Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. I. (Funerals - Gaming) Poem by Henry Baker

Funerals.

Mean time, the Trojan Troops with weeping Eyes,
To dead Misenus pay his Obsequies.
First, from the Ground a lofty Pile they rear,
Of Pitch--Trees, Oaks, and Pines, and unctious Fir:
The Fabrick's Front with Cypress Twigs they strew,
And stick the Sides with Boughs of baleful Yew.
The topmost Part his glitt'ring Arms adorn:
Warm Waters, then, in brazen Cauldrons born,
Are pour'd to wash his Body, Joint by Joint,
And fragrant Oils the stiff'ned Limbs anoint.
With Groans and Cries Misenus they deplore:
Then on a Bier, with Purple cover'd o'er,
The breathless Body, thus bewail'd, they lay,
And fire the Pile, their Faces turn'd away:
(Such rev'rend Rites their Fathers us'd to pay.)
Pure Oyl, and Incense, on the Fire they throw,
And Fat of Victims, which his Friends bestow.
These Gifts, the greedy Flames to Dust devour,
Then, on the living Coals, red Wine they pour:
And last, the Relicks by themselves dispose,
Which in a brazen Urn the Priests inclose.
Old Chorineus compass'd thrice the Crew,
And dip'd an Olive Branch in holy Dew,
Which thrice he sprinkled round; and thrice aloud
Invok'd the Dead, and then dismiss'd the Crowd.--

--Æneas took his Way,
To where the breathless Corps of Pallas lay,
By old Acaetes watch'd.--
All his Attendants, and with them a Crowd
Of Trojans stand around: the Trojan Dames
(As is their Custom) scatter'd loose their Hair,
Moaning. But when below the lofty Roof
Æneas enter'd, to the Stars they raise
A gen'ral Groan aloud, and beat their Breasts:
And all with Shrieks the high Pavilion rings.

Weeping a while, he bids them bear away,
The cold lamented Coarse: and from his Troops
Assembled all, a thousand Men selects,
On the last mournful Honours to attend,
And with his Father's Tears to join their own:
Small Consolation for such mighty Woe,
Yet due, in Justice to the helpless Sire.

Others a soft light Bier, (with quick Dispatch,)
Of oaken Twigs, and twisted Osiers weave,
And cover with an Arch of bending Boughs
The high--rais'd Bed. There the dear Youth they lay
Sublime on verdant Leaves: Like some fair Flow'r,
Soft Violet, or languid Hyacinth,
Crop'd by a Virgin's Hand: whose beauteous Gloss
Still blooms unfaded, tho' the Parent Earth,
Moist Nourishment and Strength, no more supplies.
Two 'broider'd purple Vests Æneas brings:
In one of these he wraps the breathless Youth,
(The last sad Honour!) with the Other veils
His muffled Hair, devoted to the Flames.
Then copious Spoils, the rich Rewards of War,
Gain'd in Laurentian Fields, he piles on Heaps,
And in long Order bids the Pillage move:
Adds Steeds, and Darts, from Foes in Battle won,
And Victims, with cramp'd Hands behind them bound,
Doom'd with their Blood the Manes to appease,
And tinge the fun'ral Fires. The Chiefs themselves,
Commanded, bear the Trunks with hostile Arms
All cover'd, and with hostile Names inscrib'd.
Acaetes, with the Load of Age, and Grief,
Bending, moves slow, supported on each Side:
Now beats his Breast, now tares his wither'd Cheeks,
And faint, and prostrate, grovels on the Ground.
The Chariots in Procession follow next,
Smear'd with Rutulian Blood: Behind them, stripp'd
Of his rich Trappings, goes the Warrior Steed,
Æthon: and big round Drops roll down his Face.
Some bear his Lance, and Helmet: (for the rest
Turnus, proud Victor, keeps The mourning Troop
Succeeds: the Trojan and the Tyrrhene Chiefs,
And with inverted Spears, th' Arcadian Train.
When all the solemn Pomp had pass'd along,
Æneas stood, and thus, deep groaning cry'd:
Eternally Farewell, illustrious Prince!
Great Pallas! ever honour'd, ever mourn'd:
Hail, and Farewell.--

--Throning to the Gates
Th' Arcadians rush, and by th' accustom'd Rite
Snatch fun'ral Torches. In long Order rang'd,
A Train of Flames illumines all the Road,
And far and wide discriminates the Fields.
To meet that sad Procession, slow advance
The Trojan Troops, and join their wailing Friends.
Them when th' Arcadian Matrons saw arriv'd
Within the Walls, with Shrieks and loud Laments,
Repeated, all the frantic City rings.--

Funerals of the Slain.

--For twelve Days they fix the Truce:
Under its holy Sanction, through the Woods
The Trojans and the Latins mingled rove
In Safety: On the Hills the lofty Ash
With Axes sounds; and Pines which reach the Stars
They roll from Mountains: nor with Wedges cease
Hard Oak, and smelling Cedar to divide,
Nor Firs on groaning Waggons to convey.

--On the winding Shore,
By Prince Æneas and by Tarchon rais'd,
The fun'ral Piles stand thick. By ancient Rite
All hither bring the Bodies of their Friends,
And lay them on the Fires: whose smould'ring Smoke
Ascends in Wreaths, and darkens all the Sky.
Thrice the tall blazing Piles, and dusky Flames
They round encompass: Those on Foot, and These
High on their Steeds, all clad in shining Arms:
And loud Laments, and piercing Clamours raise.
The trickling Tears bedew the Earth below,
And down their Armour run: To Heav'n ascend
The Trumpet's Clangor, and the Cries of Men.
Some fling the Spoils, from slaughter'd Latins torn,
Into the Flames: Helmets, and burnish'd Swords,
And Reins, and fervid Wheels: Some add to these
Gifts better known, which by the Dead themselves
Were worn, their Shields, and not successful Darts.
Then num'rous Oxen, bristly Swine, and Sheep,
Choice Victims, snatch'd from all the Fields around,
They sacrifice, and stab them on the Fires.
O'er all the Shore they watch their burning Friends,
Nor from the smoking Dust can be withdrawn,
Till dewy Night inverts the Hemisphere,
And spangles o'er the Face of Heav'n with Stars.

Nor less, in diff'rent Parts, unnumber'd Piles
The wretched Latins build: Some Corps in Earth
(And many Those) of their dead Friends they hide:
Some to the neighb'ring Coasts, and Towns, they send.
The rest, a huge promiscuous Heap of Slain,
Unhonour'd, undistinguish'd, they consume:
The blazing Fires illumine all the Fields.
Now had the third returning Moon dispell'd
The dewy Shades of Night: the mingled Bones
From the high Ashes, mourning, they collect,
And load them with a Mount of smoking Mould.--

Pompey, thy Favourite once, O Fortune! now
Demands no Heaps of Frankincense to rise,
No Eastern Odours to perfume the Skies:
No Roman Necks his patriot Coarse to bear:
No rev'rend Train of Statues to appear:
No pageant Shows his Glories to record,
And tell the Triumphs of his conq'ring Sword:
No Instruments in plaintive Notes to sound,
No Legions sad to march in solemn Round:
A Bier, no better than the Vulgar need,
A little Wood the kindling Flame to feed,
With some poor Hand to tend the homely Fire,
Is all great Pompey's Relicks now require.--


Furies.
See Hell. Tissiphone.

Two Pests there are, the Dirae call'd: Whom Night
At the same Birth with black Megaera bore,
Tartarian Fury: with such twisting Spires
Of Serpents bound, and added noisy Wings.
These at the Throne of Jove and in the Court
Of Heav'n's dread Monarch wait, to strike with Fear
Unhappy Mortals: When the King of Gods
Sits meditating vengeful Death, or Plagues:
Or terrifies the guilty World with War.--

She from the Sister Dirae's black Abodes,
And Shades Nocturnal, fierce Alecto calls,
That baleful Fury, who delights in War,
In Rage, and Treachery, and noxious Crimes.
Ev'n Pluto and her Sisters hate the Fiend:
Such horrid Shapes the hellish Monster takes,
And teems with such Variety of Snakes.--

--She to Alecto cries,
Thou canst agreeing Brothers rouse to War,
Engender Hate in Families, and toss
Within their Walls thy Whips, and fun'ral Brands:
Thou hast a thousand Forms, a thousand Arts
Of Mischief: Ransack all thy fertile Breast:
Confound their Measures of concerted Peace:
Sow deep the Seeds of Discord: Let the Youth
At once desire, demand, and snatch their Arms.--

Infected with Gorgonian poys'nous Blood,
The Fiend to Latium, and the lofty Walls
Of King Latinus, swift directs her Flight,
And silent at the Queen's Apartment waits.

--To Her
The Fury from her grisly Tresses flings
One of her Snakes, and to her inmost Breast
Dispatches him; That, by the Monster urg'd
To Madness, all the Court she might embroil.
The bloated Serpent, sliding 'twixt her Robes
And smooth sleek Bosom, rolls without a Touch,
And, unperceiv'd, his vip'rous Breath inspires:
Hangs, as a Chain of Gold, about her Neck:
As a long twining Fillet, interweaves
Her Hair: and slipp'ry wanders o'er her Limbs.
While the first Plague, the pois'nous Juice beneath
Sliding, invades her Senses, and with Fire
Her Vitals blends; nor has as yet the Flame
Seiz'd all her Soul, more softly she complains,
And with a Mother's wonted Fondness speaks.

But when thro' all her Blood the snaky Plague
Had spread itself, and her whole Mind possess'd;
Then stung, unhappy, by the Monster dire,
O'er the vast City, with unbounded Rage,
She roves distracted. Like a whirling Top,
Urg'd by the twisted Thong, which Boys, intent
Upon their Sport, the empty Cloisters round,
In a wide Circuit exercise: the Wood,
Driv'n by the Scourge, in Spiral Eddies flies:
The stripling Throng in Ignorance admires
The Spinning Box: the Lashes give it Life.
Acted with such Rapidity she runs
Thro' the mid City, and the madding Crouds.

Then, fiercely rolling round her fiery Orbs,
Dreadful Alecto on her Hair erect
Uprears two Serpents, clangs her sounding Whip,
And rapid Thus with hideous Accents speaks.
See! from th' Infernal Sisters Seats I come:
War in my Hand, and Death I bear.--
So saying, to the Youth she hurls a Brand:
And Torches smoking with a smouldring Light
Fixes beneath his Breast. With Horror rous'd
He starts from Sleep: o'er all his Body Sweat
Bedews his shudd'ring Limbs: For Arms he raves,
Distracted: Arms, upon his Bed, demands,
And o'er the Palace: madding with the Love
Of Battles, and the barb'rous Rage of War.
As when, with mighty Noise, the sputt'ring Flame
Of Wood, surrounds the boiling Cauldron's Sides,
The dancing Liquor bubbles with the Heat:
It's aqueous Fury roars, and smokes within,
Exuberant, and foaming: Nor does now
The Water's bounding Tide itself contain:
The pitchy Vapour flying mounts in Air.--


Gain.

Scarce have I known, in Saturn's ancient Reign,
A Man whose Bosom was not pleas'd with Gain.
The Love of Gain, which now supreme we see,
Strengthen'd by Time is grown to that Degree,
O'er All it rules, and scarce can greater be.--

In hopes of Gain the Clown with early Toil,
His Oxen yokes, and turns the rugged Soil.
Aboard the bounding Bark, in search of Gain,
The Sailor braves the Dangers of the Main:
Nor Winds, nor Rocks, nor tow'ring Waves he fears,
But by known Stars his reeling Vessel steers.--

No Faith, no Honour can the Herd restrain,
That follow Camps, and fight for sordid Gain:
Like Ruffians brib'd, they ne'er the Cause enquire,
That's the just Side, which gives the largest Hire.--


Galatea.
See Invitation.

Fair Galatea! fairer Thou by far
Then the white Leaves of blooming Lillies are:
Gay as the flow'ry Meads: as Christal bright:
Tall as the Alder's just proportion'd Height:
Sportive as Kids: more smooth and polish'd o'er,
Than shining Shells, oft wash'd upon the Shore:
Pleasing as Winter Suns, or Summer Shade:
Glorious as Apples when the Boughs they lade:
It's Head less graceful does the Plane uprear:
And Ice in Clearness can't with Thee compare:
Not Grapes full ripe delight the Taste so much:
Less soft new Curds, or Swan's--Down, to the Touch:
More charming much Thou art, would'st Thou but stay,
Than beauteous Gardens where cool Fountains play.

But, Galatea, wild as Bulls unbroke
Thou art, and stubborn as an ancient Oak:
More changeful than the Waves in thy Intent:
Easier than Vines, or Willows, to be bent:
More fixt than Rocks; more furious than the Flood:
More than a Peacock, when commended, proud:
Thistles less sharp, and Fires less raging are:
Less cruel 'midst her Cubs the savage Bear:
Less fierce a trodden Snake: less deaf the Seas:
And, what to me is worse than all of These,
Thy Swiftness far outstrips the hunted Hind,
The hasty Tempest, or the winged Wind.--


Gaming.

What Age so large a Crop of Vices bore,
Or when was Avarice extended more?
When were the Dice with more Profusion thrown?
The well--fill'd Fob not empty'd now alone,
But Gamesters for whole Patrimonies play:
The Steward brings the Deeds which must convey
The lost Estate:--What more than Madness reigns,
When one short Sitting many hundreds drains:
And not enough is left him to supply
Board--Wages, or a Footman's Livery?--

'Tis mere Burlesque, that to our Gen'rals Praise,
Their Progeny immortal Statues raise,
Yet, (thoughtless of their Ancestors,) delight,
To game before their Images all Night:
And steal to Bed at the Approach of Day,
The Hour when These their Ensigns did display.--

For he, when the just Gout had lam'd his Hands,
A Servant hir'd, (so much he lov'd the Vice,)
To take up for him, and to throw the Dice.--

By Play our Tempers are unguarded made,
And while the Head's intent, the Heart's betray'd:
Then base Desire of Gain, then Rage appears,
Quarrels and Brawls arise, and anxious Fears:
Then Clamours and Revilings reach the Sky,
While losing Gamesters all the Gods defy:
Then horrid Oaths are utter'd ev'ry Cast:
They grieve, and curse, and storm, nay weep at last.—