Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. Ii. (Obedience - Opportunity) Poem by Henry Baker

Obedience.

'Tis your's, great Queen, replies the Pow'r, to lay
The Task, and mine to listen and obey.--

Whom Caesar's Trumpet once proclaims a Foe.
By the long Labours of the Sword, I swear,
By all thy Fame acquir'd in ten Year's War,
By thy past Triumphs, and by those to come,
(No Matter where the Vanquish'd be, nor whom,)
Bid me to strike my dearest Brother dead,
To bring my aged Father's hoary Head,
Or stab the pregnant Partner of my Bed:
Tho' Nature plead, and stop my trembling Hand,
I swear to execute thy dread Command.--


Obstinacy.
See Advice.

His Father, Gransire, all his Friends disswade,
But their good Counsel no Impression made:
More obstinate he grew for what they said.
Fury increases when it is withstood,
And their Intreaties did more Harm than Good.

So, unobstructed, with a gentle Tide,
Have I observ'd a murm'ring River glide,
But when fall'n Trees, or Stones, oppos'd it's Course,
It foam'd, and roar'd along, with unresisted Force.--

Much she advis'd, and many Things she said,
To cure the Madness of the Love--sick Maid,
But all in vain: for tho' convinc'd of Ill
Her Reason was, unchang'd remains her Will:
Perverse of Mind, unable to reply,
She stands resolv'd, or to possess or dye.--


Oeconomy.
See Extravagance. Luxury.

If noble Atticus make plenteous Feasts,
And with luxurious Food indulge his Guests:
His Wealth and Quality support the Treat,
In him nor is it Luxury, but State.
But when poor Rutilus spends all he's worth,
In Hopes of setting one good Dinner forth,
'Tis downright Madness: for what greater Jests,
Than begging Gluttons, or than Beggar's Feasts?

Strange Ignorance! that the same Man, who knows
How far yond' Mount above this Mole--hill shows,
Should not perceive a Difference as great,
Between a little and a vast Estate.--

Not less the Praise to keep than to obtain:
'Tis Wisdom keeps, but Accident may gain.--


Old--Age.
See Life.

Alas! what Ills continually a--wait
Helpless Old--Age, that miserable State!
How dismal is it's Looks! a Visage rough,
Deform'd, unfeatur'd, and a Skin of Buff:
A stitch--fall'n Cheek, that hangs below the Jaw:
Such Wrinkles as a skilful Hand would draw,
For an old Grandame Ape, when, with a Grace,
She sits at squat, and scrubs her leathern Face.--

In Youth, Distinctions infinite abound;
No Shape, or Feature, just alike are found:
The Fair, the Black, the Feeble, and the Strong:
But the same Foulness does to Age belong:
The self--same Palsy, both in Limbs and Tongue.
The Skull and Forehead one bald barren Plain:
And Gums unarm'd, that mumble Meat in vain.
Besides th' eternal Drivel, that supplies
The dropping Beard, from Nostrils, Mouth and Eyes.
His Wife and Children loath him, and, what's worse,
Himself does his offensive Carrion curse.--

What Music, or enchanting Voice can cheer
A stupid, old, impenetrable ear?
No Matter in what Place, or what Degree
Of the full Theatre he sits to see:
Cornets, and Trumpets, cannot reach his Ear:
Under an Actor's Nose, he's never near.

His Boy must bawl to make him understand
The Hour o'th' Day, or such a Lord's at Hand:
The little Blood that creeps within his Veins,
Is but just warm'd in a hot Fever's Pains.
He wears no Limb about him that is sound,
With Sores; and Sicknesses, beleaguer'd round.
Ask me their Names, I sooner could relate
How many Lovers on lewd Hippia wait:
What Crowds of Patients the Pill--Doctor kills:
Or how, last Fall, he rais'd the weekly Bills.--

One Dotard of his feeble Back complains,
His Shoulder one, and one his Bowels pains:
Another is of both his Eyes bereft,
And envies who has One for aiming left.
A Fifth with trembling Lips expecting stands,
As in his Childhood, cramm'd by Others Hands:
One, who at Sight of Supper open'd wide
His Jaws before, and whetted Grinders try'd,
Now only gapes, and waits to be supply'd:
Like a young Swallow when with weary'd Wings,
Expected Food her fasting Mother brings.

The Loss of Members is a grievous Curse:
But all the faculties decay'd, is worse.
His Servants Names he has forgotten quite:
Knows not his Friend, who supp'd with him last Night:
Nor ev'n the Children he begot and bred.--

But we'll suppose his Senses are his own,
He lives to be chief Mourner for his Son:
Before his Face his Wife and Brother burns:
He numbers all his Kindred in their Urns.
These are the Fines he pays for living long,
And dragging tedious Age in his own Wrong:
Griefs always green, a Household still in Tears,
Sad Pomps, a Threshold throng'd with daily Biers,
And Liveries of Black for Length of Years.--

Next to the Raven's Age, the Pylian King
Was longest liv'd of any mortal Thing:
Three hundred Seasons guzling Must of Wine:
But hold a while, and hear himself repine
At Fate's unequal Laws, and at the Clew,
Which merciless in Length, the midmost Sister drew.
When his brave Son upon the fun'ral Pyre
He saw extended, and his Beard on Fire:
He turn'd, and weeping, ask'd his Friends, what Crime
Had curs'd his Age to that unhappy Time?--

Learn to live well, or fairly make your Will:
You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your Fill:
Walk sober off: before a sprightlier Age
Comes titt'ring on, and shoves You from the Stage.
Leave such to trifle with more Grace and Ease,
Whom Folly pleases, and whose Follies please.--


Omens.
See Comets. Portents.

--To me this dire Mishap,
(For now I recollect, tho' thoughtless then)
Oaks struck from Heav'n by Light'ning oft foretold:
And oft, ill--boding, from a hollow Holm
The Raven croak'd.--

Full in the Center stood a shady Grove,
Where first the Tyrians, toss'd by Waves and Winds,
Digging, an Omen found, which Juno shew'd,
A sprightly Horse's Head:--'Twas hence foretold,
The Nation should thro' Ages be renown'd
For War, and Conquest.--

When pious Gifts she on the Altars laid
Smoking with Incense, (horrid to relate!)
She saw the Liquors sacred to the Gods
Turn black: and as the holy Wine was pour'd,
It chang'd to putrid Gore.--
Besides, within her Court a marble Dome
There stood, devoted to her former Lord:
Which with uncommon Honour she rever'd,
With snowy Fleeces, and fresh Garlands crown'd.
Hence Groans are heard, and her dead Husband's Voice
Seeming to call aloud, when gloomy Night
Obscures the World; and, on her Palace--Top,
The lonely Owl with oft repeated Scream
Complains, and spins into a dismal Length
Her baleful Shrieks. Nor less the Warnings, giv'n
By ancient Augurs, fright her restless Mind
With terrible Predictions. In her Dreams
Cruel Æneas persecutes her Soul
To Madness. Still abandon'd to herself,
Cheerless, without a Guide, she seems to go
A long, a tedious Journey, and to seek
Her Tyrian Subjects on deserted Coasts.--

Just in the Center of the most retir'd
And secret Court an holy Lawrel stood,
For many Years religiously preserv'd:
Here Bees, thick flying thro' the liquid Air,
With humming Noise (surprizing to relate!)
Beset its Top, and with their mutual Feet
Connected, on the leafy Branches hung
A sudden Swarm. Immediately the Sage
Prophetic cries, a foreign Prince we see,
From the same Quarter, on the Coasts arrive,
And Sovereign in the lofty Palace reign.

Besides, as chast Lavinia, royal Maid,
Stood by her Father, and with holy Brands
Kindled the Altars: with her flowing Hair,
(Wondrous!) she seem'd to catch the Flame, and all
Her Head--Attire to crackle in the Blaze:
Her regal Tresses, and her Crown enrich'd
With Gems, involv'd in ruddy Vapour glar'd,
And all the Palace round diffus'd the Fire.
That Omen of a strange and dire Portent
Was rumour'd; For 'twas said, that she herself,
By Fate, in Glory should illustrious rise,
But to the People menac'd dreadful War.--

--Now swift descending thro' the Sky,
The Bird of Jove wing'd his auspicious Flight:
Strange Voices in the left Hand Woods were heard,
And issuing Flames flash'd thro' the Sylvan Gloom:
Phoebus himself assum'd his brightest Beams,
And with unusual Splendors deck'd the Sky.--


Opportunity.

See Delay. Time to be used.
The Clay is moist and soft, now, now make haste
And form the Pitcher, for the Wheel turns fast.--


On the Statute of Opportunity and Repentance.

Quest. Image, who made thee?

Answ. Phidias: the same
Whose Artist Hand did Jove and Pallas frame:
I'm his third Labour, in the Form you see:
And, tho' but seldom met, and known to few I be,
Yet I'm a Goddess, and my Name is Opportunity.

Quest. What! Wings upon thy Feet?

Answ. Yes: they imply
My Swiftness, and how ready I'm to fly:
Whene'er I will I baffle Mercury.

Quest. Hair covers all thy Face!--

Answ. Thereby is shown
How much I am unwilling to be known.

Quest. But Thou art bald behind!--

Answ. 'Tis true, I be:
That none, behind may seize me, as I flee.

Quest. Who hast Thou got for thy Companion there?

Answ. Herself can speak:

Quest. Friend, what Thou art declare.

Repen. My Name's Repentance: I'm a Goddess too:
And punish Humankind,--
For what They 'ave done, or what forborn to do.

Quest. But, prithee, tell me, Opportunity,
What this Tormentor has to do with Thee.

Answ. When I am flown, She always lags behind:
And Her, instead of me, my vain Pursuer's find.
You too, who with your Questions thus delay,
Will find that thro' your Hands I'm slipt away.--

Oppression. But above all, be careful to with--hold
Your Talons from the Wretched and the Bold:
Tempt not the Brave and Needy to despair:
For tho' your Violence shou'd leave 'em bare
Of Gold and Silver, Swords and Darts remain,
And will revenge the Wrongs which they sustain.
The plunder'd still have Arms.—