The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
 |
The Picture of Love.
|
|
|
|
 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
200
The Picture of Love.
Love is a passion, by no rules confin'd,
The great first mover of the human mind:
Spring of our fate! it lifts the climbing will,
Or sinks the soften'd soul, in seas of ill:
Science, truth, virtue, sweetness, glory, grace,
All are love's influence, and adorn his race;
Love, too, gives fear, despair, grief, anger, strife,
And all th' unnumber'd woes, which tempest life,
The great first mover of the human mind:
Spring of our fate! it lifts the climbing will,
Or sinks the soften'd soul, in seas of ill:
Science, truth, virtue, sweetness, glory, grace,
All are love's influence, and adorn his race;
Love, too, gives fear, despair, grief, anger, strife,
And all th' unnumber'd woes, which tempest life,
Fir'd with a daring wish, to paint him right,
What muse shall I invoke to lend me light?
Something divine there lives in love's soft flame,
Beyond our spirit's pow'r, to give it name!
How shall I paint it, then? or why reveal
A pleasure, and a pain, which all must feel?
What muse shall I invoke to lend me light?
Something divine there lives in love's soft flame,
Beyond our spirit's pow'r, to give it name!
How shall I paint it, then? or why reveal
A pleasure, and a pain, which all must feel?
Soul of thy sex's sweetness! aid my hope,
Pride of my reason, and my passion's scope!
Thou, whose least motion can delight inspire!
And whose sweet eye-beams shed celestial fire!
Thou, at whose heav'n-tun'd voice the dead might wake!
And from whose face we fatal learning take,
Teach me thy god-like pow'r the heart to move,
Smile on my verse, and look the world to love.
Pride of my reason, and my passion's scope!
Thou, whose least motion can delight inspire!
And whose sweet eye-beams shed celestial fire!
201
And from whose face we fatal learning take,
Teach me thy god-like pow'r the heart to move,
Smile on my verse, and look the world to love.
Far, ye profane, from my chaste subject, fly,
Nor stain its brightness with a tainted eye;
What if a thousand ills the wanton prove,
Whose earth-born heat usurps the name of love?
Lovers, indeed, are cast in no coarse mould,
How few have, yet, been form'd, though time's grown old!
No wild desire can this proud bliss bestow,
Souls must be match'd, in heav'n, tho' mix'd, below.
Nor stain its brightness with a tainted eye;
What if a thousand ills the wanton prove,
Whose earth-born heat usurps the name of love?
Lovers, indeed, are cast in no coarse mould,
How few have, yet, been form'd, though time's grown old!
No wild desire can this proud bliss bestow,
Souls must be match'd, in heav'n, tho' mix'd, below.
As fire, by nature, climbs direct, and bright,
And beams, in spotless rays, a shining light;
But if some gross obstruction stops its way,
Smokes in low curls, and scents the sullied day:
So love, itself, untainted, and refin'd,
Borrows a tincture, from the colour'd mind;
The great grow greater, while its force they prove,
But little hearts want room, and cripple love.
And beams, in spotless rays, a shining light;
But if some gross obstruction stops its way,
Smokes in low curls, and scents the sullied day:
So love, itself, untainted, and refin'd,
Borrows a tincture, from the colour'd mind;
The great grow greater, while its force they prove,
But little hearts want room, and cripple love.
202
Cautious, ye fated, who frequent the fair!
Your breasts examine, nor too rashly dare,
Curb your untrusted hearts, while yet, they're free,
Love is resistless, when you feel, 'tis he.
Your breasts examine, nor too rashly dare,
Curb your untrusted hearts, while yet, they're free,
Love is resistless, when you feel, 'tis he.
Small is the soul's first wound, from beauty's dart,
And scarce th' unheeded fever warms the heart.
Long we mistake it, under liking's name,
A soft indulgence, that deserves no blame;
A pleasure, we but take, to do her right,
Whose presence charms us, and whose words delight;
Whose sweet remembrance broods upon our breast,
And whose dear friendship is, with pride, possest.
And scarce th' unheeded fever warms the heart.
Long we mistake it, under liking's name,
A soft indulgence, that deserves no blame;
A pleasure, we but take, to do her right,
Whose presence charms us, and whose words delight;
Whose sweet remembrance broods upon our breast,
And whose dear friendship is, with pride, possest.
Excited, thus, the smother'd fire, at length,
Bursts into blaze, and burns, with open strength:
That image, which, before, but sooth'd the mind,
Now lords it there, and rages, unconfin'd.
Mixing with all our thoughts it wastes the day,
And when night comes, it dreams the soul away.
Pungent impatience tingles in each vein,
And the sick bosom throbs, with aking pain.
Bursts into blaze, and burns, with open strength:
That image, which, before, but sooth'd the mind,
Now lords it there, and rages, unconfin'd.
Mixing with all our thoughts it wastes the day,
And when night comes, it dreams the soul away.
203
And the sick bosom throbs, with aking pain.
Absent from her, in whom alone, we live,
Life grows a bankrupt, and no bliss can give;
Friends are importunate, and pleasure's lost,
What, once, most charm'd us, now, disgusts us most;
Fretful, to silent solitude, we run,
And men, and light, and noisy converse shun;
Pensive, in woods, on river's sides, we walk,
And to th' unlist'ning winds, and waters, talk;
How, next, we shall approach her, pleas'd, we weigh,
And think, in transport, all, we mean to say:
Tenderly bowing, thus, will we complain,
Thus, court her pity, and, thus, plead our pain;
Thus, sigh at fancy'd frowns, if frowns shou'd rise,
And, thus, meet favours, in her soft'ning eyes.
Life grows a bankrupt, and no bliss can give;
Friends are importunate, and pleasure's lost,
What, once, most charm'd us, now, disgusts us most;
Fretful, to silent solitude, we run,
And men, and light, and noisy converse shun;
Pensive, in woods, on river's sides, we walk,
And to th' unlist'ning winds, and waters, talk;
How, next, we shall approach her, pleas'd, we weigh,
And think, in transport, all, we mean to say:
Tenderly bowing, thus, will we complain,
Thus, court her pity, and, thus, plead our pain;
Thus, sigh at fancy'd frowns, if frowns shou'd rise,
And, thus, meet favours, in her soft'ning eyes.
Restless, on paper, we our vows repeat,
And pour our souls out, on the missive sheet:
Write; blot; restore—and, in lost pieces, rend,
The mute entreaters, yet, too faint, to send;
Unbless'd, if no admission we procure,
'Tis heav'n, at distance, to behold her door!
Or, to her window, we, by night, repair,
And let loose fancy, to be feasted, there;
Watch her lov'd shadow, as it glances by,
And, to imagin'd motions, chain our eye;
Has she some field, or grove, or garden bless'd?
Pleas'd, we re-tread the paths, her feet have press'd:
Near her, by chance, at visits, or at plays,
Our rushing spirits crowd, in speaking gaze;
Light, on her varied airs, our eye-balls ride,
Blind, as the dead, to the full world, beside.
And pour our souls out, on the missive sheet:
Write; blot; restore—and, in lost pieces, rend,
The mute entreaters, yet, too faint, to send;
204
'Tis heav'n, at distance, to behold her door!
Or, to her window, we, by night, repair,
And let loose fancy, to be feasted, there;
Watch her lov'd shadow, as it glances by,
And, to imagin'd motions, chain our eye;
Has she some field, or grove, or garden bless'd?
Pleas'd, we re-tread the paths, her feet have press'd:
Near her, by chance, at visits, or at plays,
Our rushing spirits crowd, in speaking gaze;
Light, on her varied airs, our eye-balls ride,
Blind, as the dead, to the full world, beside.
If bless'd, by some kind letter, from her hand,
The cherish'd flame is into madness, fann'd;
Trembling, we half devour the sacred prize,
And lend our thoughts, and lips, to aid our eyes;
No wild extravagance of joy's too much,
For aught once warm'd, by her enliv'ning touch.
The cherish'd flame is into madness, fann'd;
Trembling, we half devour the sacred prize,
And lend our thoughts, and lips, to aid our eyes;
No wild extravagance of joy's too much,
For aught once warm'd, by her enliv'ning touch.
These are the sweet effusions of desire,
When absence wounds us, or when wishes fire;
But when, in presence, we our vows address,
Who can the tumults of the soul express?
Boundless desire, aw'd hope, and doubtful joy,
Stormy, by turns, the veering heart employ;
Sick'ning, in fancy's sun-shine, now, we faint,
And licence wounds us deeper, than restraint:
Fix'd, in her op'ning door, surpriz'd, we stay,
Dumb, and depriv'd of all, we meant to say:
Our eyes flash meanings, but our rooted feet
Pause, 'till due rev'rence saints the hallow'd heat:
Soft tremblings seize us, and a gentle dread,
Speechless our thought, and all our couragefled.
When absence wounds us, or when wishes fire;
But when, in presence, we our vows address,
Who can the tumults of the soul express?
205
Stormy, by turns, the veering heart employ;
Sick'ning, in fancy's sun-shine, now, we faint,
And licence wounds us deeper, than restraint:
Fix'd, in her op'ning door, surpriz'd, we stay,
Dumb, and depriv'd of all, we meant to say:
Our eyes flash meanings, but our rooted feet
Pause, 'till due rev'rence saints the hallow'd heat:
Soft tremblings seize us, and a gentle dread,
Speechless our thought, and all our couragefled.
Slowly reviving, we, from love's short trance,
Softly, with blushful tenderness, advance;
Bowing, we kneel; and her giv'n hand is prest,
With sweet compulsion, to our bounding breast;
O'er it, in exstacy, our lips bend low,
And tides of sighs, 'twixt her grasp'd fingers, flow:
High beats the hurried pulse, at each forc'd kiss,
And ev'ry burning sinew akes, with bliss:
Life, in a souly deluge rushes o'er,
And the charm'd heart springs out, at ev'ry pore.
Softly, with blushful tenderness, advance;
Bowing, we kneel; and her giv'n hand is prest,
With sweet compulsion, to our bounding breast;
O'er it, in exstacy, our lips bend low,
And tides of sighs, 'twixt her grasp'd fingers, flow:
High beats the hurried pulse, at each forc'd kiss,
And ev'ry burning sinew akes, with bliss:
Life, in a souly deluge rushes o'er,
And the charm'd heart springs out, at ev'ry pore.
The first fierce rapture of amazement past,
Confusion quits us, and desire grows fast;
We sit; and while her gaz'd-at beauties rise,
A humid brightness sparkles, from our eyes:
Modest disquiet ev'ry action wears,
And each long look the mark of passion bears;
Disorder'd nature no cold medium keeps,
Transport now reigns, and dull reflection sleeps:
All, that we feel, or wish, or act, or say,
Is above thought, and out of reason's way;
Joy murmurs, anger laughs, and hope looks sad;
Rashness grows prudent, and discretion mad:
Restless, we feel our am'rous bosom burn,
Now, this way, look we, and, now, that way, turn.
Now, in sweet swell of thought, our lifted eyes,
Lose their low languor, and attempt to rise;
Now, sinking, suppliant, seek the charmer's feet,
And court wish'd pity, in their glanc'd retreat,
Oft, in fix'd gaze, they dwell upon her face,
Then start, astonish'd, from some dazzling grace;
Now, in bold liberty, fly out, un-bid,
Now, aw'd, 'scape inward, 'twixt the closing lid.
Confusion quits us, and desire grows fast;
206
A humid brightness sparkles, from our eyes:
Modest disquiet ev'ry action wears,
And each long look the mark of passion bears;
Disorder'd nature no cold medium keeps,
Transport now reigns, and dull reflection sleeps:
All, that we feel, or wish, or act, or say,
Is above thought, and out of reason's way;
Joy murmurs, anger laughs, and hope looks sad;
Rashness grows prudent, and discretion mad:
Restless, we feel our am'rous bosom burn,
Now, this way, look we, and, now, that way, turn.
Now, in sweet swell of thought, our lifted eyes,
Lose their low languor, and attempt to rise;
Now, sinking, suppliant, seek the charmer's feet,
And court wish'd pity, in their glanc'd retreat,
Oft, in fix'd gaze, they dwell upon her face,
Then start, astonish'd, from some dazzling grace;
Now, in bold liberty, fly out, un-bid,
Now, aw'd, 'scape inward, 'twixt the closing lid.
If we dare speak, and would our wish pursue,
The words fall feath'ry, like descending dew;
The soft'ning accents, ev'n in utt'rance die,
And the tongue's sweetness, here, out-charms the eye;
'Till mingled sighs the fainting voice confound,
But lover's meanings speak, tho' robb'd of sound.
The words fall feath'ry, like descending dew;
The soft'ning accents, ev'n in utt'rance die,
And the tongue's sweetness, here, out-charms the eye;
207
But lover's meanings speak, tho' robb'd of sound.
Is there no more? oh! yet, the last remains!
Crown of our conquest! sweet'ner of our pains!
There is a time, when love no wish denies,
And smiling nature throws off all disguise;
But who can words, to speak those raptures find?
Vast sea of exstacy, that drowns the mind!
That fierce transfusion of exchanging hearts!
That gliding glimpse of heav'n, in pulsive starts!
That veiny rush! that warm, tumultuous roll!
That fire, which kindles body into soul!
And on life's margin strains delight so high,
That sense breaks short, and, while we taste, we die.
Crown of our conquest! sweet'ner of our pains!
There is a time, when love no wish denies,
And smiling nature throws off all disguise;
But who can words, to speak those raptures find?
Vast sea of exstacy, that drowns the mind!
That fierce transfusion of exchanging hearts!
That gliding glimpse of heav'n, in pulsive starts!
That veiny rush! that warm, tumultuous roll!
That fire, which kindles body into soul!
And on life's margin strains delight so high,
That sense breaks short, and, while we taste, we die.
By love's soft force, all nature is refin'd,
The dull made sprightly, and the cruel, kind:
Gently, the stubborn passions learn to move,
And savage hearts are humaniz'd, by love:
Love, in a chain of converse, bound mankind,
And polish'd, and awak'd the rugged mind:
Justice, truth, pity, openness of heart,
Courage, politeness, eloquence, and art,
That gen'rous fire, with which ambition flames,
And all th' unsleeping soul's divinest aims,
Touch'd, by the warmth of love, burn up more bright,
Proud of the god-like pow'r, to give delight.
The dull made sprightly, and the cruel, kind:
Gently, the stubborn passions learn to move,
And savage hearts are humaniz'd, by love:
Love, in a chain of converse, bound mankind,
And polish'd, and awak'd the rugged mind:
Justice, truth, pity, openness of heart,
Courage, politeness, eloquence, and art,
208
And all th' unsleeping soul's divinest aims,
Touch'd, by the warmth of love, burn up more bright,
Proud of the god-like pow'r, to give delight.
Thus have I vainly strove, with strokes too faint,
Love, in his known, and outward marks, to paint;
Unmindful, that, of old, they veil'd his face,
And wisely cover'd, what they could not trace.
Lovely creator of my soul's soft pain,
Pity the pencil, that aspir'd in vain:
Vers'd in love's pangs, and taught his pow'r, by you,
Skill'd, I presum'd, that what I felt, I drew;
But I have err'd; and, with delirious aim,
Would picture motion, and imprison flame.
He, who can light'ning's flash, to colours, bind,
May paint love's influence, on the burning mind.
Then, when we master him, and give him law,
Then may we chain him, and his image draw:
But who would bind this god, must, captive take,
A power, which all mankind can captive make;
I am too weak of heart; yet, I can tell
Those, who dare seize him, where he loves to dwell.
I see him now; in his own heav'n, he lies,
Close at sweet ambush, in Miranda's eyes.
Love, in his known, and outward marks, to paint;
Unmindful, that, of old, they veil'd his face,
And wisely cover'd, what they could not trace.
Lovely creator of my soul's soft pain,
Pity the pencil, that aspir'd in vain:
Vers'd in love's pangs, and taught his pow'r, by you,
Skill'd, I presum'd, that what I felt, I drew;
But I have err'd; and, with delirious aim,
Would picture motion, and imprison flame.
He, who can light'ning's flash, to colours, bind,
May paint love's influence, on the burning mind.
Then, when we master him, and give him law,
Then may we chain him, and his image draw:
But who would bind this god, must, captive take,
A power, which all mankind can captive make;
I am too weak of heart; yet, I can tell
Those, who dare seize him, where he loves to dwell.
I see him now; in his own heav'n, he lies,
Close at sweet ambush, in Miranda's eyes.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |