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 Recollected Complainer.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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The Recollected Complainer.
All
mother, as I am, and loth to part,
With this poor playful gladd'ner of my heart,
I know, too well, and I confess my crime,
'Tis not my right, but heav'n's, to limit time:
Parent, at once, of progeny, and pain,
Of what would my regardless grief complain?
I gave him birth, but, ah! discern'd not why!
Children are born, poor suff'rers! but to die.
With this poor playful gladd'ner of my heart,
I know, too well, and I confess my crime,
'Tis not my right, but heav'n's, to limit time:
Parent, at once, of progeny, and pain,
Of what would my regardless grief complain?
I gave him birth, but, ah! discern'd not why!
Children are born, poor suff'rers! but to die.
Pity ('tis true) revolves their leapful springs,
Smil'd thanks, attoning pray'rs, embracing clings,
Sallies of guileless joy, gay gleams of sense,
Soft stroking flatt'ries—active impotence;
Tricks of dumb love, which grateful wills express,
And all their nameless pow'rs of prettiness!
These the fond mother's feeling mem'ry seize,
And, then, the tear of nature flows, for ease.
Smil'd thanks, attoning pray'rs, embracing clings,
Sallies of guileless joy, gay gleams of sense,
Soft stroking flatt'ries—active impotence;
Tricks of dumb love, which grateful wills express,
And all their nameless pow'rs of prettiness!
These the fond mother's feeling mem'ry seize,
And, then, the tear of nature flows, for ease.
But
reason's voice corrects the bold complaint,
Injoins submission, and instructs restraint.
Thus wipes the plaintive parent's weeping eye,
And bids the unpermitted drop—be dry.
What is it, thou thyself, mistaking Mind!
Hast found, in this bad world, or hop'st to find?
That thy presumptuous wish would dare retain,
Whom heavn's kind call exempts from future pain:
Grant, that the worst thou fear'st, should end this blow,
And death's dark screen defends thy child, from woe!
Are not thy sad forebodings, too, no more?
Are not thy fears, for all his perils, o'er?
Of what proud wrongs, might clog his life's long way!
What crimes might blast him, or, what wiles betray!
What follies draw down scorn, what vice disgrace!
What loss of honour might be-spot thy race!
What want of Duty might neglect thy tears!
What want of prudence, grind his waning years!
What bloody dangers might cut short his fame,
Or hooting infamy prolong his shame!
Injoins submission, and instructs restraint.
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And bids the unpermitted drop—be dry.
What is it, thou thyself, mistaking Mind!
Hast found, in this bad world, or hop'st to find?
That thy presumptuous wish would dare retain,
Whom heavn's kind call exempts from future pain:
Grant, that the worst thou fear'st, should end this blow,
And death's dark screen defends thy child, from woe!
Are not thy sad forebodings, too, no more?
Are not thy fears, for all his perils, o'er?
Of what proud wrongs, might clog his life's long way!
What crimes might blast him, or, what wiles betray!
What follies draw down scorn, what vice disgrace!
What loss of honour might be-spot thy race!
What want of Duty might neglect thy tears!
What want of prudence, grind his waning years!
What bloody dangers might cut short his fame,
Or hooting infamy prolong his shame!
149
Look up, fond sorrower! see the morning's ray;
Now, if thou can'st, fore-judge the rising day:
Shall its ascending shine continue bright?
Or, shall o'ercasting tempests call down night?
Can'st thou not tell?—Why, then, does thy bold guess
Presume to call an infant's death Distress?
Blind to the future,, thank a watchful God,
That snatch'd the child from school, to spare the rod.
Now, if thou can'st, fore-judge the rising day:
Shall its ascending shine continue bright?
Or, shall o'ercasting tempests call down night?
Can'st thou not tell?—Why, then, does thy bold guess
Presume to call an infant's death Distress?
Blind to the future,, thank a watchful God,
That snatch'd the child from school, to spare the rod.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |