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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To Clelia, in the Country.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
To Clelia, in the Country.
On the pulling down St. Martin's Church.
While, from the noisy croud, you lean, retir'd
In silent shades, by love of thought inspir'd;
I, vex'd by various cares, to business chain'd,
Mourn'd your lost converse, and in town remain'd:
Dark, as the midnight world, your sunshine gone,
Guideless, in sullen gloom, I wander'd on:
Passion's wild influence ebb'd, and flow'd, my mind,
As seas drive diff'rent, with the changing wind:
But to what point soe'er, my will was bound,
In vain, I turn'd th'unresting compass round:
Doubtful, a while, the wav'ring needle hung,
Then, trembling, backward to your image sprung.
In silent shades, by love of thought inspir'd;
I, vex'd by various cares, to business chain'd,
Mourn'd your lost converse, and in town remain'd:
Dark, as the midnight world, your sunshine gone,
Guideless, in sullen gloom, I wander'd on:
Passion's wild influence ebb'd, and flow'd, my mind,
As seas drive diff'rent, with the changing wind:
But to what point soe'er, my will was bound,
In vain, I turn'd th'unresting compass round:
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Then, trembling, backward to your image sprung.
Pensive, I view'd a sacred pile, of late,
Which falls, like man, to rise, in nobler state,
The Doors thrown wide, it seem'd unveil'd to lie,
And reverend ruin struck my startled eye.
Ent'ring, amidst the busy hammer's sound,
I saw time's dusty trophies scatter'd round:
Each violated pillar stood, bedew'd:
And wept in solemn grief, a fate so rude.
From tombs by force disjoin'd, reluctant stones
Roll'd, mix'd with clouds of dust, and human bones:
From faithless walls, defac'd inscriptions fled,
And, to long night, consign'd the nameless dead:
The pews pale squares, in their whole lengthen'd row,
Gave way, and open'd a sad scene, below!
Beauty, youth, wealth, and power, reduc'd to clay,
Larded with bones, yet moist, unshelter'd lay:
Remnants of eyeless Skulls, with hollow stare,
Mock'd the proud looks, which living charmers wear:
Coffins rose broke, unfaithful to their trust!
And flesh flew round me, in unjointed dust.
Scarce a short span, beneath that opening floor,
Where kneeling charmers pray'd, the week before;
Where forms, like yours! rejoic'd th' admiring eye,
Forms, once, like yours! in naked atoms, lie.
O! fate of failing life! O! flatt'ring dream!
What wint'ry sunshine is thy shadowy gleam!
Which falls, like man, to rise, in nobler state,
The Doors thrown wide, it seem'd unveil'd to lie,
And reverend ruin struck my startled eye.
Ent'ring, amidst the busy hammer's sound,
I saw time's dusty trophies scatter'd round:
Each violated pillar stood, bedew'd:
And wept in solemn grief, a fate so rude.
From tombs by force disjoin'd, reluctant stones
Roll'd, mix'd with clouds of dust, and human bones:
From faithless walls, defac'd inscriptions fled,
And, to long night, consign'd the nameless dead:
The pews pale squares, in their whole lengthen'd row,
Gave way, and open'd a sad scene, below!
Beauty, youth, wealth, and power, reduc'd to clay,
Larded with bones, yet moist, unshelter'd lay:
Remnants of eyeless Skulls, with hollow stare,
Mock'd the proud looks, which living charmers wear:
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And flesh flew round me, in unjointed dust.
Scarce a short span, beneath that opening floor,
Where kneeling charmers pray'd, the week before;
Where forms, like yours! rejoic'd th' admiring eye,
Forms, once, like yours! in naked atoms, lie.
O! fate of failing life! O! flatt'ring dream!
What wint'ry sunshine is thy shadowy gleam!
Thus, while I mus'd, thy soul approach'd my ear;
Thy soft-wing'd soul! that, always, hovers near.
See'st thou, it sigh'd—How these sad relicks lie!
And do'st thou fear, that Clelia, thus, can die?
No—She's all mind; and her immortal name,
Eluding death's short reach, shall tread on fame.
Tongues, yet unthought off, Clelia shall adorn,
And charm adoring nations—yet unborn.
Heroes, at whose resolves, the world will shake,
Shall treat thy sex with reverence, for thy sake;
And each fair tyrant, who would Empress be,
Form but one wish—to think, and look, like thee.
Thy soft-wing'd soul! that, always, hovers near.
See'st thou, it sigh'd—How these sad relicks lie!
And do'st thou fear, that Clelia, thus, can die?
No—She's all mind; and her immortal name,
Eluding death's short reach, shall tread on fame.
Tongues, yet unthought off, Clelia shall adorn,
And charm adoring nations—yet unborn.
Heroes, at whose resolves, the world will shake,
Shall treat thy sex with reverence, for thy sake;
And each fair tyrant, who would Empress be,
Form but one wish—to think, and look, like thee.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |