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 |
 |
My Soul's last Sighs, to the divine L---r---a.
|
|
|
|
 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
72
My Soul's last Sighs, to the divine L---r---a.
Let plaintive thoughts, in mournful numbers, flow,
Prose is too dull, for love, too calm for woe!
Has she not bid thee quit thy faithful flame!
Sell her, and truth, for Equipage, and Name?
Nay, she has bid thee go—Whence this delay?
Whence this fond, fruitless, ling'ring wish, to stay?
L---a bids thee go—she, who, alone,
Makes all life's future blessings, means thee none!
Begone, then—let thy struggling heart obey,
And in long distance, sigh sad life away.
Still, still, vain, flatt'ring hope misleads desire.
Fed, by faint glimm'ring shoots of glow-worm fire.
What, tho' she sweetly writes, to ease thy grief,
Or points kind comfort, by the folded leaf:
Such pity must thy grateful rev'rence move,
But judge it right—nor think compassion, love.
What tho' each word she marks, like Spring's soft show'rs,
Flows sweet, as new-blown breath of op'ning flow'rs,
Such borrow'd sounds she need not have apply'd,
Her own, more tuneful, thou too oft, hast try'd:
To speak, in musick, ever was her claim,
And all grows harmony, that bears her name.
Prose is too dull, for love, too calm for woe!
Has she not bid thee quit thy faithful flame!
Sell her, and truth, for Equipage, and Name?
Nay, she has bid thee go—Whence this delay?
Whence this fond, fruitless, ling'ring wish, to stay?
L---a bids thee go—she, who, alone,
Makes all life's future blessings, means thee none!
Begone, then—let thy struggling heart obey,
And in long distance, sigh sad life away.
Still, still, vain, flatt'ring hope misleads desire.
Fed, by faint glimm'ring shoots of glow-worm fire.
What, tho' she sweetly writes, to ease thy grief,
Or points kind comfort, by the folded leaf:
Such pity must thy grateful rev'rence move,
But judge it right—nor think compassion, love.
What tho' each word she marks, like Spring's soft show'rs,
Flows sweet, as new-blown breath of op'ning flow'rs,
73
Her own, more tuneful, thou too oft, hast try'd:
To speak, in musick, ever was her claim,
And all grows harmony, that bears her name.
Had'st thou e'er touch'd her heart, with one soft pain,
And, bless'd, in loving, been belov'd again;
All her cold reasoning doubts had ceas'd to move,
And her whole gen'rous breast conceiv'd but love.
She, who believes not, loves not—Feel thy fate:
Friendship, from her, pains more than other's hate.
All the kind passions, wanting one, she'll own,
But, that one wanting, all the rest are none.
Would love, and she, disperse the threat'ning storm,
Let her believe, and trust, and break thro' form;
Let her command thy stay, to know success,
Nor fear the god-like attribute, to bless:
Born, to distinguish her, from womankind,
To court her converse, and to taste her mind;
Fram'd, for her empire, with her image, fill'd,
Charm'd by her form, and, in her temper, skill'd;
Piercing her tim'rous heart's most secret thought,
And knowing, and adoring, each dear fault,
How art thou pain'd—to find her soft'ning will,
Held, against love, by ev'ry guard of skill!
How art thou doom'd, to lengths of ope'ning woe,
Should she feel love—yet, fear, to tell thee so?
And, bless'd, in loving, been belov'd again;
All her cold reasoning doubts had ceas'd to move,
And her whole gen'rous breast conceiv'd but love.
She, who believes not, loves not—Feel thy fate:
Friendship, from her, pains more than other's hate.
All the kind passions, wanting one, she'll own,
But, that one wanting, all the rest are none.
Would love, and she, disperse the threat'ning storm,
Let her believe, and trust, and break thro' form;
Let her command thy stay, to know success,
Nor fear the god-like attribute, to bless:
Born, to distinguish her, from womankind,
To court her converse, and to taste her mind;
Fram'd, for her empire, with her image, fill'd,
Charm'd by her form, and, in her temper, skill'd;
Piercing her tim'rous heart's most secret thought,
And knowing, and adoring, each dear fault,
74
Held, against love, by ev'ry guard of skill!
How art thou doom'd, to lengths of ope'ning woe,
Should she feel love—yet, fear, to tell thee so?
If she distrusts thy truth—all hope must fall,
Doubting her pow'r, she disbelieves thee all.
And none, who doubts her lover, dares to love.
Go, then—to climes, cold, as her heart, remove;
A distant fate thy gloomy choice prefers,
Present, thou can'st not live, and not live hers.
Doubting her pow'r, she disbelieves thee all.
And none, who doubts her lover, dares to love.
Go, then—to climes, cold, as her heart, remove;
A distant fate thy gloomy choice prefers,
Present, thou can'st not live, and not live hers.
Farewell, kind, cautious, unresolving, fair!
To hear thee bless'd, will charm amidst despair.
'Tis death, to go—'tis more, than death, to stay,
Rest will be soonest reach'd, the first dark way.
Ne'er may'st thou know a pain! still chearful be,
Nor check life's comforts, with one thought of me.
To hear thee bless'd, will charm amidst despair.
'Tis death, to go—'tis more, than death, to stay,
Rest will be soonest reach'd, the first dark way.
Ne'er may'st thou know a pain! still chearful be,
Nor check life's comforts, with one thought of me.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |