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

Let's again, distinctly, try
What makes Wealth differ so from Thee, and Me.
Search what's the true, discriminating mark
That proves their splendour drowns our misty spark.
How glittering Demigoddesses, and Gods,
Eclipse Us, poor, opaque, and vulgar, Clods.
Whether on Make, or Mind, is built the boast
Of every country Squire, or courtly Toast;
Or any other wealth-distinguish'd Wight,
Who stands beneath proud Peers, or Peeress', height.
What lifts so high the Ladies, and the Lords,
O'er scatter'd Cottagers, and hamlet-Hords—
What makes these wonderous Orders differ, so,
With Priests, and High-priests, from our Breeds below—
Or what in all the Royal Ranks we find
Above farm Family, or humble Hind.

Are these proud Ranks, thus priviledg'd, more pure
Than Crowds which cares and drudgeries endure?
Archbishop, Duke, and Duchess, call'd “your Grace,”
From Character, Complexion, Form, or Face?
Or other Orders, titled “Excellence,”
For Beauty—Virtue—Piety—or Sense?

In Height, and Strength, few Peers compare with Me;
No Ladies, Hannah, half so fair as Thee!
To vie in apish airs we ne'er presume,
Ne'er school'd at Court, or royal Drawing-room—

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Nor boast we Purity, or blameless Birth—
Or spotless Piety, or moral Worth—
Or Wit, or Learning—or of this World's Wealth—
Yet we can talk of Temperance, yielding Health;
Of Faith—Hope—Love—and pure religious Joy,
Which more than Titles, Pow'r and Wealth supply—
As for our Hearts, they only can be known
By Him who occupies the heavenly Throne,
With all the thoughts of theirs; their true intent,
Whether for good, or graceless mischief, meant.
By whom our motives will be all unfurl'd,
In future hour, before the assembled World—
The lots, then, peradventure, all revers'd—
The Poor be bless'd; the cruel Rich be curs'd!

Thy lot, and Mine, at present, Heav'n well knows!
Is far inferior to our haughty Foes!
They in a palace dwell, or princely dome—
Thou, temporal tenant in a rented home;
And I, a lodger, in a lonely cell,
Whence, any day, a Despot may expel.
With dainties, They, in proud profusion, fed—
Thou, on ounce chops, and stinted chips of bread;
With simple beverage, both to dine, and sup,
While cordial draughts still crown their daily cup—
Thy Mate, on milk, and vegetables, lives,
Which Tyranny may stop; now, grudging, gives.
Their clothing all compos'd, in every part,
With richest things, by rarest rules of Art:
Nor for mere coverings, or to keep them warm,
But so contriv'd, in fashion, and in form,
In dyes and deckings, till the brilliant blaze,
Makes them grow giddy, while assemblies gaze:
Our garb ungraceful, both in shape, and hue—
In texture never neat, and seldom new—
Materials paltry—manufacture plain—
Which never tends to make our spirits vain;
And if they catch these Courtiers' haughty eyes,
They pass with scorn, and them, and Us, despise.
But not on things like these our bliss depends,
We wait the time when every trial ends;
When infinite perfection will decide
The lot of Want's obedience, and Wealth's pride.

Wealth cannot make its winners happy, here—
They burn with Envy, or they freeze with Fear;
Nor mines and manors, gems and pearls, possess'd,
Can shut out Care, and still the troubled breast—
Insure a longer term to vital breath,
Or calm the Conscience in the hour of Death:
Nor can Earth's highest Pow'rs protect the heart,
Against the force of his terrific dart;
Nor all the pomp and grandeur of the Great,
Put off, one moment, fast-approaching fate.
Nay, Heav'n, to humble Arrogance, conspires
With earthquakes—storms—and atmospheric fires—
By shattering shake, or, instantaneous strokes,
To batter haughty Tow'rs, or sturdy Oaks;
While Shrub, or bending Reed, no danger dreads,
From storm or tempest raging o'er their heads—
Nor fears the humble Cot the earthquake's crash,
The whirlwind's fury, or the lightning's flash,
But stands, like lowly Tenant's faithful Soul,
When earthquakes threaten, and when thunders roll.
Wealth cannot make its votaries wits, or wise—
Oft Sense, or Prudence, Providence denies—
Nor envied Rank, nor Honours can procure
Respect from Sufferers who their stripes endure.

We, Rustics, while we feel their iron rods,
Cannot suppose them Goddesses, or Gods;
Nor think them Creatures of superior cast,
Ev'n when our pain and tribulation's past.
Can Wretches, who with persecution pine,
E'er deem such Despots glow with grace divine?
Their Persons—Virtues—Piety—revere,
Where nought but Passions—Lusts—and Lies appear?
Their mimic Charity, or Truth respect,
Who treat each duteous claim with cold neglect?
Can we in their Humanity confide
Who mock at misery with imperious Pride?
In Courtiers' dangling characters delight
Who spurn their Dupes with diabolic Spite?
On those for pure Integrity depend
Who, causelessly, deceive each humble Friend?
For Flattering Affectation feel esteem,
Where Self-applause appears the secret scheme?
That Knowledge—Learning—Courtesy—regard,
Which flout at Faith—and Honesty discard—
Or that, Religion, or true Morals, call,
Which God forgets, and vaunts a Rival's fall.

Some specious Prudes my injur'd Muse might name,
Who'd sacrifice their very Souls for Fame—

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Would any toil, or trouble, undergo,
That even Abjects might their Merits know—
Would combat any care, or any cost,
That not one scruple of Applause be lost;
While striving hard with labouring lips, or pen,
To chouse their God, and cheat the minds of Men.

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!

Tho' dress'd, and deck'd, they make such mighty fuss,
How chang'd in puris naturalibus!
Laid, low-reclining, on their listless couch,

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No Cants to flatter, and no Fools to crouch—
Stripp'd of their gawdy garb, and tawdry toys,
When sleep has clos'd their supercilious eyes—
Has stol'n their stately airs, and haughty strut,
And every limb's relax'd from head to foot;
What but mere common Women can be seen,
In Lady—Countess—Duchess—Princess—Queen?
All rates of Peers—Princes—and Sovereigns—then,
Appear, to Common-sense, as common Men!

Perchance, the Rich, on down may drop their heads—
The Poor, on pads of straw, or chaff-stuff'd beds—
Those hid in holland, and embroidery, bright—
These, rags, and tatters, just conceal from sight;
Yet, wrapp'd in peace, can clasp their squalid nest,
While those, 'mid gorgeous grandeur, find no rest,
But sleepless, painful, dreary, nights deplore,
While these, their miseries mocking, soundly snore,
Clear conscience, temperance, toil, yield Penury health,
While Guilt appals, and Luxury poisons Wealth.
Pomp seeks provision from its Pimps and Spies—
But Need, for every help, to Heav'n applies.
Pow'r seeks protection from its armed bands—
But Poverty looks up to heavenly hands;
In Faith, and Hope, on Providence depends,
Tho' destitute of force, or temporal Friends.
The Rich still fearful of each humbler Brother,
Nor can they quite confide in one another.
No robbers, mobs, or murderers, Penury fears,
But Wealth unnumber'd, groundless horrors hears—
Ev'n Kings, while compass'd with their warlike hosts,
Fear Foes, accustom'd, may attack their coasts,
Or Treason snatch their lives, or storm their throne—
We, Rustics, trust our guardian God alone!
And when the Tyrant of all Tyrants, Death,
Hath laid them low, and summon'd back their breath,
Tho' Wisdom's voice a full decision gives
Betwixt the Lion dead, and Dog that lives,
Yet, when at both, that Warrior's thrown his pike,
The Lion and the Dog are just alike.

Where is the difference, when the Spirit's fled,
Betwixt the little, and the lordly, Dead?
When stretch'd out, naked, none distinction trace,
Betwixt the meanest Gossip, and her Grace—
Between the proudest Duke, or Potentate,
And Misery's Wretch, that meets untimely fate;
Save that a shrowd the Mighty may adorn,
The Poor be buried just as they were born.
Haply rude elmen coffins may enclose,
And bear them, humbly, to their long repose—
Haply their Spirits may be borne above,
On Angels' pinions to the realms of Love!
The Rich, tho' here, by Friends, and Courts, caress'd,
Their breathless Bodies, tho' most richly dress'd,
And all inclos'd with curious envelope,
Yet may their Souls, devoid of Faith and Hope,
Be hurried off, by Fiends, to regions drear,
To feel the Horrors they inflicted here.

Their Heirs, resolv'd to keep them down, when dead,
Press each loath'd corpse with ponderous loads of lead,
And, when once hous'd within their narrow hole,
No further care for Body, or for Soul.

But not alone, by oak, or cedar, planks,
Proud Ostentation proves its different Ranks;
Sublime devices ornament the lid,
By richest velvet's raven coverings hid—
A central Sun displays its dazzling charms,
Beset with Titles—Crowns—and scutcheon'd Arms;
Each badge of State and Dignity to shew;
While gilded nails, in many a glittering row,
Like radiant Stars, their burnish'd beams dispense,
To superadd their scraps of Consequence.

These proud appendages of Wealth and Birth,
Soon, with Possessors, plung'd in Parent Earth!
Meantime each blazon'd shield, suspended high,
Bedeck their Domes to catch each curious eye;
Whose common Mottos, daringly, protest,
Their impious Spirits find eternal rest;
Or, that each ruin'd Frame shall surely rise,
To join their Souls in beatific Skies.

What was their Faith so stablish'd, and so strong,
And Hope so clear, such writings can't be wrong?
And was their Love so perfect—Life so pure,
That Happiness was certain—Heav'n secure?
Alas! my Mind, foreboding, feels dismay,
Lest such wild Mortals had mistook their way

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For, when well tried by Heav'n's unerring Rules,
They seem like wilful Madmen, Dupes, or Fools!

Here, gentle Hannah! just one moment stop,
To mark the difference, when these Mortals drop,
And leave, alike, their Cells, or sumptuous Domes,
When borne to dark, and small, and irksome, Homes.

The Poor, encompass'd by a puny Band,
With ropes, or ragged napkins, borne by hand;
Exhibiting, to each inspecting eye,
Their vulgar garments, dipp'd in every dye;
When weary, chang'd about, to Brother-slaves,
Till quite relinquish'd in forgotten graves—
Unless the gather'd earth, with little swells,
Enwrapp'd in turf, their dormitory tells;
Or stones, unchissell'd, at their heads, and feet,
A little time may mark their mean retreat—
Rear'd, just to warn the wandering Poor, that pass,
To greet their tombs, nor tread the sacred grass,
But, as they journey on their joyless way,
To moisten with a tear their mouldering clay:
While offering wholesome hints, that, soon, or late,
They must submit to share their Fellow's fate.

The Rich, in Hearses, proudly trail along,
Mid crowding coaches, and equestrian throng;
With pompous plumage nodding o'er their head,
To tell the World some wonderous Creature's dead!
And oft attended by pedestrian train,
Astonish'd at a sight both vague, and vain!
Flags boasting feats their fellows ne'er believ'd,
The vast achievements which they ne'er achiev'd!
And when, at length, the proud procession halts,
A sable band conveys them to their vaults,
Which, more capacious than the Poor's, may hold
More lordly dust, but not less dark and cold.
The sweepy pall, hung o'er the burden'd bier,
Proclaims another proof some Great-one's there,
Till stripp'd, and in close cavern left alone,
Without a parting tear—or sigh—or groan!

But who compose the troop that thus attends?
The Parents? Brethren? Children? Wives? and Friends?
No! mercenary bands! which, cloth'd in black,
Bear all their signs of sorrow on their back.
These, when the task of loathsome labour's done,
And each indifferent Drudge his wage has won,
All hasten, in return, to calm abode,
Rejoicing when they've left their wearying load.

Do blubbering Relatives all stay behind,
Lest briney floods might scalded eye-balls blind?
Lest they should weakness to the World disclose,
By maddening miseries, and bewildering woes?
'Tis more their mourning mockery to hide—
Perfidious Fashion! customary Pride!
They are too haughty, arrogant, and proud
To mingle with a motley, casual Crowd!
Too supercilious humbly to attend,
Amidst Domestics, a departed Friend!
And too fastidious, and profane to join
In Church, or Church-yard, any rites divine—
For Fashionable Heathen would condemn
Joining Observances, and Brutes, like them.
They are too wealthy—wise—and great—to go
With vulgar gangs, whose foolish eyes o'erflow—
Who vent their gross involuntary groans,
And vex their minds with silly sighs, and moans.
Their eyes too tender, thus to spoil their lids,
As such a coarse, plebian custom bids.
Their faces far too delicate to stain,
Like auburn brawny cheeks of sorry grain.
Their nerves too tremblingly alive all o'er,
To bear such sorrows, like the brutish Poor.
They are too high, too noble, to submit,
Like low-bred folks, to such a bedlam fit.
Too well-instructed to pursue the bent
Of ignorant Nature, in dull discontent.
Too philosophic to permit the sway
Of weeping Passions, in that puling way.

These grand connexions, close at home, remain;
Not feeling loss, but calculating gain—
Not to reflect on the Deceased's fate,
But measuring the extent of each Estate—
Not personal charms, or merits, to deplore,
But estimating chattels; counting store.
Not that their heads, or hearts, are quite serene;
And free from envy, hatred, spite, or spleen—
Such sad occasion offers ample scope
For sorrow—joy—surmise—and fear—and hope—
For, as Executors their trust fulfil,
In weighing every clause that crowds the Will;
And read, distinctly, every rich bequest,
The selfish feelings trouble every breast—

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For, as Adventurers, gambling passions feel,
While boys, deliberate, turn the Lottery-wheel,
All Friends expect some fascinating prize,
To crown their wishes, or augment their joys;
Each hoping large residuum left, as theirs,
While Tickets rise to Relatives, and Heirs.

If happy expectation rose too high,
Like bladders, burst, deep sinking with a sigh,
The heart contracts; and, fix'd in shrivell'd state,
No airy hope can furthermore inflate.

If Fancy form'd the hope not high enough,
Their bosoms, tho' so brave; their hearts so tough;
Yet all their courage scarcely can sustain
The torturing pleasure! The transporting pain!

Wealth, still, by both, must suffer hapless lot,
By those, detested; soon, by these, forgot—
They, whose imaginary joys are fled,
Drive from their minds all memory of the Dead;
While, 'midst the tumult of ungenerous joys,
From the more favour'd all remembrance flies.
One feels his pow'rs, and faculties all fir'd,
O'er honour—influence—fame—and wealth—acquir'd—
The other feels his unreplenish'd purse,
And o'er the Culprit pours some cruel curse;
For, tho' his mouth may not pronounce the sin,
Ten thousand latent curses lurk within.

Not so the Poor; they feel no troubled breast,
For nought's expected where there's nought possess'd—
Ne'er dream of large domains or golden dirt,
So when one falls the rest ne'er feel they're hurt—
O'er trifles, that remain, ne'er storm or strive,
But honour all their virtues while alive,
And when their humble Spirits flee from Earth,
Survivors aim to imitate their worth.

Then what can Wealth avail, or Pomp, or Pride?
For Solomon fell sick; and Julian died;
And Chaldee's haughty King, like Ox, or Ass,
Was doom'd, by anger'd Heaven, to feed on grass!

Stupendous Palaces exclude not Care;
Nor yield a safe asylum from Despair—
Nor long with Pow'r, or Honour, banish Strife—
Pomp's golden springs impel the wheels of Life—
Or proud Possessions, worth ten times a plumb,
Long regulate the pulse's pendulum.

Will pain, will sickness, never dare approach
Embroidered bed or coroneted coach?
Will Death, o'er-aw'd by Rank, and, Titles, high,
Hold fast his dart, and bow, and pass them by?

Should that bless'd Being, who first gave them breath,
Withhold awhile the threatening dart of Death;
Bestowing temporal Life, both long and hale,
The body will decay; and spirits fail;
And He, o'er all, in time, his conquest boast—
Methuselah, at length, gave up the ghost.
When They are dead will Wealth secure their clay?
Pomp chase corruption, and the worm, away?
When form'd, again, will Greatness feel no grudge
That Rank and Titles influence not the Judge?
And will that Judge whose Providence so bless'd,
With ample store, to succour the distress'd;
And gave them Kings, to make them Lords and Dukes,
Relax their sentence, and his just rebukes?
Or let the rocks and hills, tho' late their own,
Fall down and hide them from his awful throne?
No!—wicked Wealth, like wicked Want, must go
To endless lamentation, pain and woe!

Can Birth, or Pageantry, confer the pow'r
To shape their Bodies in their natal hour?
Can they stretch out each member straight, or tight,
Or ever add one cubit to their height?
Make all their features fine? complexions fair?
Or change the hue of any chosen hair?
Nay, were their Monies, or Domains, immense,
They would not purchase Genius—furnish Sense—
Or buy true Wit, or Wisdom, with their Gold;
The merchandise of Heav'n's ne'er bought or sold!