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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Apology for Death.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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Apology for Death.
Whence this reluctance, when we cease to run
Life's slow, sad race, and leave its toys un-won?
Death's but our Tide of Ebb, to that dark sea,
Time's shoreless swallower, void eternity!
'Tis rest, from labour—'tis escape from care;
'Tis shunn'd oppression, and reliev'd despair.
'Tis but to re-dissolve, to formless flow,
And join the mingled mass, that feels no woe.
Fluid, to fade, as all things, round us, do,
Or, from old being, launch, to find out new.
Life's slow, sad race, and leave its toys un-won?
Death's but our Tide of Ebb, to that dark sea,
Time's shoreless swallower, void eternity!
'Tis rest, from labour—'tis escape from care;
'Tis shunn'd oppression, and reliev'd despair.
'Tis but to re-dissolve, to formless flow,
And join the mingled mass, that feels no woe.
Fluid, to fade, as all things, round us, do,
Or, from old being, launch, to find out new.
Emerging, or immerg'd, life rolls away,
Foams, into note, or flattens to decay.
Round, with unceasing wheel, distinction glides,
And, thro' time's maze, in short successions, slides:
Flames its hot hour, like humbler houshold fires,
Shines, but to leave us, and, in use, expires.
Foams, into note, or flattens to decay.
Round, with unceasing wheel, distinction glides,
And, thro' time's maze, in short successions, slides:
Flames its hot hour, like humbler houshold fires,
Shines, but to leave us, and, in use, expires.
'Tis the flash'd spark of thought, that bursts to sight,
Strains soon, and big, and rushes into night:
So the proud storm, that frights us, with its roar,
Breathes itself weary, and is heard no more.
See! that soft flow'r, whose sighs perfume the gales,
Blooms into dust, and its snuff'd life exhales!
All nature heaves, and sets, like human breath,
And life's loose links but stretch the chain of death.
Strains soon, and big, and rushes into night:
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Breathes itself weary, and is heard no more.
See! that soft flow'r, whose sighs perfume the gales,
Blooms into dust, and its snuff'd life exhales!
All nature heaves, and sets, like human breath,
And life's loose links but stretch the chain of death.
Why, then, does erring fancy fright the mind?
Why call that cruel, nature meant for kind?
Who knows, but fates, we tremble at, may bless,
And length of happiest life be found distress?
Murder! that blast of thought! that bane of law!
The good man's horror, and ev'n villain's awe!
Murder! that nature dreads, and conscience flies!
Perhaps, but spurs us, to some waiting prize!
Why call that cruel, nature meant for kind?
Who knows, but fates, we tremble at, may bless,
And length of happiest life be found distress?
Murder! that blast of thought! that bane of law!
The good man's horror, and ev'n villain's awe!
Murder! that nature dreads, and conscience flies!
Perhaps, but spurs us, to some waiting prize!
Else, why should creature, still, with creature, jarr?
And clash'd existence wage eternal war?
Beast bleeds, by beast; fishes, on fishes, prey,
And birds act murder, with more waste, than they;
Ev'n the sweet thrush, that bribes us, with her song,
To guard her dread of death, from beaks, more strong,
Sav'd, from the kite, strait bloodier grows, than he,
And snaps the shiv'ring insect, from the tree.
Life starts but up, to answer death's due call,
And one mysterious darkness wraps us all!
And clash'd existence wage eternal war?
Beast bleeds, by beast; fishes, on fishes, prey,
And birds act murder, with more waste, than they;
Ev'n the sweet thrush, that bribes us, with her song,
To guard her dread of death, from beaks, more strong,
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And snaps the shiv'ring insect, from the tree.
Life starts but up, to answer death's due call,
And one mysterious darkness wraps us all!
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |