William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
A RetrospectAaron Hill (16851750)
T
Since in this inn, e’en in this room I lay.
How chang’d! what then was rapture, fire, and air,
Seems now sad silence all and blank despair.
And, life advancing, fancy fades her light!
Ah! no,—nor yet is day so far declin’d,
Nor can time’s creeping coldness reach the mind.
Her, whose soft smile was love, whose soul was truth;
Death snatch’d my joys, cutting off her share,
But left her griefs to multiply my care.
I view, and shock’d from ev’ry object start;
There hung the watch that, beating hours from day,
Told its sweet owner’s lessening life away.
’Tis gone! frail image of love, life, and fame;
That glass she dress’d at, keeps her form no more,
Not one dear footstep tunes th’ unconscious floor.
How short thy period, yet how fierce thy fires!
Scarce can a passion start, we change so fast,
Ere new lights strike us, and the old are past.
That ere we learn to live, we live no more.
Who then can think, yet sigh to part with breath,
Or shun the healing hand of friendly death?