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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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
13
To Celinda, complaining that her Harpsichord was out of Tune.
I.
While, with well-acted anger, you complain,Still you attempt your charming task again;
And still, with lovely petulance, complain,
That still you strike the trembling strings, in vain.
Still you complain! and still my wond'ring soul
Is wildly beckon'd, by the wanton sound:
Thro' my rais'd fancy circling phantoms roll,
My thoughts, in fairy mazes, dance around!
Still you complain, how ill your work is done,
While gazing and astonish'd, I,
Who feel myself already die,
E'en while your strings you do but try,
Am wildly wond'ring, when you once go on,
Where I shall be—and how transform'd, anon!
II.
Ah! she begins! guard, guard thee, flutt'ring life,Dissolve not, in the blissful strife;
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Sharp as it is, 'tis pleasing too!
Now proud, imperial reason, boast thy pow'r!
Glorious, in high defyance, rise,
And, while the charmer all her forces tries,
While all her graces mix, in one bright show'r,
And, round my dazzled senses, scatt'ring, fall;
E'en while her smile-dress'd beauty fills my eyes,
And life itself pierc'd by the musick, dies,
To shew proud joys, that reason rules 'em all;
At one strong effort, struggle thro' the charm,
And e'en amidst the transport, wisely warm,
In cool description, gather force to tell,
What varying passions thy hot bosom swell.
III.
'Tis well! disdainful beauty!—smile again!I'll do it, though with pain.
Each piercing stroke, your flying singers give,
Softens, dilates, and undulates my mind!
I swell immense, beyond myself! and leave
All taste of frail mortality behind.
My beating heart, of heav'nly force possest,
Knocks, with impatience at my earthy breast.
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'Tis gone, at once, and all dissolv'd in air!
Again, 'tis here!—what wou'd the wond'rer say!
It could not longer absent stay,
But lost the heav'nly sound above, which summon'd it away!
See! all impatient of delay,
The raptur'd fugitive is downward sung,
Clings to your dancing wires, tho' loosely strung,
And hangs about the musick of your tongue.
IV.
Still you complain, still Love inspire!So, men, on Zembla's wint'ry coast,
The pole's proud treasury of frost,
When they, to their cold caves retire,
Can sit, and freeze, amidst surrounding fire!
What shall I do?—'tis certain death—to stay,
And worse than death, to go away!
Like men, who live in an infected air,
I gape for breath, but every where,
Admit the plague despair!
Each tuneful accent arm'd with pointed pain,
Drives thro' my blood, strong tides of new desire;
My fev'rish soul is all on fire!
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Yet still, tyrannie sporter, you complain!
V.
Ah! cruel fair! too late, alas! I seeThe needless stratagem, which pride of charms
Has taught your beauty's, too sufficient arms!
Oh! since with open force you conquer'd me,
Why, (worthless since I seem to you to be)
Why use you arts, to vanquish me again;
You act, in this, as long-try'd champions do,
Who fight with some unpractis'd foe,
Whose weakness they despise, and know.
At first, a seeming ignorance they display!
With aukward gestures, wait each threaten'd blow,
And, with a feign'd distrust, a while give way:
But when, at length, resolv'd no more to toy,
Their strength, and skill, they all at once employ!
Like me, th' astonish'd enemy, amaz'd,
And unprepar'd to meet such new alarms;
When, in chill wonder, he a while has gaz'd,
Trembles, kneels down, and throws away his arms.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |