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 Dr. Atkins;
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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To Dr. Atkins;
on his Arcade of Dutch Elms, dug up, in repairing the Sewer.
Pitying, we sigh'd, to see th'uprooting spade,
Boldly intrenching, fall your fav'rite shade!
Sad Silvia, long, with silent sorrow, strove,
At last, thus loudly, wail'd her prostrate grove:
Boldly intrenching, fall your fav'rite shade!
Sad Silvia, long, with silent sorrow, strove,
At last, thus loudly, wail'd her prostrate grove:
Ah! Doctor, when you planted for delight,
Why did you fail to search foundations, right?
Shoot, else, th' aspiring branches ne'er so gay;
Pale disappointment grows, as fast, as they.
Why mourn I then?—'tis vain, 'tis causeless grief;
And thus reflexion comes, and brings relief.
Why did you fail to search foundations, right?
Shoot, else, th' aspiring branches ne'er so gay;
Pale disappointment grows, as fast, as they.
Why mourn I then?—'tis vain, 'tis causeless grief;
And thus reflexion comes, and brings relief.
Common, in life, your fate, ye hapless trees!
So the green lawn's, of hope's gay prospects, please.
Sap-full, and blooming, each luxuriant shoot!
Yet death lies lurking, at th'unheeded root.
So flourishes, in youth, our love's light joy,
For time, or change of passion to destroy.
So shines religion's boast, with specious glow,
While sin's foul common sewer creeps dark, below.
So factious noise, we patriot purpose call,
While private int'rest works, and saps us all.
So fame, in arms, or arts, or learning, tow'rs;
And fond presuming fancy calls it ours;
'Till, from beneath, some blast, unfear'd, is felt,
And life's lost views, like air-form'd fabricks, melt.
So the green lawn's, of hope's gay prospects, please.
Sap-full, and blooming, each luxuriant shoot!
Yet death lies lurking, at th'unheeded root.
So flourishes, in youth, our love's light joy,
For time, or change of passion to destroy.
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While sin's foul common sewer creeps dark, below.
So factious noise, we patriot purpose call,
While private int'rest works, and saps us all.
So fame, in arms, or arts, or learning, tow'rs;
And fond presuming fancy calls it ours;
'Till, from beneath, some blast, unfear'd, is felt,
And life's lost views, like air-form'd fabricks, melt.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |