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 Works of the Late Aaron Hill | ||
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To the two generous Masters St. Quintin,
on their tender Affection to each other, in their Progress through, and Recovery from, the Small-Pox.
Sexes
are needless aids, in love's pure claim,
Since souls (not bodies) light our social flame.
Lamps, of imprison'd life, misplac'd, we shine,
Leap, lean our lengthening points—and long to join!
Since souls (not bodies) light our social flame.
Lamps, of imprison'd life, misplac'd, we shine,
Leap, lean our lengthening points—and long to join!
So, long'd your brother minds, to mix embrace;
As light meets light, and space is lost, in space.
As light meets light, and space is lost, in space.
DEATH, with suspended hand, beheld your strife,
Call'd off disease's rage, and set free life.
Why should they die, the ghastly Pauser cry'd
Whom names but separate, and but forms divide?
See, with what spring th' elastic strugglers flew!
Clung to their fate, and to death's horrors grew!
In vain eruptive fires their faces skreen:
Fever's hot anguish, vainly, burnt, between.
Wolves, that behind some thicket, scent their prey,
Not with more fierce delight, o'er thorns make way,
Than, lur'd by danger, one, with rapture sought
Th' infectious grasp, that his best half had caught:
There smil'd, their twisted souls, farewel, all fear;
We rise, together, to a Heaven, not here.
Call'd off disease's rage, and set free life.
Why should they die, the ghastly Pauser cry'd
Whom names but separate, and but forms divide?
See, with what spring th' elastic strugglers flew!
Clung to their fate, and to death's horrors grew!
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Fever's hot anguish, vainly, burnt, between.
Wolves, that behind some thicket, scent their prey,
Not with more fierce delight, o'er thorns make way,
Than, lur'd by danger, one, with rapture sought
Th' infectious grasp, that his best half had caught:
There smil'd, their twisted souls, farewel, all fear;
We rise, together, to a Heaven, not here.
No—let 'em stay, to earth's dim dust confin'd,
Cross'd, in their clouded way, t'ward realms of mind.
'Twas not Death's drift to strike for—added bliss,
In next world, Angels—You're but Men in this.
Cross'd, in their clouded way, t'ward realms of mind.
'Twas not Death's drift to strike for—added bliss,
In next world, Angels—You're but Men in this.
The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | ||