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 Muse's Expostulation,
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
The Muse's Expostulation,
with a Lady, who denied herself the Freedom of Friendship, from too delicate an Apprehension of the World's mistaken Censure.
O born to pity woes, yet, form'd to give,
Shut from whose presence, 'twere a pain, to live!
Who make all converse tedious, but your own;
And, that with-held, leave the forsaken none.
Urg'd by what motives, would you wish to shun
The sight, and voice, of him, whose soul you won?
On what false fears does this cold flight depend?
What fancy'd foe does prudence apprehend?
Shut from whose presence, 'twere a pain, to live!
Who make all converse tedious, but your own;
And, that with-held, leave the forsaken none.
Urg'd by what motives, would you wish to shun
The sight, and voice, of him, whose soul you won?
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What fancy'd foe does prudence apprehend?
When
bodies only are to bodies dear,
The danger there consists in being near;
And, when the fair, the soft contagion spy,
Discretion calls 'em—and 'tis wise, to fly.
But, where associate spirits catch the flame,
Flight is a cruel, and a fruitless aim.
Souls have no sexes; and if minds agree,
Parting is dying, to set fancy free.
The danger there consists in being near;
And, when the fair, the soft contagion spy,
Discretion calls 'em—and 'tis wise, to fly.
But, where associate spirits catch the flame,
Flight is a cruel, and a fruitless aim.
Souls have no sexes; and if minds agree,
Parting is dying, to set fancy free.
Nor let mistaken virtue wrong the breast,
That opens kindly to so sweet a guest:
Not saints, in heav'n a purer warmth express,
Than reason feels, when touch'd by tenderness.
Relenting wisdom dignifies desire,
And rais'd ideas fan the bright'ning fire;
'Till the white flame, ascending to the sky,
Spreads its low smoak, in envy's darken'd eye.
That opens kindly to so sweet a guest:
Not saints, in heav'n a purer warmth express,
Than reason feels, when touch'd by tenderness.
Relenting wisdom dignifies desire,
And rais'd ideas fan the bright'ning fire;
'Till the white flame, ascending to the sky,
Spreads its low smoak, in envy's darken'd eye.
Whence grew society, so wish'd an art,
If the mind's elegance betrays the heart?
Were it a crime in flashing souls, to rise,
And strike each other thro' the meeting eyes;
Those op'ning windows had not let in light,
Nor stream'd ideas out, to voice the sight.
If the mind's elegance betrays the heart?
Were it a crime in flashing souls, to rise,
And strike each other thro' the meeting eyes;
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Nor stream'd ideas out, to voice the sight.
Why are you form'd so pow'rful, in your charms,
If beauty ought to fly the wish, it warms?
Vainly did heav'n inspire that tuneful tongue,
With notes more sweet, than ever seraph sung!
If, justly, all that harmony you hide,
Your musick useless, and its pow'r un-try'd.
Have wit and eloquence in vain, conspir'd,
And giv'n you brightness, but to shine retir'd?
Must you be loveliest, yet be never shown?
Than all be wiser, yet be heard, by none?
Oh! 'tis too delicate!—'tis falsely nice,
To bar the heart against the mind's advice.
If beauty ought to fly the wish, it warms?
Vainly did heav'n inspire that tuneful tongue,
With notes more sweet, than ever seraph sung!
If, justly, all that harmony you hide,
Your musick useless, and its pow'r un-try'd.
Have wit and eloquence in vain, conspir'd,
And giv'n you brightness, but to shine retir'd?
Must you be loveliest, yet be never shown?
Than all be wiser, yet be heard, by none?
Oh! 'tis too delicate!—'tis falsely nice,
To bar the heart against the mind's advice.
But, you will say, that honour's call, you hear;
That fame is tender—reputation, dear:
That, from the world's malignant blast you fly,
Fear the fool's tongue, and the discerner's eye.
The spleen of disappointed wishes dread,
Or envy's whispers, by detraction spread?
Alas! what bounds can limit your retreat?
Where will sought safety rest your flying feet?
Is there a corner, in the globe, so new,
That malice will not find, as sure as you?
The very flight, that shuns, attracts the wrong;
And ev'ry censure fear'd, you force along.
“There's cause, no doubt, for her retreat, they'll “say,
“A fearless innocence had dar'd to stay!
Scandal has, either way, an edge, to strike,
And wounds distinction every where alike:
Superior excellence is doom'd, to bear
The stings of sland'rous hate, and rash despair:
'Tis the due tax, your rated merit pays,
And ev'ry judging ear will call it praise.
That fame is tender—reputation, dear:
That, from the world's malignant blast you fly,
Fear the fool's tongue, and the discerner's eye.
The spleen of disappointed wishes dread,
Or envy's whispers, by detraction spread?
Alas! what bounds can limit your retreat?
Where will sought safety rest your flying feet?
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That malice will not find, as sure as you?
The very flight, that shuns, attracts the wrong;
And ev'ry censure fear'd, you force along.
“There's cause, no doubt, for her retreat, they'll “say,
“A fearless innocence had dar'd to stay!
Scandal has, either way, an edge, to strike,
And wounds distinction every where alike:
Superior excellence is doom'd, to bear
The stings of sland'rous hate, and rash despair:
'Tis the due tax, your rated merit pays,
And ev'ry judging ear will call it praise.
Think—and be kind—convert this fruitless pain,
To a fix'd firmness, and a calm disdain.
Since cautious absence can no more be free,
From false reproach, than present smiles will be,
Diffuse those gifts, which heav'n design'd should bless,
Nor let their greatness make their pity less.
Indulging freedom, ev'ry fear disarm,
And, with a conscious scorn of slander, charm.
Bold, in your guarded strength, your heart unbind,
And, to be safe—suppose yourself all mind.
To a fix'd firmness, and a calm disdain.
Since cautious absence can no more be free,
From false reproach, than present smiles will be,
Diffuse those gifts, which heav'n design'd should bless,
Nor let their greatness make their pity less.
Indulging freedom, ev'ry fear disarm,
And, with a conscious scorn of slander, charm.
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And, to be safe—suppose yourself all mind.
Yet, needless that! since such respect you draw,
That ev'n your tenderness is arm'd with awe:
Permitted love, would silently admire,
And a soft rev'rence tremble, thro' desire.
The warmest wishes, when inspir'd by you,
Strike, but as heav'nly inspirations do.
The op'ning heart makes room for joys refin'd,
And ev'ry gross idea shrinks behind.
That ev'n your tenderness is arm'd with awe:
Permitted love, would silently admire,
And a soft rev'rence tremble, thro' desire.
The warmest wishes, when inspir'd by you,
Strike, but as heav'nly inspirations do.
The op'ning heart makes room for joys refin'd,
And ev'ry gross idea shrinks behind.
You need not then, the gentle sound reject,
Shou'd Love's fear'd name be giv'n to soft respect:
When ill-distinguish'd meanings are the same,
How poor the diff'rence, which they draw from name!
There are, in love, th' extremes of touch'd desire,
The noblest brightness, or the coarsest fire!
In vulgar bosoms, vulgar wishes move;
Nature guides choice, and as men think, they love.
But, when a pow'r, like yours, impels the wound,
Like the clear cause, the bright effect is found.
In the loose passion, men profane the name,
Mistake the purpose, and pollute the flame:
In nobler bosoms, friendship's form it takes,
And sex alone, the lovely diff'rence makes.
Love's generous warmth does reason's pow'r display,
And fills desire, as light embodies day.
Shou'd Love's fear'd name be giv'n to soft respect:
When ill-distinguish'd meanings are the same,
How poor the diff'rence, which they draw from name!
There are, in love, th' extremes of touch'd desire,
The noblest brightness, or the coarsest fire!
In vulgar bosoms, vulgar wishes move;
Nature guides choice, and as men think, they love.
But, when a pow'r, like yours, impels the wound,
Like the clear cause, the bright effect is found.
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Mistake the purpose, and pollute the flame:
In nobler bosoms, friendship's form it takes,
And sex alone, the lovely diff'rence makes.
Love's generous warmth does reason's pow'r display,
And fills desire, as light embodies day.
Love is, to life, what colour is, to form:
Plain drawings oft are just, but never warm.
Love, in a blaze of tints, his light'ning throws;
Then the form quickens, and the figure glows.
Plain drawings oft are just, but never warm.
Love, in a blaze of tints, his light'ning throws;
Then the form quickens, and the figure glows.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |