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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Verses made for Mr. S---v---ge; and sent to my Lady M---ls---d, his Mother.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
Verses made for Mr. S---v---ge; and sent to my Lady M---ls---d, his Mother.
Hopeless, abandon'd, aimless, and oppress'd,
Lost, to delight, and, every way, distress'd:
Cross his cold bed, in wild disorder, thrown,
Thus sigh'd, Alexis, friendless, and alone.
Lost, to delight, and, every way, distress'd:
Cross his cold bed, in wild disorder, thrown,
Thus sigh'd, Alexis, friendless, and alone.
52
Why do I breath? what joy can Being give,
When she, who gave me life, forgets I live!
Feels not these wintry blasts—nor heeds my smart:
But shuts me, from the shelter of her heart?
Saw me expos'd, to want! to shame! to scorn!
To ills!—which make it misery to be born!
Cast me, regardless, on the world's bleak wild:
And bad me be a wretch, while yet a child!
When she, who gave me life, forgets I live!
Feels not these wintry blasts—nor heeds my smart:
But shuts me, from the shelter of her heart?
Saw me expos'd, to want! to shame! to scorn!
To ills!—which make it misery to be born!
Cast me, regardless, on the world's bleak wild:
And bad me be a wretch, while yet a child!
WHERE can he hope for pity, peace or rest,
Who moves no softness—in a mother's breast?
Custom, law, reason, all! my cause forsake:
And nature sleeps to keep my woes awake!
Crimes, which the cruel, scarce believe can be,
The kind are guilty of, to ruin me!
Even she, who bore me, blasts me with her hate,
And, meant my fortune, makes herself my fate?
Who moves no softness—in a mother's breast?
Custom, law, reason, all! my cause forsake:
And nature sleeps to keep my woes awake!
Crimes, which the cruel, scarce believe can be,
The kind are guilty of, to ruin me!
Even she, who bore me, blasts me with her hate,
And, meant my fortune, makes herself my fate?
Yet, has this sweet neglecter of my woes
The softest, tend'rest breast, that pity knows!
Her eyes shed mercy, wheresoe'er they shine,
And her soul melts, at every woe—but mine.
Sure, then! some secret fate, for guilt unwill'd,
Some sentence pre-ordain'd to be fulfill'd!
Plung'd me, thus deep, in sorrow's searching flood,
And wash'd me, from the mem'ry of her blood.
The softest, tend'rest breast, that pity knows!
Her eyes shed mercy, wheresoe'er they shine,
And her soul melts, at every woe—but mine.
53
Some sentence pre-ordain'd to be fulfill'd!
Plung'd me, thus deep, in sorrow's searching flood,
And wash'd me, from the mem'ry of her blood.
But, oh! whatever cause has mov'd her hate,
Let me but sigh, in silence, at my fate;
The God, within, perhaps, may touch her breast,
And, when she pities—who can be distress'd?
Let me but sigh, in silence, at my fate;
The God, within, perhaps, may touch her breast,
And, when she pities—who can be distress'd?
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |