Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. I. (Avarice - Banquet) Poem by Henry Baker

Avarice.
See Miser. Money.

Hence almost ev'ry Crime, nor do we find,
That any Passion of the human Mind,
So oft has plung'd the Sword, or drench'd the Bowl,
As Avarice--that Tyrant of the Soul.
For he that will be rich, brooks no Delay,
But drives o'er all, and takes the shortest Way:
What Law, or Fear, or Shame can e'er restrain
The greedy Wretch in full Pursuit of Gain?--

Do but get Money, that's a needful Task,
Which Way you got it none will ever ask.--

Curs'd Gold! how high will daring Mortals rise,
In ev'ry Guilt, to reach the glitt'ring Prize?--

He that buys Harps, and throws his Wealth away
On Pipes, yet never does intend to play:
He that buys Awls and Lasts, yet doth not know,
And ne'er designs to try, to make a Shoe:
Or Ships and Oars, yet is averse to Trade,
All, and there's Reason for't, would count him mad.
And what's He better, who still strives for more,
Still heaps up Wealth, yet dares not use the Store,
But fears to touch it as 'twere sacred Ore?--

Whom dost thou save it for? thy drunken Heir?
Or lest thy self should want it dost thou spare?
Old Wretch, how little would thy Wealth be less,
Should'st thou eat better Food, or wear a cleaner Dress?--

The greedy avaritious Wretch is found
Always in Want:--but Thou thy Wishes bound.--

The Love of Gold by Gain is still increas'd:
And He, who has it not, desires, it least.--

Gold, 'tis for thee a Life of Care we know,
For thee, untimely, to the Grave we go.
Vice is encourag'd and supply'd by thee,
And thou'rt the Source of human Misery.--

Care still attends increasing Store,
And endless Appetite for more.--

What's Wealth to me, if you its Use deny,
Tho' large my Heaps, a wretched Beggar I.
Riches are Torments, if the shining Ore
We dare not touch, but only guard the Store.
So Tantalus of Thirst and Hunger dies,
With Food and Water just before his Eyes.

--The craving Mind is always poor.

The Man is mad, and should a Keeper have,
Who freights a Ship, and ventures on the Seas,
With one frail interposing Plank to save
From certain Death, roll'd on by ev'ry Wave:
Yet Money makes him all this Toil embrace;
Money with Titles stampt, and a dull Monarch's Face.
When gath'ring Clouds o'ershadow all the Skies,
And shoot quick Lightnings,--Weigh, my Boys, he cries,
A Summer's Thunder, soon it will be past:--
Yet, hardy Fool! this Night may prove thy last:
When Thou (thy Ship o'erwhelm'd with Waves) shalt be
Forc'd to plunge naked in the raging Sea.
Thy Teeth fast clos'd, a Purse full of dear Gold,
The last Remains of all thy Stores shall hold.--

Thy greedy Wishes bound, enjoy thy Store,
And help thy Friends, necessitous, and poor.--

If what you drink should make your Thirst increase,
Surely you'd tell some Doctor your Disease,
And seek for Cure.--Now your abundant Store
But only makes you covet Wealth the more:
And dare you rest content, and not apply
To Somebody, to find a Remedy?
Suppose you had a Wound, and one had show'd
A Root, or Herb, which try'd had done no Good:
Would you not cease to follow his Advice?--
Now, you have heard, that he must needs be wise
To whom the Gods give Riches: yet you find
The Wealth you have, has not improv'd your Mind:
And will you still believe it, when you know
By sad Experience that it is not so?
Cou'd Gold with godlike Prudence Minds inspire,
Or lessen anxious Fear and fond Desire,
Then you should blush, if all the World could shew
A Man more covetous of Wealth than you.--

However large the golden Store,
There's always Something wanting more.--

Thus Tantalus by his own Wish accurst,
Midst Fruits for Hunger faints, midst Streams for Thirst:
The Miser's Emblem! who of all possess'd,
Yet fears to taste, in Blessings most unbless'd.--

Wealth must obey, or it will rule the Mind.--


Authors.
See Style.

'Twas heretofore a Credit here at Rome,
To mind one's Business, and abide at Home:
To help one's Client, and promote his Cause,
Inform his Ignorance, and teach the Laws:
To make good Debts, and drive a gainful Trade,
And know what Int'rest may be justly paid:
Instruct the Young, and hear the Old debate,
What will encrease, what ruin an Estate.
This Humour's chang'd, now reigns a new Delight,
All must be Authors now, and All must write.--

Would'st Thou compose some lasting Piece?--be wise,
Amend, correct again, again revise:
Seek not th'unthinking Many to delight,
But for a few of the best Judges write.--


Autumn.

Then from the burden'd Elms the generous Vine
Descends, and Presses overflow with Wine:
Then Corn is sown, whilst Autumn's Heats remain
To loose the Clods, and fertilize the Grain.--

'Twas now the Time, when equal Jove on high
Had hung the golden Balance of the Sky:
But ah! not long such just Proportions last,
The righteous Season soon was chang'd and past:
And Spring's Encroachment on the short'ning Shade,
Was fully to the wintry Nights repaid.--


Bacchanals.

Thro' the mid Cities, and the madding Crowds,
Furious she urges on; and cries aloud,
Evoë! Bacchus! who alone deserv'st
The Virgin Bride: For Thee, (as Fame reports,)
The Female Train the soft Vine--Jav'lins wield;
Thee they surround: their consecrated Locks
For Thee they nourish.--All the Matrons fir'd,
With the same Furies in their Breasts, to seek
New Dwellings, leave their Houses: To the Winds
They give their Necks, and Hair: Some fill the Sky
With trembling Yells: and, clad in Skins of Beasts,
Brandish their Spears with viny Wreaths entwin'd.--

--Distracted, wild,
She rages: and, incens'd, o'er all the Town
Roves, like a Bacchanal: when at the Name
Of Bacchus, his triennial Orgies swell
Her Breast with Madness: and Cytheron's Top
Invites her ecchoing with nocturnal Sounds.--

Now the triennial Celebration came,
Observ'd to Bacchus by each Thracian Dame:
When, in the Privacies of Night retir'd,
They act his Rites, with sacred Rapture fir'd.
By Night, the tinkling Cymbals ring around,
While the shrill Notes from Rhodopè resound.
By Night the Queen disguis'd forsakes the Court,
To mingle in the festival Resort:
Leaves of the curling Vine her Temples shade,
And, with a circling Wreath, adorn her Head:
A--down her Back the Stags rough Spoils appear;
Light on her Shoulder leans a Cornel--Spear.
Thus, in the Fury of the God conceal'd,
Mad, with her Gang, to the thick Wood she flies,
And with loud Yells and Howlings fills the Skies,
Which to thine Honour, Bacchus, seem to rise.--


Bacchus.
See Wine.

With rosy Cheeks plump Bacchus march'd along:
His curling Hair with wreathing Ivy ty'd,
And on his Back the Parthian Tyger's Pride:
The gilded Claws in equal Order meet,
And his crown'd Spear assists his erring Feet.--

Bacchus returning from his Indian War,
By Tygers drawn triumphant in his Car,
From Nisa's Top descended on the Plains,
With curling Vines around his purple Reins.--

The God himself with clust'ring Grapes was crown'd,
And shook his Spear, which curling Vines surround:
Tygers and Lynxes round him seem'd to lye,
And painted Panthers dreadful to the Eye.--

Thee, Bacchus! now I sing:--
Hither, Lenaeus, Father, (with thy Gifts
All here abounds: For Thee the Field full charg'd
With viny Autumn flourishes: For Thee
In red o'er--flowing Vats the Vintage foams
Hither, Lenaeus, Father, come: and tinge
Thy Legs, unbuskin'd, in new Must, with me.--

--An horn'd He--Goat
Sacred to Bacchus, on each Altar bleeds:
And ancient Interludes adorn the Scene.
And all the Roads and Villages around,
Th' Athenians Prizes for those Plays propos'd:
And jovial o'er their Bowls in grassy Meads,
Danc'd upon Goat--skin Bottles sleek with Oil.
Nor less th' Ausonian Colony of Troy
Sport in rude Laughter, and unpolish'd Verse:
Of hollow Bark uncouth rough Vizors wear:
Thee, Bacchus, Thee with joyous Songs invoke,
And hang thy little Images aloft
On a tall Pine. Hence ev'ry Vineyard sprouts,
And swells with future Wine: The hollow Vales,
And shady Groves, to which soe'er the God
Turns his gay Face, with copious Fruit abound.
Therefore to Bacchus, in our Country's Verse,
We'll sing due Praise, and Cakes, and Chargers bring:
And at his Altar kill the Victim Goat
Dragg'd by the Horns: and roast his well--fed Flesh,
On Hazle--Spits, before the sacred Fire.--

Bacchus, to country Swains opprest with Care,
Kindly gives Courage, and dispels their Fear:
Bacchus gives Respite to the Wretch's Pains,
Altho' with Fetters gall'd and ratling Chains.--


Banquet.
See Hospitality.

Rich as some Fane by lavish Zealots rear'd,
For the proud Banquet, stood the Hall prepar'd:
Thick golden Plates the latent Beams infold,
And the high Roof was fretted o'er with Gold:
Of solid Marble all the Walls were made,
And Onyx ev'n the meaner Floor inlay'd:
While Porphyry, and Agate, round the Court,
In massy Columns rose, a proud Support.
Of solid Ebony each Post was wrought,
From swarthy Meroë profusely brought:
With Iv'ry was the Entrance crusted o'er,
And polish'd Tortoise hid each shining Door;
While on the cloudy Spots enchas'd was seen
The lively Em'ralds never--fading Green.

Within, the royal Beds and Couches shone,
Beamy and bright with many a costly Stone:
In glowing Purple rich the Cov'rings lye:
Twice had they drank the noblest Tyrian Dye:
Others, as Pharian Artists have the Skill,
To mix the parti--colour'd Web at Will,
With winding Trails of various Silk were made,
Where branching Gold set off the rich Brocade.--

Around, of ev'ry Colour, Age, and Form,
Huge Crowds, whole Nations of Attendants swarm:
Some wait with yellow Rings of golden Hair,
The vanquish'd Rhine shew'd Caesar none so fair:
Others were seen with swarthy frizled Heads,
And Others Black, as Night's unchanging Shades.
There too a hapless Train, by Steel unman'd,
And soften'd from their Sex, a beardless Band!
Stout comely Youths were plac'd in adverse Rows,
Whose blooming Cheeks scarce the first Down disclose.

The Princes round the Board recline in State,
With mighty Caesar, more than Princes great.

What Earth, and Air, and Sea, and Nile afford,
In golden Vessels heap the plenteous Board:
What e'er ambitious Luxury could find
Thro' the search'd Globe, and more than Want enjoyn'd;
Variety of Birds, and Beasts of ev'ry Kind.
Not ev'n the Gods are spar'd whom they adore.
The Nile's sweet Wave capacious Christals pour,
And Gems of Price, the Grape's delicious Store:
No Growth of Mareotis' marshy Fields,
But such as Meroë maturer yields:
Where the warm Sun the racy Juice refines,
And mellows into Age the infant Wines.
With Wreaths of Nard the Guests their Temples bind,
And blooming Roses of immortal Kind:
Their dropping Locks with oily Odours flow,
Recent, from near Arabia, where they grow:
The vig'rous Spices breathe their strong Perfume,
And the rich Vapour fills the spacious Room.--

The King once more the solemn Rites requires,
And bids renew the Feasts, and wake the Fires.
His Train obey, while all the Courts around
With noisy Care, and various Tumult sound.
Embroider'd Purple clothes the golden Beds:
This Slave the Floor, and that the Table spreads:
A Third dispels the Darkness of the Night,
And fills depending Lamps with Beams of Light.
These pile the Loaves in Canisters on high,
And those in Flames the slaughter'd Victims fry.
Sublime, in regal State, Adrastus shone,
Stretch'd on rich Carpets, on his Iv'ry Throne:
A lofty Couch receives each princely Guest:
Around, at aweful Distance, wait the rest.—