Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. I. (Dress - Earth) Poem by Henry Baker

Dress, and Good Breeding.

Be not too finical, but yet be clean,
And wear well fashion'd Cloths, like other Men.
Nor sputt'ring speak, nor let your Teeth be foul,
Nor in wide Shoes your Feet too loosely roul.
Of a black Muzzle, and black Beard beware,
And let a skilfull Barber cut your Hair.
Your Nails be pick'd from Filth, and even par'd;
Nor let your nasty Nostrils bud with Beard:
Cure your unsavoury Breath; gargle your Throat;
And free your Arm--Pits from the Ram and Goat.--

Beauty's the Gift of Gods, the Sex's Pride!
Yet to how many is that Gift deny'd!
Art helps a Face: a Face tho' heav'nly fair,
May quickly fade for want of needful Care.--

Let not the Nymph with Pendants load her Ear,
Nor in Embroidery, or Brocade, appear:
Too rich a Dress may sometimes check Desire,
And Cleanliness more animates Love's Fire.
The Hair dispos'd, may gain or lose a Grace,
And much become, or misbecome the Face.
What suits your Features of your Glass enquire,
For no one Rule is fix'd for Head Attire.--

A Face too long should part and flat the Hair,
Least, upward comb'd, the Length too much appear:
So Laodamia dress'd. A Face too round
Sould shew the Ears, and with a Tow'r be crown'd.
On either Shoulder, one, her Locks displays,
Adorn'd like Phoebus when he sings his Lays:
Another, all her Tresses ties behind;
So dress'd, Diana hunts the fearful Hind.
Dishevell'd Locks most graceful are to some:
Others the binding Fillets more become:
Some plat, like spiral Shells, their braded Hair:
Others the loose and waving Curl prefer.--

Many there are who seem to slight all Care,
And with a pleasing Negligence ensnare:
Whole Mornings oft, in such a Dress are spent,
And all is Art, that looks like Accident.--

As Fields you find with various Flow'rs o'erspread,
When Vineyards bud, and Winters Frost is fled:
So various are the Colours you may try,
Of which the thirsty Wool imbibes the Dye.
Try ev'ry one, what best becomes you, wear:
For no Complexion all alike, can bear.
If fair the Skin, black may become it best;
In black the lovely fair Briseïs dress'd:
If brown the Nymph, let her be cloth'd in white;
Andromeda so charm'd the wond'ring Sight.--

Faults in your Person, or your Face, correct:
And few are seen that have not some Defect.
The Nymph too short, her Seat should seldom quit,
Lest, when she stands, she may be thought to sit:
And, when extended on her Couch she lies,
Let Length of Petticoats conceal her Size.
The Lean, of thick wrought Stuff her Cloths should chuse,
And fuller made than what the plumper use.
If pale, let her the crimson Juice apply:
If swarthy, to the pearly Fucus fly.
A Leg too lank, tight Garters still must wear,
Nor should an ill--shap'd Foot be ever bare.
Round Shoulders, bolster'd will appear the least:
And lacing straight, confines too full a Breast.
Whose Fingers are too fat, and Nails too coarse,
Should always shun much Gesture in Discourse.
And You, whose Breath is touch'd, this Caution take,
Nor fasting, nor too near another, speak.
Let not the Nymph with Laughter much abound,
Whose Teeth are black, uneven, or unsound.
You'd hardly think how much on this depends,
And how a Laugh, or spoils a Face, or mends.
Gape not too wide, lest you disclose your Gums,
And lose the Dimple which the Cheek becomes:
Nor let your Sides too strong Concussions shake,
Lest you the Softness of the Sex forsake.--

Neglect no Means which may promote your Ends:
Now learn what way of Walking recommends.
One has an artful Swing and Jut behind,
Which helps her Coats to catch the swelling Wind:
Swell'd with the wanton Wind they loosely flow,
And ev'ry Step and graceful Motion show.
Another, like an Umbrian's sturdy Spouse,
Strides all the Space her Petticoat allows.
Between Extreams, in this, a Mean adjust:
Nor shew too nice a Gate, nor too robust.--

By Art we're won: Gold, Gems, and rich Attire,
Make up the Pageant you so much admire:
In all that glitt'ring Figure which you see,
The least, least Part of her own self is she.
In vain, for her you love, amidst such Cost,
You search: the Mistress in the Dress is lost.--

Proud Cleopatra with Ambition fir'd,
Had stain'd her Cheeks, and arm'd with artful Care
Her fatal Eyes, new Conquests to prepare:
Bright Jewels grac'd her Neck, and sparkled in her Hair.
O'ercharg'd with Spoils which the Red--Sea supply'd,
Scarce can she move beneath the pond'rous Pride.
Of wondrous Work, a thin Sydonian Lawn
O'er each soft Breast in Decency was drawn:
But thro' the Veil, contriv'd its Charms to shew,
Her lovely Bosom panting rose to View.--


Druids.

Ye Druids, too, now Arms are heard no more,
Old Mysteries and barb'rous Rites restore.
To You, and You of all Mankind alone,
The Gods are sure reveal'd, or sure unknown:
Whilst in the gloomy Coverts of the Grove,
You dwell retir'd, and Religion love.

If dying Mortals' Dooms you sing aright,
No Ghosts descend to dwell in dreadful Night:
No parting Souls to grizly Pluto go,
Nor seek the dreary silent Shades below:
But forth they fly, immortal in their Kind,
And other Bodies, in new Worlds they find.
Thus Life for ever runs its endless Race,
And, like a Line, Death but divides the Space,
A Stop which can but for a Moment last,
A Point between the Future and the Past.

Thrice happy They, beneath their northern Skies,
And blest in their Mistake,--
Who that worst Fear, the Fear of Death, despise:
Hence they no Cares for this frail Being feel,
But rush, undaunted, on the pointed Steel:
Provoke approaching Fate, and bravely scorn
To spare that Life, which must so soon return.--


Dying.
See Suicide. Wound.

-- She strives with Pain
To lift her heavy Lids, and fainting sinks:
The Wound infix'd sounds deep beneath her Breast.
Thrice, leaning on her Arm, she feebly rais'd
Her Body: thrice roll'd back upon the Bed:
With swimming Eyes seeks the last Light of Heav'n,
And groans to find it. Then the Wife of Jove,
Pitying her tedious Pangs, and struggling Death,
Sends Iris from above, to disengage
Her agonizing Soul. For since she fell
Neither by Fate, nor by a Death deserv'd,
But dy'd unfortunate before her Time,
Transported by a sudden Passion's Rage;
As yet Proserpina her yellow Hair
Had not shorn off, nor to the Stygian Shades
Consign'd her. Iris then, with saffron Wings,
Dewy, and drawing from the opposing Sun
A thousand various Colours in the Sky,
Alighted swift: and hov'ring o'er her Head,
This Lock to Pluto sacred, by Command,
I bear: and from this Body set thee free.
She said, and with her Right Hand cut the Lock:
At once the vital Heat is all extinct,
And Life dissolving fleets into the Winds.--

-- She dying tugs
The sticking Jav'lin: but between the Bones,
In the deep Wound, fix'd stands the pointed Steel:
All pale she sinks: her cold Eyes sink in Death:
And from her Cheeks the rosy Colour flies.
Then thus, expiring, Acca she bespeaks,
Her best lov'd Friend, and Partner of her Cares:
--My Sister Acca, now
My Life--Blood issues thro' the aking Wound,
And all Things swim in Mists before my Eyes:
Haste, and to Turnus these last Mandates bear:
Let him succeed to Battle, and repel
The Trojans from the Town. And now,--Adieu.
So saying, from her slacken'd Hand she drops
The Reins: and not spontaneous flows to Earth:
Cold, by Degrees, she sobs her Life away:
Reclines her hanging Neck, and heavy Head;
--And to the Shades below
With Indignation flies her groaning Soul.--

When to the Youth his mournful Sire appears,
His dying, weak, unweildy Head he rears:
With lifted Eyes, he cast a mournful Look,
His pale Lips mov'd, and fain he would have spoke:
But unexpress'd, th' imperfect Accent hung,
Lost in his falling Jaws, and fault'ring Tongue:
Yet in his speechless Visage seems exprest,
What, had he Words, would be his last Request:
That aged Hand to seal his closing Eye,
And in his Father's fond Embrace to dye.--

The Wound is mortal; Art affords no Aid.
So Violets, Poppies, and soft Lillies so,
Bruise but the tender Stem on which they grow,
Instant sink down their unsupported Heads,
And bend, decaying, to their earthy Beds:
So hung his dying Looks; so, oversway'd,
His languid Neck was on his Shoulder laid.--

--A deadly Rest,
And iron Slumbers seal his heavy Eyes,
And closes them in everlasting Night.--


Eagle.

As when the tawny Eagle tow'ring high,
Sticks with her griping Talons in a Snake,
And snatches him aloft: He wounded writhes
His tortuous Volumes, and with stiffen'd Scales
Stares horrid: hisses loud, and in the Air
Erects his threat'ning Head: She not the less
Plies him, reluctant, with her hooky Beak;
And with her sounding Pinions beats the Sky.--

Not with more Ease the sacred Bird of Mars,
The Faulcon, from a lofty Cliff pursues
A Dove sublime in Air, and gripes her seiz'd,
And scoops her Entrails with his hooky Claws:
Torn Plumes and Blood fall mingled from the Sky.--

In the vermilion Sky Jove's tow'ring Bird
A Flock of River Fowl with sounding Wings
Before him drove: Then, stooping to the Waves,
With his sharp Pounces snatch'd and bore aloft
A stately Swan.--

When Jove's bold Bird, on some tall Cedar's Head,
Has a new Race of gen'rous Eaglets bred,
While, yet unplum'd, within the Nest they lye,
Wary she turns 'em to the Eastern Sky:
Then, if unequal to the God of Day,
Abash'd they shrink, and shun the potent Ray,
She spurns them forth, and casts them quite away:
But if with daring Eyes unmov'd they gaze,
Withstand the Light, and bear the golden Blaze,
Tender she broods them, with a Parent's Love,
The future Servants of her Master Jove.--


Earth.
See Golden Age. Creation.

Herbage at first, the Earth when young produc'd,
Of ev'ry Kind; and round the Hills display'd
A beauteous Verdure: then the grassy Fields
All o'er with various Flow'rs enamel'd shone.
Trees, next, their Branches shoot into the Air,
Uprising gradual, while the Roots in Earth
Extend and fix:--As Feathers first, and Hair,
On Birds and Beasts, so on the new form'd Earth,
At first, grew Herbs and Trees: by various Ways,
Brutes, and Mankind, were afterwards produc'd.--

Corn, of its own Accord, and cordial Wine,
The Earth brought forth; and such delicious Fruits,
And Food, abundant, both for Man and Beast,
As now, with all our Toil, it scarce supplies.--

The Earth, when new, produc'd no raging Cold,
Nor Heats, nor Storms: these grew as she grew old:
Therefore our Parent Earth deserves to bear
The Name of Mother, since all rose from her.
The Human Race, a certain Time, she bore,
And Beasts that shake the Woods with dreadful Roar,
And Birds of various Forms that wing the Air.--

--The Earth
Lowest of all, and in the Center lies:
Fixt by its Place: for from it, rising higher,
Upwards the other Elements retire.
It hangs the lowest, and the midst of all,
Whence, all its Parts by falling, stop its Fall:
All to one common Center pressing down,
They meet, and hinder each from moving on.—