Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. I. (General - Goats) Poem by Henry Baker

General.

Foremost, on Foot, he treads the burning Sand,
Bearing his Arms in his own patient Hand:
Scorning Another's weary Neck to press,
Or in a lazy Chariot loll at Ease:
The panting Soldier to his Toil succeeds,
Where no Command, but great Example leads.
Sparing of Sleep, still for the rest he wakes,
And at the Fountain, last, his Thirst he slakes:
Whene'er, by Chance, some living Stream is found,
He stands, and sees the cooling Draughts go round:
Stays till the last and meanest Drudge be past,
And till his Slaves have drunk, disdains to taste.--

--Panting with Drought,
Amidst the Desart, desolate, and dry,
One chanc'd a little trickling Spring to spy:
Proud of the Prize, he drain'd the scanty Store,
And in his Helmet to the Chieftain bore.
Around in Crowds, the thirsty Legions stood,
Their Throats and clammy Jaws with Dust bestrew'd,
And all with wishful Eyes the liquid Treasure view'd.
The gallant Chief the tempting Present took,
And, with a Frown, the Giver thus bespoke:
Dost Thou then think, of all this Roman Host,
That I'm the meanest, and want Virtue most?
Am I the first soft Coward that complains:
That shrinks, unequal to these glorious Pains?
Am I in Ease and Infamy the first?--
Rather be thou, Base as thou art, accurs'd,
Thou that dar'st drink, when all beside thee thirst.
He said: and wrathful stretching forth his Hand,
Pour'd out the precious Draught upon the Sand.
Envy'd by none, while thus to all deny'd,
This little Water the whole Host supply'd.--

Thirsty, for Springs they search the Desart round,
And, only one, amidst the Sands, they found.
Well stor'd it was, but all Access was barr'd:
The Stream ten thousand noxious Serpents guard:
Dry Aspicks on the fatal Margin stood,
And Dipsa's thirsted in the middle Flood.

Back from the Stream the frighted Soldier flies,
Tho' parch'd, and languishing for Drink he dies.
The Chief beheld, and said, You fear in vain,
Vainly from safe and healthy Draughts abstain,
My Soldiers, drink, and dread not Death, or Pain.
When, urg'd to Rage, their Teeth the Serpents fix,
And Venom with our vital Juices mix,
The Pest infus'd thro' ev'ry Vein runs round,
Infects the Mass, and Death is in the Wound.
Harmless and safe, no Poison here they shed:
He said: and first the doubtful Draught essay'd.
Thro' Lybia's toilsome March, and burning Thirst,
'Twas at this Spring alone he call'd for Water first.--

The Godlike Virtues of their matchless Chief,
Inspire new Strength, to bear with ev'ry Grief:
All Night with careful Thoughts and watchful Eyes,
On the bare Sands expos'd the Hero lies:
In ev'ry Place alike, in ev'ry Hour,
Dares his ill Fortune, and defies her Pow'r.
Unweary'd still, his common Care attends
On ev'ry Fate, and chears his dying Friends:
With ready Haste at each sad Call he flies,
And more than Health, or Life itself, supplies:
With Virtue's noblest Precepts arms their Souls,
And ev'n their Sorrows like his own controuls:
Where--e'er he comes no Signs of Grief are shewn:
Grief, an unmanly Weakness, they disown,
And scorn to Sigh, or breath one parting Groan.--


Ghost.
See Purgatory.

–The flitting Shade
All pale, as Death, despoil'd of his Array,
Into his Wife's Apartment takes his Way,
And stands before the Bed, at Dawn of Day:
Unmov'd his Eyes, and wet his Beard appears;
And shedding vain, but seeming real Tears;
The briny Water dripping from his Hairs.
Then staring on her with a ghastly Look,
And hollow Voice, he thus his Wife bespoke.
Know'st Thou not me?--not yet?--unhappy Wife!
Are then my Features perish'd with my Life?
Look once again, and for thy Husband lost,
Lo all that's left of him, thy Husband's Ghost!
Thy Vows for my Return were all in vain,
The stormy South o'ertook Us in the Main,
And never shalt Thou see thy living Lord again.
Rise, wretched Widow! rise: nor undeplor'd
Permit my Soul to pass the Stygian Ford:
But rise, prepar'd, in Black, to mourn thy perish'd Lord.

Frighted Halcyone with Grief oppress'd,
Sigh'd deep, and wept, and sleeping beat her Breast:
Stretch'd forth her Arms his Body to embrace,
Her clasping Arms find only empty Space.
Stay, stay, she cry'd: Ah! whither dost Thou flee?
We'll go together wheresoe'er it be.
Then round she cast her Eyes, in hopes to view
Her vanish'd Lord, and prove the Vision true.
Tir'd with the Search, not finding what she seeks,
With cruel Blows she pounds her blubber'd Cheeks,
And from her beaten Breast the Linnen tare,
And cut the golden Caul that bound her Hair.
Her Nurse demands the Cause; with louder Cries
She prosecutes her Griefs, and thus replies:
I saw, I saw him manifest in view,
His Voice, his Figure, and his Gestures knew:
His Beauty not, as once, divinely fair,
But pale, and naked, with wet dropping Hair.
I would have strain'd him with a strict Embrace,
But thro' my Arms he slip'd, and vanish'd from the Place.
These: ev'n just there he stood:--and as she spoke,
Where last the Spectre was she cast her Look:
Fain would she hope, and gaz'd upon the Ground,
To see if any Footsteps might be found.--

He with the Sword in Secrecy surpriz'd
Sichaeus, and before his Altars slew,
Impious, and blinded with the Love of Gold,
Regardless of his Sister's Love: and long
Conceal'd the Fact: and, with Pretences vain
Dissembling, mock'd the pining Lover's Hopes.
But in a Dream, with Visage wondrous pale,
The Ghost of her unbury'd Husband came:
The cruel Altars, and his wounded Breast,
And all the hidden Villany disclos'd:
Warn'd her to fly her Country: and, to aid
Her Flight, reveal'd a Treasure hid in Earth,
An unknown Mass of Silver and of Gold.--

Thus as I search'd impatient o'er the Town,
With endless Labour: to my Eyes appear'd
Her pensive Ghost, my dear Creüsa's Shade,
A Form enlarg'd, and bigger than the Life.
Aghast I stood: uprose my Hair erect:
And to my Mouth my Speech with Horror cleav'd.
At length she spoke, and thus reliev'd my Cares:
Why, my dear Lord, do You so far indulge
Your restless Toil? Without the Powers divine
These Things are not dispos'd.--

--Farewell: and love
Your Son, our common Care.--Thus having spoke,
Me weeping, and a thousand Things to say
Desiring, she forsook, and vanish'd swift
Into the yielding Air.--I thrice essay'd
About her Neck to throw my folding Arms:
Thrice, vainly grasp'd at, from their Circle flew
Th' unbodied Fantom, light as fleeting Winds,
And like a slipp'ry Dream.--

--The Night now driving on her sable Car,
Possess'd the Pole: When suddenly the Form
Of old Anchises seem'd to slide from Heav'n:
And from his awful Mouth these Accents fell:
My Son, more dear to me than Life, while Life
Remain'd.--

Hither I come, dispatch'd by Sovereign Jove;
--For Me the impious Gloom
Of Tartarus accurs'd, and dreary Shades
Do not detain: But in th' Elysian Fields,
And happy Regions of the Blest I dwell.
--But now, adieu:
The dewy Night rolls on her middle Course:
And with his panting Steeds the rising Sun
Severe has breath'd upon me. Thus he said,
And flew, like Smoke, into the fleeting Air.--

Among the rest, fresh reeking from her Wound,
In the vast Grove Phoenician Dido roams:
Soon as the Trojan Hero near her stood,
And knew her thro' the dusky Shade, as when
At the first op'ning of the Month one sees,
Or thinks one sees, thro' Clouds the rising Moon:
Tears he let fall: and thus with Fondness speaks.
Unhappy Dido!--
Your Death, alas! I caus'd: but by the Stars,
And by the Gods, I swear, by all the Faith
Beneath the Earth, if any such there be,
Unwillingly, O Queen! I left your Coasts.
Thus Her, with Indignation frowning stern,
With Tears and Blandishments Æneas sooth'd.--

She bends her Eyes averse upon the Ground,
And by his Speech begun is mov'd no more
Than the deaf Rocks, when the loud Billows roar:
But whirls away, to shun his hateful Sight,
Hid in the Forest and the Shades of Night.
Some pious Tears the pitying Hero paid,
And follow'd with his Eyes the flitting Shade.--

The thronging Ghosts stand round on either Side:
Some raise a feeble Cry, with trembling Notes:
But the weak Voice deceives their gasping Throats.
Here Priam's Son, Deiphobus, he found,
Whose Face and Limbs were one continu'd Wound:
Dishonest, with lopp'd Arms, the Youth appears,
Spoil'd of his Nose, and shortned of his Ears.
He scarcely knew him, striving to disown
His blotted Form, and blushing to be known.--

--So saying, he bedew'd
His Face with flowing Tears: and thrice assay'd
About his Neck to throw his folding Arms:
Thrice, vainly grasp'd at, from their Circle flew
Th' unbody'd Fantom: light as fleeting Winds,
And like a slipp'ry Dream.--

--Behold, she cries,
Again the cruel Fates remand me back:
And now Farewell: with Darkness round inclos'd
I fleet away, and vainly stretch to Thee
(Ah! now no longer thine) These helpless Hands.
She said: and from his Sight like Smoke dispers'd
Thro' the thin Air, flew diverse: Nor by Him,
Grasping at Shades in vain, and thousand Things
To say desiring, was e'er after seen.


Glory.

--Whatever Care for me
You have conceiv'd, dismiss it, best of Kings,
For Me, at my Request: and let me stake
My Life for Glory.--

Thy Glory, Trajan, shall for ever live:
Not that thy Arms the Tigris mourn'd, o'ercome,
And tributary Parthia bow'd to Rome,
Not that the Capitol receiv'd thy Train,
With Shouts of Triumph for the Daci slain:
But for thy Mildness to thy Country shown.--

There Glory sits in all her Pomp and State:
Thence Places, Dignities, Preferments flow,
And all that Men admire, and wish below:
High Honours, Offices, in Suits Success,
Right to make Laws, and bid the World have Peace:
Thence Scepters, and supreme Command accrue,
And Power to give them where Rewards are due.--


Gluttony.
See Extravagance. Luxury.

Whether it be in little Things or great,
Suit thy Expences still to thy Estate;
And if thy Purse a Turbot can't afford,
Sit down, and be content with humble Cod.
For what must be thy miserable End,
If Gluttony and Want at once attend,
When thy voracious Throat has swallow'd all,
Cattle, and Land, Int'rest, and Principal?--

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious Men,
Will chuse a Pheasant still before a Hen:
And yet a Hen is full as good I hold,
Except you eat the Feathers green and gold.


Of Carps and Mullets why prefer the great,
(Tho' cut in Pieces e'er my Lord can eat)
Yet for small Turbots such Esteem profess?
Because God made these large, the other less.--

When the tir'd Glutton labours thro' a Treat,
He'll find no Relish in the sweetest Meat,
He calls for something bitter, something sour,
And the rich Feast concludes extreamly poor:
Cheap Eggs, and Herbs, and Olives still we see,
Thus much is left of old Simplicity!--

The Robin--red--Breast till of late had rest,
And Children sacred held a Martin's Nest,
Till Becca--ficos sold so dev'lish dear,
To one that was, or would have been, a Peer.--

Observe how pale, how sickly, ev'ry Guest,
Reels from the Surfeit of a sumptuous Feast:
The Body overloaded with Excess,
Is sunk itself, and does the Mind oppress:
Nor can the Soul, altho' of heav'nly Birth,
Shake off the Load that fixes it to Earth.--

'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a Pother
About one Vice, and fall into the other:
Between Excess and Famine lies a Mean,
Plain, but not sordid: tho' not splendid, clean.
He knows to live, who keeps the middle State,
And neither leans on this Side, nor on that.--


Goats.

'Tis my Direction, that with verdant Leaves
Of Arbutus the Goats may be supply'd,
And with fresh Springs: And that their Stalls from Winds
Be shelter'd, to the Winter Sun oppos'd,
And pointing to the South, when now with Cold,
And Rain, Aquarius setting, shuts the Year.--
These breed more fruitful: These in Milk abound:
And ev'n the more they fill the frothing Pails
From their press'd Dugs more plenteous Rivers flow.
For Food they brouze the Thickets, and the Top
Of bleak Lycaeus, prickly Thorns in Brakes,
And Bushes which high Rocks and Mountains love.
Themselves, spontaneous, to their Homes return,
Bringing their Young: and, with their strutting Dugs,
Laborious, o'er th' opposing Threshold climb.
Therefore their Want of Care and Guard to shun
The Ills of Life, by thine must be supply'd.
From them with all thy Diligence avert
The Frost, and Winds, and Snow: With lib'ral Hand
Indulge them Food, and leafy Browze: nor shut,
While Winter lasts, thy Magazines of Hay.—