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 |  |
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The Muse to the Writer.
I
Scarce was the April of my life begun,When anxious to immortalize my name,
Pleasure, and soft repose, I learnt to shun,
And lab'ring, upward, sought the mounts of fame.
II
But, as a traveller, in viewless plains,Stops, amid crossing roads, and doubts his way;
Pensively searchful, and, unsure, remains,
Eager to journey on, yet, loth to stray.
III
So stopt, and so unfix'd, I mark'd, around,The flow'ry paths, that led to groves of Bays:
But, pausing doubtful, long confusion found,
Which, best to chuse, of all those tempting ways.
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IV
One while, my genius plan'd the glowing scene,And from the Grecian source, example drew:
Taught pride to pity; ignorance to mean;
And form'd the many, by the suff'ring few.
V
Anon domestic discord, snatch'd my pen;My Country's woes I, now, aspir'd to feel:
Historic truths, and wrongs of injur'd men,
Impell'd my justice, and inflam'd my zeal.
VI
Then sinking sudden, from the glorious height,Low mercenary praises quench'd my fire:
Poorly, a flatt'rer, I for profit, write,
And, to my fortune, tune my tortur'd lyre.
VII
At length, grown lazy, I, by love, was caught,And, finding age, and taste, and will, too fit,
In warm light sallies, wanton lessons taught,
And, to the size of Cupid, cropt my wit.
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VIII
While roving, thus, uncenter'd, and unstaid,I lik'd, by turns, and did, by turns, refuse:
Sudden, before me, a descending maid
Confess'd the shape of a cœlestial muse.
IX
All, that we dream of angels, form'd her air;Sweet was her gesture, and her step divine:
But, when she spoke, she would have charm'd despair,
And taught the gloom of wither'd age, to shine.
X
High, from her head, aspir'd a starry crown,Immensely, beaming its effulgence round:
An azure mantle flow'd, obliquely down,
And, bright with lamps of silver, swept the ground.
XI
MORTAL! she cry'd, Urania's face behold!Urania—muse, of all the heavenly nine,
Best skill'd—the paths of glory to unfold,
And make the poet (like his art) divine.
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XII
I, thro' the dancing numbers, breathe a soul,And, to the sound of reason, tune mankind:
I teach true pleasures false ones to controul,
And warm the yielding heart, to stamp the mind.
XIII
Mark me, and keep my image, long, in sight,And, when departed to my starry sphere,
Strike this new harp, and, from it, draw delight,
By sounds, that list'ning angels love to hear.
XIV
Long, have I mourn'd my sister's sully'd fame,By friendless mirth, or chearless malice, stain'd;
Cramp'd by cold flatteries, that blight their name,
Or, by wild warmths of loose desire, profan'd.
XV
But, most, I grieve that rebel waste of wit,Which, boldly, pushing its infernal claim,
With darkness, for such blind presumption, fit,
Turns its own arms, on Heaven, with impious aim.
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XVI
Learnt are the vulgar arts—But Poets draw,From heaven alone, the Gift, that wings their fire:
Not the best lights, that ever learning saw,
Could living verse, by study'd strength, inspire.
XVII
Thence 'tis, that Homer, powerless, poor, and blind,Beggar, himself, has taught e'en kings to shine:
Buoy'd sinking heroes, by fresh floods of mind,
And stretch'd the human grasp, with reach divine.
XVIII
Thence 'tis, that Ovid could not speak, in prose,But wept in measure, and expir'd, in verse:
Thence, the Jessæan lyre, to musick rose,
Which seraphs, in their Maker's Ear, rehearse.
XIX
Read, meditate, reflect, grow wise—in vain;Try every help; force fire, from every spark;
Yet, shall you ne'er the poet's power attain,
If heaven ne'er stamp'd you, with the muses mark.
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XX
Man must be, out of man, sublimely swell'd,Whose wreckless verse wou'd swim the storms of time,
By force, not fury, meaningly, impell'd,
To scorn the puny prostitutes of rhyme.
XXI
The warmth of fury but compassion moves,And less than man, makes man, to man, appear:
But warmth of genius, man, from man, removes,
And lifts his wid'ning soul, to Heaven's high sphere.
XXII
Mark this soft Flute—when, void of vocal wind,In tuneless silence, rests the sleeping sound:
Yet, when thus breath'd in, hark! what power 'twill find,
To waft the modulated raptures round!
XXIII
So, 'till the whisp'ring God-head bids—begin,The poet's silent spirit stands unbent:
But, when he feels th' inspiring power, within,
Tuneful, he spreads the transports, heaven has lent.
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XXIV
Since, therefore, all, that makes his genius shine,Is heaven's own gift,—how dares he subjects chuse
Base, and unworthy, of that warmth divine,
And poorly noxious, to the passive muse?
XXV
Why is his pen employ'd, on idle themes?Why is his fancy light? his purpose low?
Why does he waste his fire, in fruitless dreams?
And, with a tide of wanton wishes, flow?
XXVI
Why does he stoop to praise unletter'd pride?Why celebrate defects, in those, who rule?
Why does his wit soft, am'rous trains provide,
And bid love's wild fire catch, from fool to fool?
XXVII
Ah! 'tis too much, that he, himself, has crimes,Which, unrepented, ne'er unpunish'd go:
Why would he lend his guilt to distant times,
And teach an un-born race, to merit woe?
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XXVIII
As, on the yielding wax, the seal we find,Left in strong likeness, with imprinted glow;
So does the reader steal the poet's mind,
And, to the byas lent, inclining go.
XXIX
Shame on your pens, ye flexible of heart!Whose poorness does not hurt yourselves alone,
But teaches blockheads to despise your art;
Judg'd by false patterns, you have, lightly, shewn.
XXX
Conscious of this, wou'd you but turn, at last,And bid true genius, with true lustre, shine;
All would, admiring, lose th' impression past,
And feel, and own you, of a stamp divine.
XXXI
Then, as my Moses his Jehovah sung,And Israel, wafted by the guardian rod:
Poets, from every kindling country, sprung,
Shall, in a thousand tongues, uncover God.
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XXXII
O, you! who wou'd the deathless laurel win,No King's vile badge, but time's all-rev'rend crown!
High, as the fountain, of your verse begin,
And, with the God, you write for, share renown.
XXXIII
This is a subject, that, out-stretching thought,Thro' depths, unsounded, wit's long plummet draws:
There, by immense effects, immensely taught,
Pour out your straining souls, and claim applause.
XXXIV
There, and there only, find the road to fame;The hardiest themes, the noblest glory yield:
On low, light subjects, scorn to build a name;
But, ent'ring boldly, plow th' untrodden field.
XXXV
Vainly, shall envy blast your budding praise;Malice and hatred, vainly, press you down:
Slow shall you rise, indeed, but sure to blaze,
And, hourly broad'ning, reach decreed renown.
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XXXVI
Envy's a curr, that, at all Strangers, barks;But, on the known and licenc'd, creeps to fawn:
It's hov'ring smoke, hangs hard, on kindling sparks,
But, when the fire burns up, 'tis, strait withdrawn.
XXXVII
On then, be mine—Urania hears your pray'r;Glows, in your breast, and fans it's gen'rous flame:
Write, to be read—be times to come, your care,
And bloom, forever fragrant, still the same.
XXXVIII
She said: and breath'd, ambrosial, o'er my face:The circling sweetness swell'd my ravish'd mind;
She rose; and left me, in an empty space;
But left her pow'rful influence, still behind.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |