Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. I. (Agriculture - Alps) Poem by Henry Baker

Agriculture.

--The Sire of Gods himself
Will'd not that Tillage should be free from Toil.
He first sollicited the restive Mold
By Art: and whetted mortal Wit with Cares,
Permitting not his Reign to rust with Sloth.--

With piercing Steel to turn the stubborn Land
Propitious Ceres Mortals first ordain'd;
When scanty Food the sacred Groves supply'd,
And all Relief Dodonean Oaks deny'd:
But soon new Toil the foodful Glebe requir'd,
Eat with an evil Rust the Grain expir'd:
Fierce in the Field the lazy Thistle stood,
And Burrs, and Brambles rose, a cruel Wood!
Darnel unblest the shining Plain o'erspreads,
And high exalt the fruitless Oats their Heads.
So that unless with unextinguish'd Toil
Of lab'ring Harrows, you pursue the Soil,
Fright off the Birds, and thin the shady Plain,
And with repeated Vows call down the Rain:
Ah! bootless on another's Heap you'll look,
And comfort Hunger with the shaken Oak.--

In early Spring, when from the whitening Hills
The gentle Moisture silently distills:
When crumbling to the Zephyrs falls the Soil:
Then, let my Bullock groan beneath his Toil:
Deep let the Plough within the Surface wear,
And polish'd with the Furrow shine the Share:
Those Plains, at last, the Peasant's Hopes compleat,
Which twice the Cold have felt, and twice the Heat:
Burst were the Barns with their luxuriant Freight.--

--Let the vig'rous Steer
Turn the rich Furrow in the new--born Year:
And Summer's Heat with rip'ning Suns pursue
The sluggish Glebe, and all the Clod subdue.
But if not fat the Soil, it will suffice,
When bright Arcturus mounts the purple Skies,
To skin the Surface with a gentle Share,
And lift the Furrow lightly to the Air:
There, lest the Weeds the smiling Blade withstand;
Lest Moisture, here, desert the barren Sand.--

It profits oft to fire the fruitless Ground,
And thirsty Stubble crackling all around:
Whether from thence by Nature's secret Laws,
Fresh Nourishment the Earth and Vigour draws:
Or that the latent Vice is purg'd by Heat,
And the redundant Humours waste in Sweat:
Or that the Flames unusual Tracks explore,
Relax the Grit, and open every Pore:
Whence genial Moisture hastens through the Earth,
Slides to the Root, and cheers the tender Birth:
Or that the Heat the hollow Glebe constrains,
Braces each Nerve, and knits the gaping Veins:
Lest piercing Wet, or the swift Pow'r of Day
More fierce, or freezing Boreas urge his Way.--

Much too he helps the Field, who every Clod
With Harrows breaks, and drags the Hurdle's Load:
Nor e'er on him, with an ungracious Eye,
Looks yellow Ceres from the lofty Sky,
Who, the rough Backs he slices from the Plain
Assails oblique, and thorow cuts again,
And plies the Soil, and makes the Furrow yield
Tame to the Coulter, and commands the Field.--

The Solstice moist, serene the Winter Sky,
For this, ye Swains, intreat the Pow'rs on high.
When Winter Dust by driving Winds is born,
Glad is the Glebe, most wondrous glad the Corn.--

When Libra weighs the Hours of Toil and Night,
And parts alike the Globe to Shades and Light:
Then in the Field, ye vig'rous Swains appear,
Put forth your Strength, and exercise the Steer:
Sow hardy Grains: the miry Task perform
To Winter's last impracticable Storm.
Then is the proper Time to cover o'er
Or Ceres' Poppy, or the flaxen Store:
Nor should the Harrow's Labour ever end,
Whilst dry the Glebe, whilst Clouds as yet impend.--


Alarm.
See Amazement.

Lo! rushing thro' the Court with frantick Haste
A Messenger with Terror fills the Town:
Relates, that in Array of Battel rang'd
The Trojan and the Tyrrhene Troops descend
From Tyber's Stream, and cover all the Plain.
Forthwith their Minds with stimulating Rage
Are stung, confus'd: to Arms! to Arms! they cry:
The madding Multitude, and warrior Youth
Together rove: the pensive Fathers weep,
And murmur unresolv'd: to Heav'n ascends,
Loud, and confus'd, the clam'rous Discontent.--

Strait to the Works from all the City round
They croud.--
Other dig Trenches deep before the Gates,
And roll vast Stones, and Palisadoes fix:
The Trumpet with shrill Clangor to the Fight
The bloody signal Sounds: the Dames, and Boys,
In a promiscuous Throng the Ramparts crown.--

Mean--while, with Cries confus'd the Walls resound:
The Noise grows loud, and th' undistinguish'd Din
Of clashing Arms rolls nearer. Rous'd from Sleep,
I gain the Summit of the high built House:
And stand with list'ning Ears. As when a Flame
Invades a Field of Corn by driving Winds:
Or, rushing from the Hills, a rapid Flood
Lays flat the Product of the Plains, lays flat
The rising Crop, and Labours of the Plough,
And with a sweeping Torrent whirls the Woods:
On a high Rock the doubtful Peasant stands
Amaz'd, and in his Ear receives the Sound.--

With hasty March by Night his Troops he led.
To the mid Forum on the Soldier pass'd,
There halted, and his Victor Ensigns plac'd:
With dire Alarm from Band to Band around,
The Fife, hoarse Horn, and rattling Trumpets sound.
The starting Citizens uprear their Heads:
The lustier Youth leap frighted from their Beds:
Hasty they snatch the Weapons, which among
Their Houshold Gods in Peace had rested long:
Old Bucklers of the cov'ring Hides bereft,
The mould'ring Frames disjoyn'd, and barely left:
Swords, with foul Rust indented deep, they take:
And useless Spears, with Points inverted, shake.--


Alps.

Upon the tow'ring Alps sublimest Height,
Where the cragg'd Rocks look down upon the Clouds,
A Grecian Altar to Alcides smokes.
There everlasting Winter bars Access,
And the ambitious Summit props the Skies:
No Summer here e'er darts his genial Beams,
Nor vernal Zephyrs chear the joyless Air:
But Snows on Snows accumulated rise,
The icy Pillar of the starry Orb.—