Aaron Hill

Martha Fowke Sansom ("Clio"), "To Mr. Savage, Son of the late Earl Rivers" Savage, Miscellaneous Poems and Translations (1726) 250-53.

Oh tow'ring Savage, from thy Stars descend,
To visit here below a mortal Friend;
Far in Wit's Vale she lies, beneath thy Care,
Yet gay the Vallies shine, and sweet the Air.
Oft from the simple Flow'rs her Thoughts she took,
And stole the Language of the murm'ring Brook.
Oh! beyond all Things, native Nature charms;
The Critick's pointed Envy she disarms,
And the Fool's Heart, Great Chief of Wonders! warms.
Nor let us shade her with Excess of Art;
O'er every thing the God of Nature reigns;
And the same glorious Hand that form'd the Heart,
Tun'd it to move, at Passion's melting Strains.
Harmonious Nature does those Passions guide,
And sigh-blown Tears swell high the summon'd Tide.
O'er godlike Shakespear, Oh! how oft I weep,
And rob the lazy Night of promis'd Sleep.
My Eyes of aking Injuries complain,
The bend — but Oh! they fondly read again,
And, for his Sake, their falling Lids restrain.
Yet, blushless, be it to the prudent known,
'Tis not for Shakespear that I wake alone;
Another Rival rises to his Fame,
Hillarius! — Nature sparkles at his Name!
Oft have I wish'd e'er I Hillarius knew;
I might have read the living Shakespear too;
And Heav'n, that treasures ev'ry holy Pray'r,
Transfus'd his Soul, so worthy of its Care.
A younger Shakespear rises to my Sight,
Beam'd from the other Shakespear's deathless Light.
Alike divinely are their Spirits wrought,
And one great Mind breathes jointly in their Thought.
In alter'd Henry's Conduct, I behold
Hillarian Fire refining Shakespear's Gold.

See, Savage! see! Hillarius cuts the Sky,
Keep, while you soar, his Brightness in your Eye.
He saw thy Worth, rich beneath gloomy Fate,
Chear'd thy cold Hopes, and taught 'em to be Great!
Already Fame is of thy Numbers proud,
Lifts its just Voice, and speaks thy Praise aloud.
Thy gen'rous Verse, and Wonders we behold,
Paint Friendship's Beauties, who hast found her cold!
What Hand invited thy poor Bark to Shore?
What Heart has felt the Wrongs which you deplore?
None cheer'd thy Youth, to trembling Want resign'd,
Chance prun'd the promis'd Vintage of thy Mind:
No tender Parent bless'd thy Infant Songs,
Forc'd on a World — and only rich in Wrongs!
But Nature now, awak'ning at thy Song,
Will pity, sure! that she has slept so long.
Yes — Ev'n thy Mother will thy Influence feel,
And who will wound, when she consents to heal!
Parents, not Thine, mean while Thy Wrongs can see,
And, weeping, wish for Sons resembling Thee.