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

O mystic Memory! in whose wonderous round
All plastic Nature's treasured forms are found;
While, in thy boundless, motley magazine,
Prolific Fancy's shadowy shapes are seen—
Who brings bold sketches to thy mingled mass,
And makes those pictures thro' thy mansions pass;
Presenting, each, in high, or low, reliefs,
Before her nobler intellectual Chiefs.
Extensive Storehouse! where all models lie,
Each Sense imports, from Nature's full supply;
With all ideas Spirit has explor'd,
And safely lodg'd within thy secret hoard,
Till call'd, as Witness, in every Cause,
In Courts of God's, or Man's, or Nature's, Laws.
Volume, immense! where Understanding reads;
Judgment's decisions, prov'd, as Reason pleads;
While all the compound pow'rs of Mind behold
Black-letter'd Lies, or Truths in types of gold.
Thou figure-fixing, clear-recording, Maid!
Retouch the pictures in thy stores pourtray'd—
Assist the Muse, while striving to retrace
Clear acts of Intellect, or Nature's face—
Bring all the facts, and bold reflections forth
Which brand what's base, or stamp intrinsic Worth;
But, in thy darkest cells conceal, unseen,
All sordid sentiments of Spite, or Spleen;
And close, with them, all fell effusions hide,
That spring from Passion—Prejudice—or Pride;
That none may fairly spurn the faithful page,
Should these true strains outlive this trifling Age.

Thy choicest influence, Nature, now diffuse,
To aid the efforts of my labouring Muse.
Warm and irradiate, well, with sunny smiles,
The simple products of her strenuous toils;
With dews, nectareous, and ambrosial show'rs,
Imparting strength to all her puny pow'rs;
And, shedding odours from thy fragrant wings,
Pour plenteous inspiration while she sings.
Attend her o'er the steeps, and fruitful farms,
And, from thy pallet, sketch their matchless charms—
Not farms immense, where Wealth, and Sloth, recline,
While hords of hinds, in scatter'd corners, pine;
Nor sterile tracts, presenting barren blanks,
Whence Man receives no meat, kind Heav'n no thanks;
But moderate lots, where constant care and toil
Draw bare subsistence from well-cultur'd soil;
With narrower plats, which Penury circumscribes,
Whence endless labour scarce feeds countless tribes.
But chief, pure Spirit! thy bless'd help impart,
To purge my head, and purify my heart;
While stimulating Age, and warning Youth,
To read, and register, each useful truth;
That all may still to God's true glory tend,
And make Mankind Mankind's efficient Friend—
Whether mere Nature forms the Muse's scheme,
Or Morals and Religion raise the theme:
For Thou, alone, can'st make all Nature's face
Show proofs of Wisdom, Goodness, Pow'r, and Grace;
Or, breathe forth holy influence, from above,
To form, in Man, firm Faith, and Hope, and Love!

First, plastic Fancy, with thy pencil, paint
The Air, transparent, free from stain, or taint;
Whose whisperings, pure, those beauteous Heights embrace,
Where Crispin first commenc'd his mortal race.
Purer than breezey winds which myriads breathe,
Who throng surrounding dales, wide-spread beneath—
Purer than that foul atmosphere that frowns,
O'er neighbouring hamlets, villages, and towns;
And still more pure, from those vast vapours free,
That, great Augusta! ever hang o'er Thee;
Still o'er thy crowding domes, and turrets, low'r;
Oppress each fleshly frame, and mental pow'r.
Tell, sweetest Nymph! how that soft Air, serene,
Enwraps, and soothes, each fair, each favourite, Scene!
How bright Hygeia, thro' that breezey sphere,
So fresh—so fragrant—colourless, and clear,
Imbues the vital stream, in blandest course,
Swelling the Soul with full elastic force;
Surrounded by her blue-robed sylphic bands,
Her charms displays—her pinions wide expands;
While with extatic breast, and brightening eyes,
She, midst her train, exploring Earth and Skies,
Sports round the proud Ascent, in spiral rings,
Bathes her light limbs, or quaffs the limpid springs!