
When Providence would furnish fresh supplies?
Would You your graceless Vanities forego
To mitigate a Stranger's wounding woe?
Your worthless, weak, fantastic frippery doff,
And venture Fashion's vex'd sarcastic scoff?
While Pomp look'd on could Pity's cause prefer,
And dress in plain simplicity like Her;
That, with the surplus, You might Penury feed,
A free-will-offering for Your Neighbour's need?
Would You resign Amusement's dear delights,
And thus communicate Your utmost Mites?
To One such matchless charity extend,
Who prov'd no plea of Family, or Friend?
Or, as Acquaintance, could advance a claim,
Of neither Neighbourhood, or Sex, the same?
An utter Alien, never known before—
And, haply, might accost her eyes no more—
Yet was the sight so sad; the tale so told;
Her heart could not one single sous withhold!

Oft has the Writer, ere her praise was penn'd,
Felt all his faculties profoundly bend,
With real reverence, at her saintly shrine,
Discovering Goodness bordering on divine!
Which, thus, could Nature's selfish bent controul,
And fix such feelings in a human Soul!

You, possibly, on mark'd occasions, may,
Some slighter symptoms of like love display—
Some slender portions from your purse dispense
To stifle painful Pity's fond offence—
On list beneficent subscribe your Name,
To buy frail particles of scatter'd Fame;
Or, lest your acts might lose all flattering laud,
With babbling breath spread your own praise abroad.
But she such christian conduct strives to hide,
And all her deeds of love are still denied—
Not labouring with her self-complacent lips,
Your scanty, partial, bounties e'er eclipse;
Endeavouring to destroy your puny praise,
On its fall'n ruins her own fame to raise;
Nor, with one quaint conceit, or cold address,
Sneers at your feign'd, fictitious, Tenderness.

You feel your Souls with real sufferings fill'd,
As charms decay, and Love's devoirs are chill'd,
O'er Beaux, or Apes, when ag'd, intensely sigh,
Or weep when Parrots droop, or Lap-dogs die—
Find mimic Misery's pains and griefs, engage
Your finest feelings, from the tragic Stage—
But seldom Sympathy's prompt proofs are shown,
By heart, or eye, o'er genuine Misery's moan!

Do You one darling Lust, or Wish deny,
To furnish Merit with a meet supply?
One Superfluity, in pity, spare,
That pining Want Wealth's superflux may share?
Do you lay by loose Gluttony's wicked Waste
That Sickness may some savoury fragments taste?
E'er fond, rapacious, Appetite refuse,
That Need may pick its providential dues?
E'er sordid sensuality restrain,
And Riot's refuse offer, free, for Pain?
Do You vile Pride, and Vanity, repress
And turn the needless cost to Nakedness?
Your craving calls indulg'd soon swallow more
Than Lands, and Trades, and Commerce, could restore!

Do you damp Ostentation's flaming fire
To raise starv'd household Slaves' low incomes higher?
Your Pomp's expences calmly circumscribe,
To yield more comforts for the Artist's tribe?
Or rein in Vanity's expansive rage,
To help the labouring Hinds with better wage?
Let Pow'r austere Authority relax,
To lighten Labour's pond'rous Rent and Tax?
Compassion Domes of needless Pomp divest,
That Care, in comfortable rooms may rest?
One lavish dish deduct from Luxury's board,
That Drudg'ry may delight o'er strength restor'd?
Let Wealth no longer wish increasing Coin—
Let Fashion sinful Finery resign,
And strip those Toys by all but Folly loath'd,
Till Childhood, Age, and Want, be comelier clothed.

Would guiding thus astray the golden stream
Diminish God's regard, or Man's esteem?
Thus scattering portions of superfluous Wealth,
Impair your happiness or harm your Health?
Would active Spirits droop, or Strength decline,
Did you, each day, with less indulgence dine?
Or blushing Beauty suffer larger loss,
While Temperance purg'd away the Body's dross?
In spite of pampering dainties and delights,
With which you daily load your appetites—
In spite of pomp that decks your sleek outside,
Your silken trappings, and your plumey pride;
Maugre each gaudy tint and glittering toy,
Her artless hues, and habit, far outvie!

Can you unfold that unaffected grace
Which forms her sweet simplicity of face?
That symmetry, and clear complexion, shown
To every eye, and bosom, but her own.
Can all your skill, with artificial hues,
Like her fair native dyes delight infuse?
Yet would she spurn at all that impious praise
Which, in her Mind might selfish fondness raise—
Lest she, like You, God's favours should forget,
And rob the Donor of His righteous debt—
Adoring idol Self, which Self allures,
As tho' the work, and worship, all were Your's!

Can Your egregious Garb wake pure desire,
Like her unornamented, neat, Attire?
The perfect model of that pristine Mode
Which Peter sketch'd in apostolic Code—
A Christian mode which still most strongly tends
To make the Males Admirers—Females, Friends—
A maxim modern Preacher proves most clear;
But Fashion's followers have no ears to hear.

Her comely coif, and graceful garments, plain,
Would make strange mixture with your motley Train,
Yet, tho' so singular, and simply worn,
Might pass You all unmark'd, or mark'd with scorn;
Or, Envy Dress and Beauty both impeach,
Tho' neither Art's, or Fashion's, fooleries reach.

But let not Envy suffer false alarms,
Nor dread the challenge of her choicer Charms;
She's far too poor—industrious—duteous—chaste,
To love Your Haunts, or emulate Your Taste.
Too poor to pledge Your wild expensive Sports,
Or join Your mobs, and mimicry, at Courts—
Too much immers'd in toils, and duteous care,
For your frivolities her time to spare—
Too wise to ornament a mass of clay,
That suffers constant, tho' unseen, decay,
To hunt for eyes, and win some worthless heart,
While risquing danger to her deathless part—
Too chaste her charms to trick, with vicious view,
To catch applause, or kindle lust, like You,
And, thus, while seeking unjust, carnal joy,
Let nobler interests all neglected lie!
Needless are all such jealousies or fears;
She ne'er with hurrying Indolence appears—
With Pomp ne'er bustles, 'mid mad gabbling groups,
To nose out notice from train'd flattering troops
That form frail Circles of the vile, or vain,
In Folly's Temples, offering rites profane!
Ne'er trails the streets, with meretricious mien,
Seeing, with envy, and with envy seen;
Committing, every day, the double crime,
Of murdering Reason, and destroying Time!
Ne'er imitates, like You, th' Athenian Race,
Roaming, with restless feet, from place to place;
To seize, with curious ear, some scandal, new;
Repeated, fondly, whether false, or true;
But urg'd abroad, like Noah's wandering Dove,
Soon finds her Ark, and Family of Love!
There, like domestic Tortoise, learns to live,
Content with what the heavenly Agents give!
Clad in clean robes, with meagre morsels fed—
She helps, each day, to earn Dependents bread;

While, blest with Offspring fair, and amorous Mate,
Still Faith looks forward to a better State!

Thus one septennary more was nearly spent,
With little profit, and with less content—
No plenteous heaps of property acquir'd
To make Crispinus honour'd, or admir'd;
Or, with emollient virtues, to asswage
The pressing evils of approaching Age—
Tho' large possessions ne'er supply the pow'r
To bribe off Death's approach one transient hour;
Or win, one moment Time's attentive eye,
To stop his steps, or pass possessors by—
Obstruct his running sands, or blunt his scythe,
That Eld might look like Youth, serene and blythe—
Make strength of intellect, or nerve, remain,
To baffle fierce attacks of grief, or pain;
Yet might they round off Misery's shapen'd points;
Or wipe off poison with which Needs anoints—
Might skreen from wintery storms of Life, at last,
When health no more can buffet with their blast;
And colour o'er the clouds, with varying ray,
Which dim the skies tow'rds the dull close of Day.

But should Rapacity, or Fraud procure
Wealth which ne'er can Heav'n's scrutiny endure,
It gives to every grief redoubled load,
And adds more horrors to Death's dreary road!
Like poison pour'd, thro' every throbbing vein,
Still heightening all the pungency of pain!
Death, with more terror, strikes the harras'd heart
When gold, ill-gotten, barbs his desperate dart!
While Conscience deeper prints each darkening crime,
In surlier furrows, on the front of Time;
Who, with full terrifying traits of face,
Leads on that Despot with still-quickening pace!

This ne'er was Crispin's mortifying lot
To quake o'er Gold iniquitously got;
Whose puny Salary, perquisites, and all,
Would ne'er suffice for Need each quarter's call.
No chearing residue his purse retain'd,
Should Providence unwonted sums demand—
The current Year no coinage could put by,
Whether himself, or friends, might live or die—
In pain, or sickness, no reserves of Wealth
Could offer aid, to 'stablish ease or health—
But, like the emblematic figure, found,
At heads of Almanacs, in circling round,
The gaping mouth was never known to fail
In swallowing up the Year's contracted tail.

From him wise Heaven withheld superfluous pelf
To fix his full dependence on Itself;
And while the strict restraints its Code contains,
Prohibited attempts at graceless gains,
Kind promises, by Mercy interspers'd,
Humility, and Hope, and Patience, nurs'd;
And help'd his Spirit, still, to rest content
With what its Love unmeritedly lent.

That God whose Goodness all our lots ordains,
And thus cast Crispin's pleasures—hopes—and pains;
With one vast glance—one universal view,
Looks all His Works, and Providences, through!
Whirls each great Globe about in rapid race,
Thro' trackless paths, o'er boundless plains of space!
Whose Wisdom, Goodness, Pow'r, impel, and guide,
Their constant courses thro' the viewless void;
And balancing each blazing solar sphere,
While subject Orbs revolve their varied Year!
Whose mandate this huge mass of Earth obeys;
In annual rings rolls all its nights and days!
Who weighs its Mountains—bounds its billowy Mains—
While zones of sand each raging tide restrains!
Still all its bound innumerable, breeds,
Like a kind Father, forms, protects, and feeds!
Assigning eaeh unalienable rights
From wond'rous Whales, down to diminish'd Mites;
While every Creature feels His full decrees
From ponderous Elephants to puny Fleas!
Without whose will no Animalcule dies,
Or lightest mote in lucid sunbeam flies;
But looks on Man with more peculiar care—
Metes all his moments—numbers every hair—
And, till that Goodness gives the destin'd call,
No life can leave—no filament can fall—
Nor mean, nor mighty, thro' the number'd hosts
Can claim their portions, or can quit their posts!

He thro' existence, Crispin's lot had cast
And predetermin'd all the portion past;
Had mark'd him out, among the human Race,
To feel these conflicts, and to fill this place;
And, now, by high, invincible behest,
Mid providential darkness, dispossest!
As when a Wanderer, hapless perils o'er,
Had pitch'd his tent upon a distant shore;

Call'd by the rich Possessor of the Soil
Some sterile tract to till, with Care and Toil;
Plenty, and Peace, and Friendship's feasts to share,
In lieu of Love, and recompence for Care;
But, when the barren, inauspicious, plain,
Confounded every hope of golden gain,
He daily suffer'd undeserv'd disgrace,
Till Pride and Passion drove him from the place.
And thus by Selfishness, and Folly spurn'd,
Back to his Friends the Traveller return'd—
Awhile he labours in his native Site
With much misfortune, yet with much delight!
But, as, at best, Man's Wisdom blindly gropes,
Oft quitting solid bliss for baseless hopes—
Again seduc'd by Friendship's fair disguise
On fickle, faithless, promises relies;
In blandest forms by Fallacy array'd,
Allur'd again, to leave the sheltering shade—
Forgetting shipwrecks; disregarding shocks;
On secret shallows and on sunken rocks;
And, deeming every temporal danger past,
Disdain'd the billows, and defied the blast!
Engaged again in same Commander's crew,
But where all scenes, and services, were new;
With like Protectress borne from port to port,
Even cares were comforts; all his labour sport;
Till sordid Selfishness, Caprice, and Spleen,
Which chas'd his Household from the former Scene,
Abridg'd his pleasures, and destroy'd his peace,
While threatening to contract his monthly lease—

Here, tho' Economy no coin could hoard,
He strove to fill all offices aboard,
And trusted, while unconscious of a crime,
He, there, might spend the remnant of his time;
Or, pension'd by that patronizing Friend,
In some snug Cove Life's venturous voyage end;
Should heav'nly Wisdom first withdraw her breath,
And leave his dolorous Muse to mourn her death.
But still her Pride, and Passions' headstrong host,
Which drove him, first, from her inclement coast,
With pert Contempt, without imputed Cause,
By breach of civil and religious laws;
With Frantic's rude, ungovernable, rage,
In the cold Winter of declining Age;
From station so conspicuous headlong hurl'd
To seek assistance from a friendless World!
So unprovided, and in Life so late,
Such was poor Crispin's persecuted state!
In sixth decennary, midst distress, and Eld,
From house and home by Patronage expell'd!

What was the foul, unpardonable offence
That justified the haste which hurl'd him thence?
Did he betray his delegated trust?
Was he profane? licentious? or unjust?
Could proud Employer's jealousy suggest
Some certain—true—indisputable test,
To prove base practice, or deep mischief meant,
Clearly to vindicate the strange event?
No! nought was urg'd to sanction such a deed
Which made his character, and conduct, bleed;
Except attempts to prove, by passion, strong;
His Reason and Religion both were wrong;
This differing from the World of Wealth so wide,
That puffing up his heart with impious Pride.

These bold opinions were but feebly built
On Fancy's fogs, not on firm ground of guilt—
Not on rank Bigotry, reduced to proof,
Or whimsies, lifting up the Mind aloof,
Above Truth's level, for he rightly knew,
What to dead Sinner, and live Saint, was due.
By heavenly truths could, manifestly, trace
The full demerits of Man's desperate Race,
With reference to a Judge, supremely just—
His Body destin'd back to mouldering dust—
His Soul deserving far severer doom,
Eternal punishment in endless gloom!
His reasoning pow'rs were clearly taught to scan,
What Man could merit in respect of Man;
Could by his labouring diligence discern
Those maxims which the wealthy loathe to learn;
That Riches, Titles, Privilege, or Birth,
Confer no claim to genuine Wit, or Worth,
Nor can to Heirs, or Successors, ensure
A pious Spirit, or one Virtue pure.

His Wealth's the greatest to whom God hath given
The key to all His treasures, hid in Heav'n;
And draws unbounded sums by Faith and Pray'r,
Without impoverishing one Fellow-Heir.
He may the most exalted Titles boast;
Who ranks alike with all the human host;
Who wears, inscrib'd, the Christian on his brow,
And well performs his whole baptismal vow.

He may pronounce his Privilege the high'st,
Who feels full interest in the cross of Christ;
And, by the Spirit's pow'r may, clearly, claim
His God's adoption by parental Name.
His birth's the noblest whose bright Sire, above,
Imbues his Soul with full Faith, Hope, and Love,
And sues most frequent, to that perfect Source,
To give them energy, and guide their course—
Implores conceptions adequate, and right,
Of that blest Fount of boundless Truth and Light—
Yields Him all honour, with a child-like Mind,
And begs more happiness for all Mankind!

He knew each honour that so proudly springs
To swell Self-love, conferr'd by earthly Kings,
And all appendages that grow from dust,
May heighten Pride, and minister to Lust;
May make base Passions rise, above controul,
But add no weight or Wisdom, to the Soul—
Infuse no principles of Faith, or Hope,
Nor give to godlike Love a larger scope—
No true Ambition stir—no pure Desire
To copy Christ, or seek their heavenly Sire—
But make each earth-born Wish more grossly grow—
Affections fix on vanities below—
Make hope cast anchor in this nether Clime—
Faith look, alone, to Things of Sense and Time;
Till beastly pleasures so each Soul debase,
They spurn God's Spirit, and all offer'd Grace;
While courtly Custom acts pert Folly's parts,
And Fashion fascinates their hapless Hearts,
Still rooted deeper in their earthly lot,
Till Death and Judgment—Heav'n—Hell—God's, forgot!

Could Crispin, then, exalted notions frame
Of one who scouted every christian claim?
Deem'd Faith and Piety but feign'd pretence
Mere cloaks to cover every foul offence?
Yet tho' despis'd and spurn'd for christian zeal,
He wish'd her wiser—sought her genuine weal—
While She, with every Foe, receiv'd full shares
Of pious ardour, in his daily prayers.

He saw her weak, and wild, pursuits with pain,
While suffering insult—scorn—or cold disdain.
Sigh'd while she walk'd the broad and beaten road,
Abusing each bright talent Heav'n bestow'd.
Beheld, with sorrow, ev'ry ray divine
Grow daily dimmer still, with Life's decline.
Saw Passion, Lust, and Pride, their Pow'rs enlarge,
While cold neglect crept o'er each christian charge.
Saw Charity assume a mere outside
To flatter Self, while Duties were decried.
Like Misers, reach at more—like Maniacs, rave—
Himself still treated like the vilest Slave—
Suspicion's optics turn'd, with twisted view,
And acts, and words, all ting'd with umbery hue.

His Spirit, while it pitied, still despis'd
The schemes her craft, or cruelty, devis'd.
He felt his Heart with shuddering horror shrink
To see her dancing on Destruction's brink.
Talents, Weal, Time, for nobler business lent,
In idol Pomp, or Dissipation, spent.
Sense chasing shadows—Age consuming Years,
In spite of Conscience, and Reflection's fears;
Still giving Vanity augmented range,
Without one chearing hope of heav'nly change.
Her wanton Ostentation wasting store
Tho' Death was hourly hovering round her door;
Offering the sacred gifts, at Folly's shrine,
Which Heav'n advanc'd in Wisdom's works to shine.
Large loans of mental wealth all thrown away,
Tho' Judgment might be dreaded every day!

His throbbing breast could scarcely brook the blame
That hurt his feelings and defiled his fame—
The calumnies that Spite, and Cunning, cast,
To wound his bosom, and his honour blast—
Yet conscious Rectitude would calmly spurn,
While Piety forbade each base return.
His manly Mind no faithless fears betray'd,
His Soul, while Conscience shrunk not, ne'er afraid!
His honest Heart no diffidence appall'd,
But on his Persecutor boldly call'd
To bring against him some substantial charge,
Which Wit might mould, and Eloquence enlarge,
Full fix'd on clear unquestionable fact
For this fresh rupture of their friendly pact—
Explicit proof sound Judgment might approve,
And well might warrant such a rash remove.

He frequent pass'd a retrospective view,
And keenly scrutiniz'd his Conduct through—
New analyz'd each action, scann'd each word,
To see if ought was wicked—weak—absurd—
Turn'd Memory's treasures accurately o'er
To mark what trespass lurk'd amongst her store—

What crime Self-love might seek to smother there,
Which her acute perception saw so clear;
Yet, after all, his intellectual eye
Could no condemning word, or deed, descry,
No cause of Anger—Scorn—or Discontent—
Much less her exemplary Punishment.

Thus arm'd, and fortified, his honest heart,
Resolv'd to act the upright Hero's part.
While Conscience, with a Christian's force, defied
Her Prejudice, her Passion, Spite, and Pride.
The troops of Prejudice that throng'd the field—
With all the weapons Passion's pow'r could wield;
The transient strength which churlish Spite inspires,
And Pride's more permanent but feebler fires—
With all their virulence and base abuse,
While Truth could no convicting plea produce.

He tried Conjecture's trackless region round,
To judge what phantasms Fancy might have found—
What Game the glances of her Hawks might trace,
Or Greyhounds view in visionary chace—
What shapes Imagination might have seen
To stir the poison in her heart of Spleen—
What Spectres mad Suspicion might behold
Pilfering her property, in goods, or gold—
What magic jaundic'd Jealousy might use
To rouze her wrath, and his fair fame abuse,
Extorting word, or action, indiscreet,
To lay him prostrate at her trampling feet—
What secret schemes her Malice might invent
To twist his conduct, and destroy Content;
Or plots and plans her Hatred might create
To stab his fortune, or to fix his Fate.
How hypocritic Art, with stale pretence,
Might frame some figment to curtail expence—
Prompt some proud speech which might offence afford,
Deserving banishment from bed and board,
And yield some plausibility to boast
His base behaviour push'd him from his post.

Tho' cold Economy, and dark Dislike,
Long look'd for Opportunity to strike
Some deadly blow to make his Credit bleed,
To spare expence in stipulated Meed;
Yet bare-faced Falshood was compell'd, at last,
To speak the sentence when the verdict pass'd.
All previous promises were set aside—
Her head Humanity was forc'd to hide—
And, lull'd by Cunning's opiates, Conscience slept
While Truth and Justice bent their necks, and wept!

But let fair facts, depicted by this Pen,
Make both those Graces lift their heads agen.
Let Truth declare, when from her dreams arouz'd,
Why Age was wounded—Honesty unhous'd—
Why Charity discharg'd a Slave so poor,
And shut against a Friend her frowning door!
Why Worth, acknowledg'd, and in Life so late,
Was turn'd adrift, and Grandeur clos'd her gate!
Let Justice tell, why, after Eighteen Years,
Part spent in troubles—most in anxious fears,
When forced Compliance bore some sinful part,
That oft his conscience pain'd, and pierc'd his Heart,
The whole in care and toil—the chief in strife
Clipp'd from the best, the noblest, part of Life;
And near the third of that contracted span
By Heav'n allotted, now, the time of Man!
The only third, by Providence's dow'r,
The force of thought, and energy of Pow'r.
The antecedent part prepar'd for Youth
To plant Experience, and to store up Truth—
The latter portion, of his shadowy days,
Activity declines, and strength decays;
While each frail pow'r of his compounded frame
Grows hourly more exhausted—cold—and tame!
His withering Body, stiffening, still with rust,
Presents a spectacle of deep disgust,
Among the mocking progeny of Wealth,
Who honour nought but Beauty, Youth, and Health—
His barren intellect, become inert,
In vain hopes patronage, or pleads desert;
But, suffering human Nature's hapless lot
Expects to be by all—but God, forgot—

That was the Space when Crispin might have made
Some efforts, fair, in Study—Toil—or Trade—
Have gain'd some Glory—Consequence—or Coin—
To smoothe the rough descent of Life's decline;
The sharp asperities of Time's drear slope
So faintly lighted by the beams of Hope!
Where Age, from higher expectations hurl'd,
Meets little comfort from a cruel World!
But, when sore press'd with poverty and pain,
With Sickness's and Sorrow's wasting train;
No earthly Friendship chears, supports, or guides,
But down to Death's lone lodge, forsaken, slides!

Should Truth and Justice, here, their plea suspend,
Or, weak with wrongs, and base oppression, bend—
Should both be silent till the end of Time,
Confute no calumny, confront no crime,
Yet will an awful season soon arrive,
When Justice will not wait, nor Truth connive,
But, maugre false distinctions, form'd on Earth,
Which appertain to high, or abject, Birth—
The honour'd, or obscure—the Rich, or Poor—
The titled Courtier, or ignoble Boor—
Howe'er their deep distress, or grandeur, strike
Their sovereign Lord will judge them just alike!

Crispinus ne'er set up a spurious plea
His heart from human weaknesses was free—
From frailties or from faults, exemption claim'd,
O'er which the shuddering Christian shrinks asham'd;
But which the Worldling and the reckless Wit,
Without compunction carelessly commit—
Bold aberrations from the right-lin'd path,
Which every moment merit righteous wrath—
Incessant sins against a holy God,
That call for scourgings from his chastening rod!
Nor did his tongue with proud applauses boast
He fill'd quite faultless, his important post—
Ne'er fail'd, in perfect strictness, to fulfil
Each precept of his wild Employer's will—
No! he confest most frankly how he swerv'd
From Heav'n's behests, and endless Death deserv'd;
And, deviating from Duty, might incur
Some frowns, or slight remonstrances, from Her—
But what could shape inexpiable crimes,
In Crispin's conduct?—modest Man of rhymes!
So cruelly his happy hopes to crush;
Still, every accusation calmly hush,
With exclamation, weak, yet dar'd deride
His humble Penury, and impeach for Pride—
And, thus, defying Justice—Truth—and Sense,
Preclude all honest aims at Self-defence!

Was it Humanity's or Mercy's hint,
That thus would positive Impeachment stint?
Was it remembrance of some small desert?
Or, lest fine feelings, haply, might be hurt?
Alas! he sadly felt, from Year to Year,
His Tyrant's tender mercies most severe!
Who 'mid familiar talk, with baited tongue
Would hook out secrets, with vile views to wrong;
With base design entrusted truths to blab,
And, mask'd with friendly smiles, and flattery, stab!

Did Heav'n, to such, no tenderer Mercy show,
Than their base hearts, on Fellow-fall'n, below,
How would their Soul sustain its misery, here,
From deep despondence, or foreboding fear?
How dreadful after death must judgment be
When Deity proclaims His last decree!

Such arbitrary Despots truly plead
The annual Wretch receives his annual meed;
Nor can one crime to Conscience e'er attach,
Should Tyrants such depending Dupes dispatch;
Nor future reckonings make their Minds afraid
While warning's tender'd, and their stipend's paid.

This might be pleaded with the subject Bard
To quit his quarter's debt, and then discard;
For He no more could legally require,
Than such small remnant of small yearly hire:
But, did no circumstance, distinctive, stand,
To bind his Patroness with stronger band?
No special caveat to his cause append,
To wake the Woman, and to fix the Friend?
No secret sanction of a closer kind
Than those that common Boors, and Courtiers bind?
No incidents connect with Crispin's case
But such as Whim might rend, or interest rase?
Such as mere servile Slaves to bondage tie
Which Despots' pow'r each moment may destroy?
Each calm preliminary quite forgot,
Which form'd each fastening, and which knit each knot?
The many well-wound literary strings,
With labels hung, that hinted better things?
The faithful records fair, in written form,
Replete with promises, and wishes warm?
Strong intimations—smiles—and tropes—
Twisted, and twin'd, like silken, silvery, ropes,
Wreath'd around his eager heart, with countless coils,
Till fully tramell'd in her artful toils.
That heart, which, after, suffer'd more regrets
Than all the meshes of those magic nets.
And do not those deponents still exist,
An interesting, long, but useless list?
Unfolding objects, by their fictions gay,
Which might more tutor'd breasts than his betray?
A pow'rful Patroness! a faithful Friend!

Peace! Plenty! Transport! without bound, or end!
And was not oft her fascinating tongue
With Flattery's soft insinuations hung?
Distilling from her lips in saccharine drops,
To nourish Hope's imaginary crops?
While breathings, fond, like balmy zephyrs flew,
To cherish expectations, all untrue!
Tho' Memory, false, may furl up all the facts,
Which constitute such fair, but fickle, pacts—
Tho' every verbal document's denied—
By Passion blurr'd, or blotted out by Pride—
Tho' heaps of prompt epistolary store
Such mimic Friendship recollects no more;
Yet will their inky characters remain,
Among Mankind, a still-enduring stain.
As proofs of treachery—or striking flaws
In Love's—Truth's—Equity's—eternal Law—
Still stand, inscrib'd, with all their lying scrolls,
Recorded, clearly, in Heav'n's deathless rolls
And at the Day of retribution stand
As base deceptions, on sinister hand.

But should Wealth's, Wit's, Fame's, Fashion's, brilliant blaze,
Conceal such marks, like Sol's meridian rays;
Some hazey medium may soon intervene,
And all such secret blemishes be seen—
Some philosophic lens assist the sight,
By clipping off those locks of dazzling light;
While telescopic tubes the parts extend
To prove what blackness may with brightness blend;
And shew, while shining hot, and soaring high,
Such splendours cover spots of darkest dye!
While He, and They, with all their brilliant beams,
Must soon expire with pantomimic dreams!
His radiant disk become, like sackcloth, dark,
Nor ever more emit one splendid spark,
But all their transient glare be turn'd to gloom,
In sable, sinking, to eternal tomb!
But could such base Delinquents, here, escape,
Deep shrouded in some dupe-deceiving shape,
Each sigh and groan attentive Heaven hears,
And bottles up such Sufferer's briney tears,
To form a tempest, and a flood, at last,
Each Tyrant's trusts to drown, each Despot's hopes to blast!

Should Justice, here, some argument maintain,
Against old Age, and Poverty, and Pain,
Yet Charity might, sure, some smile afford;
Still intercede to sheathe her threat'ning sword;
And Clemency's and Mercy's pleas prevail,
With Tenderness, to turn the sinking scale;
While Pity's dews, dropt most from Females' eyes,
Might give the beam a much more gracious poise.
Had mere Humanity, in female form,
Impress'd by kind accustom'd wishes, warm;
With palpitating heart, and pearly eye,
Amid such attributes of Heav'n, been by,
What had her conflicts, her convulsions, been,
When viewing such a soul-dissolving scene
As Crispin, and domestic Friends, display'd,
When, to their dwelling, he the news convey'd—
When first his bosom bore the swelling load
To his blank Family's forlorn abode—
When, with a quivering pulse, and visage pale,
His breast o'er-burden'd with a torturing tale,
Compell'd his dangerous message to relate
To a mute Daughter and a dying Mate!

There, trying months that tender Mate had lain,
Consum'd with constant sickness—grief—and pain—
While anxious care—misfortune—fear—and woe,
With weight combin'd had laid their Victim low!
Lamented much, by every faithful Friend,
Who dreaded, daily, to behold her end!
Like a fair Flow'r, smit by untimely storm,
Retaining nothing but its faded form;
With such remaining charms as just to tell
What once its beauties were before it fell!

His pining Daughter, with attentions pure,
Had watch'd—pray'd—wept—and labour'd, for a cure;
Till, with hard toil, and anxious care, decay'd,
She seem'd the shadow of maternal Shade!

Another Daughter, and beloved Boy,
That, a sore Sorrow—this a secret Joy!
The one a Wife; just join'd with cruel curse,
Both much depending on poor Crispin's purse;
While he was now depriv'd of every pow'r
To furnish either with a needful dow'r!

He, worn with cares, and persecutions, felt
His painful heart, his very spirit, melt;
While with a trembling step, and frantic fear,
His feeble frame approach'd her pallet near.

Oh! what a dire dilemma here arose!
Worse than e'er Crispin wish'd his fiercest Foes;
Worse than he wish'd false Hypocrites, or Pimps,
Or even fated Hell's infernal Imps!
To ease his heart was no expedient found
But what endanger'd still more desperate wound;
That Daughter's spirit now so deeply broke,
It scarcely could sustain one added stroke!
Her strength he fear'd must fail beneath such weight,
And find her Parent's long-expected Fate!
Yet radiant Reason, 'mid this murkey Night
Shot thro' his shuddering breast one beam of light;
Her youthful Mind perchance might pierce the gloom,
And comfort Fancy with much milder doom.
Might see Hope's image, thro' her misty tears,
In rainbow raiment, softening all her fears,
And, while she chas'd the shades with chearing rays!
Present some prospect of much happier days!

Thus, while his heart, in sad suspense was hung
O'er the harsh story, faultering on his tongue;
How undesirable were doubt, and dread,
For the dear Partner of his breast, and bed!
He fear'd the reliques of her Life should fail
At full recital of his fateful tale;
When, all at once, with palpable surprize,
The baleful prospect spread before her eyes!
She had no heat to thaw her freezing heart—
No softenings for her Soul—no tears to start—
No strength to combat the combin'd attack,
And summon her departing Spirit back—
But, like a taper, ready to expire,
That holds its feeble blaze of fluttering fire,
Long hovering o'er the wick, with trembling doubt,
Lest some small puff should put the sparkle out:
So o'er her fair, emaciated, frame,
Her Spirit hung with long-suspended flame;
Thro' pain and sickness ready to depart,
And leave thick darkness deepening round his heart!

Imagination mark'd, with sorrowing sight,
The near approach of that Egyptian night!
Beheld black-featur'd Fate, beside her head
Bend down to cut Life's filmy final thread;
And, in the ready ear of murderous Death
Urge Heav'n's behest to loose her lingering breath!
He, vengeful Tyrant! he, Assassin vile;
Skulk'd in a corner, near her couch the while,
With ebon bow, continually bent,
To mark the moment when her pow'rs were spent,
Then, instantly, to launch the loosen'd shaft
And, on its wings, to Heav'n, her Spirit waft!

He could not beg to keep her back from bliss,
And wither longer in a World like this—
Nor let Self-love desire a lengthen'd date,
To bear the frequent buffetings of Fate—
Could not when gone once wish her back again,
To wrestle hourly here with woe and pain!
For what were Crispin's prospects, now, below,
But wearying poverty, and pain, and woe!
Yet how could his perturbed bosom spare
The tired Companion of his toil and care?
How could his melancholy Mind resign,
A Soul, so perfect, and a Frame, so fine!
His fixt affections wish'd no other Wife
With which to pass the poor remains of Life;
Nor could his feelings find another Friend
Whose love would soothe his heart, or ease his End!
And now of Honour, Hope, and Home, bereft,
She was the only Friend his Fate had left;
Except their offspring, for his Life afraid,
Who all look'd up to him for friendly aid!

What horrors did his vanquish'd heart convulse
Lest the dire fact should fix her panting pulse!
Lest haggard looks, or voice's quivering sound,
Should give her wavering Soul the severing wound!
Should hurry to its home her matchless Mind,
And leave him nothing but a corpse behind!

There stood he, like some tall, and stable Rock,
Doom'd to sustain dread Ocean's harshest shock.
Surrounded by some smaller clinging clifts,
Against whose breasts each billowy danger drifts;
Asking protection from each whelming wave,
But fear their Parents fall should prove their grave—
Or, like an aged Yew, on desert wild,
Of half its faded honours now despoil'd;
Its hoary head, and withering branches, bare,
Conflicting with each blast of brumal air;
With one long-wedded Consort drooping by,
Seeking support from sworn connubial tie;
And some few Saplings Providence had left,
Of numerous others by that Pow'r bereft,
Now, round their mournful Sire, all silent, stand,
A sighing—sorrowing—miserable Band.

Where could He turn! there was but one Resource,
One Arm that could restrain the Tyrant's force—
One Pow'r alone with whom his prayers could plead
To shield from whelming Woe, and shameful Need.
That Pow'r he earnest press'd, each passing hour,
To lend him longer, still, his darling Dow'r,
And thro' Life's tides the surest track to show
To shun blank Want's sunk rocks, and shoals, below!
There, he, thro' Time's bleak storms, his anchor cast,
To stem the billows, and withstand the blast!
Cast it, with confidence, within the veil,
For future happiness, and present weal!
Depending on that Captain who could steer
His feeble Bark thro' danger, doubt, and fear!
Whose heavenly flukes his fragile Vessel held,
While sad necessity his speech compell'd—
For He, whose hand supplied some pleasing Hope,
And fixt his Soul with Faith's ethereal rope,
Averted from his Mind consuming smart,
By pouring cordials thro' his Consort's heart;
Bestowing help, in Mercy, which withstood
The depredations of Hell's baleful brood!
With perfect Love, His Providence, at length,
Her health establish'd and restor'd her strength;
Fear's language turning, and desponding lays,
From sighs—groans—tears—and pray'rs, to thanks, and songs of praise!

But what were all his earthly prospects, now?
Which way was he to turn? or when? or how?
A thick, impenetrable blank, throughout!
A land of darkness! of despair! or doubt!
All melancholy dread, or dim surmise,
Where'er he cast his view, below the Skies!
There, tho' Heav'n's shining Kingdom Nature shrowds,
His Faith look'd up and pierc'd her murkiest clouds!

Where'er on Earth weak Understanding turn'd
His chearless breast each object chill'd, or burn'd.
No grateful tree, or hopeful flow'ret grew,
To promise him fair fruits in Reason's view.
If any flowery, fertile, tract, was seen
With blossoms garnish'd, or with herbage green;
Each tempting spot was all preoccupied,
By Imps of Plunder, Dupes of Pomp and Pride—
By Labour's Offspring—Sons of thought and toil,
Which tend the Counter, or which till the Soil.
No space appear'd, throughout the loaded Land,
Where Trade could stretch, or Culture could expand,
To furnish covering, and to offer food,
For Crispin—tender Spouse—and hapless Brood!

Where'er on Man he turn'd his mental Sight,
No view was better'd—no one object bright!
On every side his anxious eye beheld
His hopes all wither'd—each prompt wish repell'd—
While every pregnant scheme, and procreant care,
Brought forth dead Birth, or perish'd in despair!

It furnish'd his torn heart but fickle joys
To see his Consort from her sick-bed rise;
Her frame still feeble; bosom full of fear;
To wander with her Mate she knew not where;
In Life's decline, with toil to seek support,
So long encourag'd in frail Fortune's Court!

The rich and pow'rful Friends he once could boast
All fled from hostile Earth's inclement Coast;
Or those that Fate had left had long forgot;
All judg'd him long safe-lodg'd in joyous lot—
Deem'd him well-blest with Patronage and store,
And thought of Crispin, and his Muse, no more!

Death's ruthless darts had robb'd the banish'd Bard
Of Friendly Lyttelton, and faithful Ward!
Shenstone, to youthful Memory ever-dear!
So wont to chear his heart, and charm his ear;
And many more, who favour'd Crispin's cause,
Had fall'n, before, by Heav'n's resistless Laws!

One, who, in Shenstone's constellation, long
Illumin'd morals both by Prose and Song;
And still, with youthful fire, in hoary Age,
Defies the Despot Death's tyrannic rage;
With fond exulting confidence declar'd
Vanessa's bounty, still, poor Crispin shar'd,
In proud extent, completely to preclude
All changes Time attempts, or chances rude.

Alas, how little his kind Heart could know
A Friend, affianc'd, oft becomes a Foe;
Or, with a Soul so philanthropic, deem
One free from crimes could lose ev'n Wit's esteem!
How little did his honest Soul surmise
A Friend could Faith, and promises, despise!
On what attenuated threads are hung
Declar'd Attachments of the courtly throng;
Much less how little Poets may depend,
On famous—fashionable—female—Friend!
How such blind vanes revolve with every breeze—

How soon such bosoms flame—how soon they freeze—
For when his dazzling dream beheld the light
Poor Crispin's hopes were sunk in endless night!
When his humane, expanded Mind suppos'd
The Bard in ease, and affluence, din'd and doz'd,
He press'd with anxious breast, a sleepless bed,
And toil'd thro' cold, and dirt, for daily bread!

Who would have guess'd her Conscience could forget
Free promises impos'd a binding debt—
That, when so broken, would incur no blame,
Nor forfeit particle of courtly fame!
Who would suppose Her Patronage could fail
Whose Kindness was become a public tale!
That long-form'd Friendship, rashly could refuse
Humanity's, and Mercy's, decent dues!
A prompt Protectress from engagements fly,
And Hospitality's last helps deny!
The charming Type of Charity, itself,
Relinquish Character to spare its Pelf!
That fam'd Economy would Profit spare—
Discharge true Diligence, and scoff at Care—
Prompt Faithfulness with all its fruits, forego,
And vengeful Pride lay virtuous Victim low!
Who could conceive such Tenderness would strive
To strip, and torture, any Slave alive;
Much less its Vassals who had labour'd, long,
Promoting riches, or preventing wrong,
Still infinitely less those faithful Friends,
Who made her happiness their mutual ends!
That She should spurn with spite, such deep distress,
Whom Poets compliment, and Priests caress—
Whom virtuous Courts invest with faultless fame—
Give Ostentation Love's pure gospel Name—
Ev'n Wit itself perceives no blot or blur,
But sees each pure accomplishment in Her;
While Pimps, and Paupers, with her bounties blind,
Conceive her sweet, and good, and great, and kind;
And would each Wight as Fool, or Friend, condemn,
Who deem'd Her weak, or, peccable, like Them!

What strange astonishment such Fools must feel
When told her Heart was hard as temper'd steel;
Or that her artificial shine, when shown,
Was but the splendour of a polish'd stone—
That all her Virtues were but Vizors, bright,
To keep her carnal sentiments from sight;
And all her Charities but cheats to hide
Unbounded Vanities—Caprice—and Pride!

Ye Sons of Song, ah! be no more misled—
Ye ignorant Boors, in Court, or College, bred—
Ye cheated Wits her charming mask behold
All Tinsel's glare, instead of native Gold—
And Ye who shreds of Ostentation share,
Who think that all was frank which seem'd so fair;
Strip off her specious Tenderness, and State,
And mark her Character in Crispin's Fate!
No more mere outside blandishments believe,
Nor let mock Charity your Minds deceive.
Suppose not such professions fully prove
That social motives all such actions move;
But know Beneficence with heavenly veil,
Eludes each eye, true Kindness to conceal;
Each eye but His who must the pow'r bestow,
And give the feeling heart its friendly glow.

O Thou that vaunt'st thy selfish Virtues, proud,
And lov'st to lead frail Fashion's courtly Crowd;
Boast Sensibility, and Truth, no more;
True Love, or Pity, for the suffering Poor;
Nor aim to occupy superior Niche
Among the pious, patronizing, Rich!
Affect no longer fondly to retain
Soft sympathy for Poverty and Pain.
Thy Soul's too sordid, and too hard thy Heart,
To fill the Friend's, or Patroness's part!
Thy Mind's too fickle, much too frail thy Will,
For fostering Art, or well-rewarding Skill;
Thy selfish feelings Pity's pow'r to know,
Or yield Asylum, long, to Want, or Woe!
In that false Heart no genuine Friendship's found,
Which stabb'd so deep, so undeserv'd, a wound—
No Sympathy e'er swells that boasting Breast
That can discard a Vassal so distrest—
Nor ever Love in that dead Bosom dwell,
Which mocks at Misery lodg'd in lowly Cell!
As well their Friendship savage Beasts might boast,
Which tyranize o'er Nature's harmless Host;
As well might boast soft Sympathy they share,
While sacrificing part a part they spare—
As well might Leopards, or wild Lions' Dams,
Which from the frighted Folds purloin the Lambs;
Or steal the straying Kids from native Rocks,
Proclaim their Kindness for the living Flocks—

As well might cruel Cats, 'mid murderous joy,
First persecute their prey, and then destroy;
And tho' inflicting fear, and woe, the while,
Look round for praise, with self-complacent smile—
Still hope for fame throughout the torturing strife,
For lengthening out the sufferer's wretched Life.
As well the Eagle might enlarge on Love,
That, from his Mate had torn a tender Dove—
The screaming Kite; or skulking, keen-ey'd, Hawk;
Of Mercy—Sympathy—and—Pity—talk,
That spare no Parent of inferior Throng;
No Bird of Passage—nor poor Son of Song!
The Blackbird—Linnet—Thrush—alike, betray'd,
Or Nightingale, that glads the leafy glade;
The sprightly Lark while piping o'er the plains
Or simple Redbreast, chaunting wintery strains!

But not the Bard, alone was won by guile,
Seductive promise, or delusive smile;
But those who better knew the World, were bit
By cunning wiles, and fascinating Wit.
Domestics practising far higher Trust
From like deceptions felt as deep disgust;
By schemes of dark dissimulation caught,
Who future affluence from her favour sought.

Among the group successive Tutors, twain,
Were added to her hir'd domestic Train;
Instructed well in learned classic Lore,
And furnish'd, fair, with scientific store,
Court, Camp, and College Arts; a proper Pair,
To form the Mind of dear, adopted, Heir—
To execute a long-projected Plan,
Of a mere Animal to make a Man!
To take the Talents of an active Ape,
And turn them into senatorial shape.
A mere Automaton in fleshly form—
A Soul, with selfish wishes only, warm—
With dim Ideas his Fancy stock,
The various offices of Man to mock;
Till memory stor'd with magazines immense,
Might cover Subtlety with cloaks of Sense—
His Habits form by Fashion—watch his Health—
And fit him fully for the walks of Wealth,

Each undertook his honourable charge,
To mould his manners, and his Mind enlarge.
The first intent was certain to succeed,
His form well-fashion'd for Art's mimic Breed;
His Mind well-fitted for those little Things
That furnish Courtiers, and that flatter Kings;
At Birthday-balls, and Levees, shap'd to shine,
And make weak Monarchs dream themselves divine.
With Coxcombs cope—with Females flirt and flaunt,
And with fond raptures fill his doting Aunt;
The latter must, maugre endeavours, fail;
No Art can stretch the great Creator's scale;
This strong behest restricting all below,
“Thus far, but nothing farther, Thou shalt go.”

The first, a Foreigner, in Arts well-skill'd,
With which the Minds of Courtiers must be fill'd;
The forms of flattery—politesse—and pride—
Leaving but little room for ought beside.
A Man, consider'd by the World well-bred;
Hume, in his heart, and Herbert in his head—
Well-read in wild Rousseau, and vain Voltaire—
Of Bible-knowledge show'd but scanty share—
Knew Gospels—Acts—Epistles—just enough
To judge these Falshoods—rate those wretched Stuff!
Weakly, on Revelation, wreak'd his Wit,
As, for mere Fools, alone, or Madmen, fit.
Thus Morals were but small, Religion less—
More sedulous to flatter, dance, and dress—
Like Bute to bow—like Chesterfield to chat—
And nice manœuverings of the head, and hat.
Mock lordly Air, and high heroic Mien;
Such as in Courts, and sanguine Camps, are seen;
Long practising, before, like apish pranks
In humblest office of War's foreign Ranks.
Of Liberal Sciences, in part, possess'd,
With which few Commons, fewer Peers, are bless'd.
Much skill'd in learned Lore—more modern French
Than all the Treasury-Board, and Bishop's Bench.
But, chief in fashionable Follies vers'd,
By which base Vice, and Vanity, are nurs'd.
Completely taught the Great, and Rich, to greet,
With spaniel cringe, and compliments most meet;
With perfect ease, and elegance, and grace,
Whate'er the Person, or where'er the Place;
But every real sentiment conceal,
With apt Hypocrisy's still-varying veil.

Such were the Arts, and Sciences, enjoin'd
To be most press'd upon his Pupil's Mind;
To make him complaisant, or pert, and proud,
To shine in Courts, or senatorial Crowd;

Or, with the sails of Fancy, all unfurl'd,
Run his wild Course amidst a carnal World.
His Pupil's Lessons, neither wise nor nice,
Increas'd his knowledge in the schools of Vice,
And often to the haunts of Folly flew,
To put in practice those base Arts he knew.

The Teacher was, awhile, most amply paid
With hopes, from promises profusely made;
With hopes of great, and permanent, regard,
And promises of long, and large, reward,
But soon his Faith the sad deception found,
That thus had charm'd him o'er enchanted ground;
Like that frail Meteor whose bewitching fire
Soon flies, and merges Followers in the mire;
So promis'd Patronage was never sped,
And Hope's false visionary vapour fled!
When the prompt Scholar had the pattern caught
And well digested what the Tutor taught—
Had follow'd thro' the custom'd Tour of France,
And learn'd to plot, and pimp, and dupe, and dance—
The Master's months of usefulness no more,
Professions—smiles—and flattery—soon were o'er—
And quick discharg'd, credulity to curse,
With feeble fame, and unreplenish'd purse!

A decent, dapper Parson, next, was nam'd,
For far more moral work, and Wisdom fam'd—
To teach the long-establish'd sober, saws,
Of national Religion's holy Laws;
And thus restrain, with postulates of truth,
The vagrant ramblings of lascivious Youth.
Whether their influence had a full effect
In bridling Vice, or hindering base Neglect—
Whether their pow'r withheld the Learner's lips,
From sometimes making customary trips—
Whether they stopp'd his eager Appetites
From oft indulging Dogs', or Goats' delights;
Or so their sovereign efficacy felt,
He ne'er at shrines of earthly Venus knelt:
Or that his Teacher proper pattern show'd,
By conduct sanctioning the sacred Code;
Whose juvenility might yield surmise
He felt not senseless, yet, to social joys.
Such confidential facts, if clearly true,
The Bard, now grown obnoxious, never knew;
Or, if trusted with such nauseous News,
'Twas ne'er deem'd worthy of his modest Muse.
Such paltry tales, might, probably, afford
A subject fit for fashionable board—
Might serve to bandy, sportively, about,
In polish'd rabbles, at a Sunday's Rout;
Which Crispin would have deem'd a daring crime
A vile pollution of his virtuous rhyme!

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!

This Priest, like his Precursor, in the race,
Soon totter'd in his pedagogic place,

And, like the courtly, ministerial Kind
Compell'd, by proud Authority, resign'd.

He, too, had listen'd to the Syren's lure,
And thought each smile sincere; each promise pure;
Depending fully on the fickle Dame
To form his Fortune, and to fix his Fame;
But, like his learned Brother, he was mock'd—
His fame and fortune shorten'd—feeling shock'd—
And, with strong emphasis, like him, exprest
The inward workings of his troubled breast.
The former, prone to dwell on dark belief,
Accus'd of deep chicane his quondam Chief;
And swore that sooner than he'd tamely stand
To ask a favour from her faithless hand,
Or youthful Traytor, whom he taught, in vain,
A pistol ball should pierce his throbbing brain.
The latter was a Man of gentler make,
Who deem'd a dread Eternity at stake—
A Churchman, skill'd in each mysterious Creed,
Who durst not doom his heart, or brain to bleed,
Or so to pledge the Life his Maker lent,
Tho' doom'd, like him, to lasting discontent;
Yet dar'd his temper'd sentence thus declare,
“The Lady's conduct was not strictly fair!”

Nor only these experienc'd painful cost
From Favours, by Caprice, or Passion, lost;
But various others, of more humble Rank,
Found Faith, like April show'rs, or shadows blank;
Amidst fair promises foul falshood pain'd,
And, when discharg'd, like harshness all sustain'd.

But none like Crispin, poor, abandon'd, Bard!
Could think his case so singularly hard—
None had been call'd such confidence to find,
Such friendly hope, or promises so kind!
None so expell'd by unexpected stroke—
Each rapturing compact so abruptly broke!
Each dazzling hope so suddenly destroy'd,
And left at large in such a dreary void!
Not one, so weaponless, such wars to wage,
With hostile hosts, in want, and weary Age!
So loaded with a weak and sickly Wife,
To tow along thro' all remaining Life;
And unprovided Progeny assist,
Whate'er misfortune struck, or comfort miss'd—
While not a single friendly Soul was found,
To ease his heart, the whole horizon round!

He once had wealthy Friends on every hand—
Ev'n Lords and Ladies, near his native Land;
With Science, Wit, and Taste, on every side,
By Love, or Pity, to his interests tied.
Some kind connections Time had worn away;
And some Occasion suffer'd to decay—
Some Death had levell'd with his desperate lance—
Some snapp'd the bond by choice—and some by chance—
Those left relax'd their kindnesses and care,
Well-pleas'd to find his prospects look so fair.

What were connections now? all sudden torn
But a lov'd Wife, with lamentation worn,
And Children, who, like her, with sorrow rent,
O'er Parents wept, compell'd to strike their tent;
Now, press'd by Penury, Age, and deep Distress,
Again to wander thro' Earth's Wilderness!
His pleasant prospects, now, all instant close—
No spot appear'd where they could hope repose—
No near Asylum offering, safe and warm,
To fence their bosoms from the beating storm!
No distant shelter could their eyes behold,
To find a skreen from Age's heightening cold;
Or where, by heavenly Love, of Life bereft,
Each heart at ease, leave those that Love had left!

Their hearts with intellectual terror struck,
And disbelieving what the World calls luck,
Where'er they look'd for help, from human aid,
Oblivion spread impenetrable shade—
All earth appear'd one universal blot—
By Friends forsaken, or by Friends forgot!
On every side they saw, with startled glance,
Their hopes withdraw and horrid fears advance!
Where'er Imagination's mirror turn'd
Despair's black figure in its focus burn'd;
Which, with a melting force, dissolv'd, like fire,
In their drear beasts, each object of desire,
Without one particle of pleasing light
To guide their way thro' gross remaining Night!
No golden gleam the landscape could illume
But all lay buried in Egyptian gloom!
No spark but Revelation's lucid beam;
Which points out views beyond vain Time's extreme;
And that pure Spirit's supernatural ray
Which leads Believers on to endless Day!

Tho' that mild ray may reach the Soul's distress,
The Mind may comfort, and the Bosom bless;

Yet while Faith, Hope, and Love, the Spirit feed,
They yield no substance for the Body's need.
That rightful office Reason must fulfil,
By teaching Judgment—well-directing Will—
Still looking round, with Understanding's eye,
To mark where Probability's best prospects lie.
Not, now, to hazey Air, or grassy Ground,
Where dew still falls, but no fresh Manna's found;
Nor, when the wasted strength of Nature fails,
Hope Heav'n will furnish, now, fresh flocks of Quails—
But Man must study, and by labour, strive,
To feed the Flesh and keep the Frame alive;
For, tho' the Soul still blessings asks,
The Body must perform its proper tasks,
And not expect from Faith, or fancied Worth,
The mouth supplied, by miracles, on Earth.

	CHAPTER 14th. The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse