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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An ODE, to Astræa
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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An ODE, to Astræa
I
Fairest Pattern, from above,Tho' I only live, for love,
'Tis not for those sparkling eyes:
Tho' the stars, that gild the skies,
When the twinklers shine most bright,
So compar'd, have lost their light.
Tho' the sun, in all his blaze,
Sees that smile, and hides his rays.
II
'Tis not, that my fancy dips,In the Rainbow's red, thy lips,
'Tis not ev'n thy lips, that please:
Tho' the happiest Hybla bees,
When they rob the flow'ry spring,
Never ply'd the busy wing,
Charg'd with honey, half so sweet,
As 'twou'd be, those lips to meet.
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III
'Tis not your neglect of air,Far out-charming others care;
Nor those locks, that fall, resign'd,
Catch'd, and courted, by the wind:
Tho' the drifts of glitt'ring sand,
Strow'd o'er Africk's yellow strand,
Ne'er, to charm ambition, roll'd
Half such tempting veins of gold.
IV
'Tis not to those polish'd rows,'Twixt whose openings, musick flows;
That I find my offerings due,
Vows, so tender, and so true!
Tho' the pearl-producing East,
Ne'er did Europe's wonder feast,
Spite of all its toothy store,
With such Ivory, before.
V
'Tis not that declining waist,Nor that neck, so sweetly grac'd;
Nor the pantings of that breast,
(Soft as pity, and as blest!)
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Tho' were Læda's swan but nigh
All its Down wou'd fail to show,
Half so white, and soft a snow.
VI
When that forehead I behold,(Smooth, as flatt'ry, and as cold!
'Tis not its majestic frown,
Throws my heart's defences down:
Tho' the silver moon, at height,
Shines less aweful, thro' the night,
Than the meanings of that brow
Shoot correction at me, now.
VII
'Tis not, that this azure veinMarks your arm, with heav'n's own stain,
While, along the white, it flows,
Swell'd with triumph, as it goes:
'Tis not this engaging hand,
Holds my Heart, in soft command;
Tho', to hear it touch the lute,
Rocks wou'd speak,—and birds grow mute.
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VIII
Teach me, then, mysterious fair,What your power to charm? and where?
If this flame of my desire,
Did not, at your eyes, catch fire:
If those lips (how sweet they be!)
Have not, thus, entangled me;
Tell me, what my heart cou'd move?
Teach me, whence arose my love?
IX
If those ringlets of your hair,Did not string this amorous snare;
If that beauteous mouth has fail'd,
Nor those ivory teeth prevail'd:
Tell me, what resistless cause,
Felt unknown, my fancy draws?
Still, unpleas'd, but where you are,
Still untaught, what pleases, there!
X
Since those breasts—(how soft they rise!)Reach no farther, than my eyes;
Since I count a thousand charms,
None of which my heart disarms:
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Guide my search, to find out more,
'Till the cause I learn to know,
Pleasing cause! that charms me so.
XI
Ah! 'tis found—delightful truth!Sense, with beauty, temp'ring youth.—
'Tis that peerless soul, of thine,
Breaks, like daylight, into mine;
Charg'd, with heaven's ætherial flame!
Full of charms, without a name!
'Tis thy converse, turn'd to move,
Claims respect, and forces love.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |