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

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!

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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?

Oh! dearest Hannah! that the World were wise,
To dig that field where boundless Treasure lies!
That Wealth and Title would His Word attend,
Their first, best, Father! their most bounteous Friend!
Would with their Lust, and Pride, and Riches, part,
And buy the Pearl in that celestial Mart;
So freely offer'd to all Souls alive,
Without a price, who ask, and seek, and strive!
Then would no Parents on their Offspring draw
The dreadful sentences of Sinai's Law!

With subtle wiles, no Serpent would deceive,
By vile insidious lies, a listening Eve;
Nor Eve, when fall'n, her Adam's faith betray,
From duty tempting his fond heart astray!

No flattering Courtiers, foolish Kings, advise,
With whips and scorpions Subjects to chastise;
Or Subjects, to escape such cruel curse,
With weak and wicked choice to chuse a worse!

No King would covet—Queen pervert the Law—
No brib'd Professors find illegal flaw;
Nor Witnesses, corrupted, falsely swear,
To charge—convict—and kill, a rightful Heir!

In borrow'd shape, no Vice thro' vizor seen,
Would mimic Virtue's godlike look and mien;
Or, with deception, of a darker shade,
Presume to purchase Heav'n by vain parade;
But let Religion act her honest part,
And clear each head of hypocritic Art,
While Heav'n's pure Word would prompt Affection win,
And purge the Soul from all polluting Sin;
Till, like a faithful mirror Man would shine,
By Wisdom polish'd, and by Grace, divine;
Reflecting that bless'd Pattern, plac'd above,
In perfect Peace—Goodwill—and holy Love!

Alas! what Sampson's wonderous strength can boast
Such ample conquest o'er Philistia's host?
With ass's jaw, what Warrior, in these times,
Knocks down, at once, a thousand scarlet crimes?
And should some Hero smite them, hip and thigh,
They'd rise again—and swagger—swear—and lie—
While hearts were puff'd with proud, and fleshly, leav'n,
As tho' they'd never heard of Hell, or Heav'n.

Some casual cooling streams such jaws bestow,
From pulpits pour'd, on famish'd flocks, below,
Yet small refreshment by those flocks is found,
For, when such watery streamlets murmur round,
Like Summer flood, foul—noisey—rapid—short—
The sheep and lambs are little better for't.
They lay not, long, Wealth's whirling, driving, dust,
Or put Pride's wild-fire out; or flames of Lust—
Nor, sprinkled, lightly, o'er the burning breast,
Soothe Passion's raving paroxysms to rest—
No barren Lands to better state restore,
But leave them light, and fruitless, as before—
Not damping feverish Pride's delirious flames,
But strengthening Lust's, and Passion's, natural claims.

Would every One begin Heav'n's work at home,
And sweep, and scrub, and scour, their dirty Dome—
Hunt out the subtle spider's poisonous race,
And biting bugs, from every hiding place,
With my dear Hannah's duteous diligence,
Expelling all that gives their God offence;
All private rooms would soon be pure, and sweet—
And peace—content—and comfort—more complete—
More home-bred happiness—more general joy—
Without fond wish to live—or fear to die!

That is a task for Us, and such as Us;
The World of Fashion would not bear such fuss—
Yet, all the elevated Folk will find
A class of Toils and Cares of different kind;
For Pow'r and Grandeur, Riches, Rank, and Birth,
Procure, with Care, their momentary Mirth—
Magnificent Amusements cost much Toil,
To raise and rectify their vast turmoil—
Mysterious Raptures, hatch'd at midnight hour—
Expensive Pleasures, not in Negros' pow'r—

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All brilliant glitter, and bright glare, at first;
But, like Boys' Crackers, sparkle—blaze—and burst—
Surrounding multitudes to burn or blind,
Then sink in smoke, and leave a stench behind!

Their courtly manners, when among Us, Clowns,
Tho' full of cold contempt, or flouts and frowns,
To shine superior make a mighty pother;
But when their Honours mix among each other,
Their airs, how gentle! and their smiles, how sleek!
With what soft accent, polish'd phrase, they speak!
Thou'dst deem, dear Hannah! from their looks, and lore,
That Seraphs scarcely could sublimer soar—
With tongues so dainty, faces so demure,
Their heads were perfect—and their hearts were pure!
But, ah! my Hannah! all's but specious Art;
For, when these friendly, courteous Creatures, part,
Their vile inventions, and base memories, broach,
But mutual spite, and mischievous reproach.

But was their language simple, and sincere,
None but themselves their panegyrics hear;
And bright examples, sober preachers say,
Much more than wit, or moral precepts, weigh—
Then ought high Birth, like Luminaries bright,
Lead Mankind's copying crowds both Day and Night;
And not like twinkling Stars, that scarce appear,
Nor scatter any useful influence here;
Nor like foul lamp's, or fetid candle's fire,
Which light a little space, and soon expire:
But o'er each woodland, plain, and mountain, shine,
Displaying proofs of origin divine;
That all their light may mark—their influence feel—
We, make-weights, beds and bushels must conceal—
At most, extend to drive domestic glooms,
From friendly circles, in our narrow rooms;
Diffusing trembling beams, from tiney wicks,
Just flickering round our earthen-candlesticks.