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 |
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SOLITUDE. |
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
SOLITUDE.
[I.]
Welcome, cool breeze, to fan my glowing mind,Cinder'd, with fev'rish cares, and constant woe!
Welcome, soft bliss, by gracious heav'n, design'd,
The out-worn paths of antient peace to show,
The road, which wisdom loves to go,
And teach aspiring man true happiness to know.
In thy sweet shades, uninterrupted, reigns,
Free from care-toil'd nature's strains,
The downy god of ease!
In thee, the innocent, and life-bless'd swains,
Unsway'd, by low desire of worldly gains,
Their uncorrupted senses, justly, please;
Nor know the penetrating curse of pains,
But travel, smoothly, up to death, by mild, and slow degrees.
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II.
On thy calm coasts, no whirlwind doubts we find,No terrifying blasts to break soft sleep:
No self-rais'd tempests shake man's hurry'd mind,
For question'd riches, which the wild winds sweep,
Along the furrow'd bosom of the deep;
And which, ev'n e'er we gain, we fear to lose.
No watchful guards, in thee, we need to keep,
But rest, in peaceful slumbers, duely find,
Nor feel the killing cares, which great men, madly, chuse.
III
Smoothly, revolving years,Unloaded, with a needless weight of fears,
Slide, unperceiv'd, and steadily, away:
Safe, in the humble shelter of content,
Our apprehension, easy, and unbent,
Sometimes, but seldom, looks abroad, to know,
How things, about us, go.
Sometimes, we, upward, deign to cast our eye,
And view, with curious scorn, the gath'ring clouds,
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Supinely, sit, and bid, against each other, fly:
From coverts, where our choice our fortune shrouds.
We see all this, and hear the noise it makes;
As one, well-hous'd, sees the blue light'ning fly,
And hears the rolling thunder shake the sky;
While he, regardless, where the tempest breaks,
Without the danger, the delight partakes:
Thus, while, on earth, our bodies, happy, stay,
While, here, our joy-finn'd moments swim away;
Our elevated minds, above the spheres,
Forget their weak-built tenement of clay;
And by the trying fire of reason, grow
So pure, so free, from thought-disord'ring sin,
That when, from life, on their last call they go,
In large expanse of soul, they, upwards, flow,
And rather mix with heav'n, than dwell therein.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |