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 C---O.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
6
To C---O.
I
Snar'd, in entangling mazes of thy charms,Teach me to shake these silky chains away;
Slow, thy sweet force, my stubborn mind disarms,
'Till ev'n ambition bends, beneath thy sway,
II
What shall I do, to free my struggling soul,Bow'd, to the soft'ning biass of thy song?
As circling straws, in whirlwinds, driving roll,
So are my hurry'd passions swept along.
III
Fool, as I was!—I felt thy distant fire,E're, from those eyes, it flash'd undying flame;
Yet, sure, said I—for once—I may aspire,
And view that heav'n, whence all this brightness came.
IV
So, the light cork, that on the Thame's smooth side,Embay'd, glides buoyant, and just skims the shore,
Edges, ambitious, to the rapid tide,
And, rushing down the stream, returns no more.
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V
Late, my free thoughts, unbounded, as the air,Could, with an eye-beam's swiftness, scale the sky;
Wander, in starry worlds, and busy'd there,
From human cares, and human passions, fly.
VI
Down to dark earth's deep center, could I roam,And, thro' her chasmy lab'rinths, wind my way;
See Gold unripen'd, in its dusky home,
And mark how springs, in veiny bendings, stray.
VII
Oft as th' alarming trumpet struck my ear,Or the big drum's dead beat hoarse-thund'ring rose,
My summon'd soul sprung out, to war's wish'd sphere,
And plung'd me in the ranks of fancy'd foes.
VIII
Wide, as unmeasur'd nature's trackless space,Untir'd imagination restless flew;
Disdain'd to fix on object, or on place,
And every moment, some fresh labour knew.
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IX
C---o was then, unseen, unread, unknown;—Now, lovely tyrant, she usurps my mind;
Devoted fancy vows itself her own:
And my whole thought is, to one theme, confin'd.
X
Yet, pow'rful as she is—she doubts her lays;Blind, like the sun, to her own blazing flame;
Transports the list'ning soul—engrosses praise,
Yet humbly wishes—an immortal name.
XI
Oh! that I could but live, 'till that late day,When C---'s unremember'd name shall die!
Then should I hope, full leisure to display
Those unborn deeds, which in my bosom lie.
XII
But, as it is, our fleeting sands so fastEbb to their end, and lead us to decay;
That, e're we learn to see, our daylight's past,
And, like a melting mist, life shrinks away.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |