Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. I. (God - Grotto) Poem by Henry Baker

God.
See Chance. Providence.

Know first, that Heav'n, and Earth's compacted Frame,
And flowing Waters, and the starry Flame,
And both the radiant Lights one common Soul
Inspires: and feeds and animates the Whole:
This active Mind infus'd thro' all the Space,
Unites and mingles with the mighty Mass.
Hence Men and Beasts the Breath of Life obtain,
And Birds of Air, and Monsters of the Main.--

For GOD the whole created Mass inspires:
Through Heav'n, and Earth, and Ocean's Depth he throws
His Influence round, and kindles as he goes.
Hence Flocks, and Herds, and Men, and Beasts, and Fowls
With Breath are quicken'd, and attract their Souls:
Hence take the Forms his Prescience did ordain,
And into him, at length, resolve again.
No Room is left for Death: they mount the Sky,
And to their own congenial Planets fly.--

This Frame immense, in which four Parts conspire,
Of diff'rent Form, Air, Water, Earth, and Fire,
GOD, Power divine, the World's Almighty Soul,
By secret Methods rules, and guides the Whole:
By unseen Passes he himself conveys
Thro' all the Mass, and ev'ry Part obeys.--

The Face, the Image of the Deity,
Can on no Metal represented be:
Within the human Soul he likes to dwell,
And our own Bosom what he is can tell.--

It is enough that GOD is barely shown,
Rich in himself he shines, and great alone.--

That Power supreme, whom Gods and Men obey,
Who Time commands, and rules the Earth and Sea;
Who claims o'er All the first and highest Place,
Whom none is like, to whom none second is.--

For every Deity must live at Ease,
In undisturb'd and everlasting Peace,
From Grief exempt, from Fear and Danger free;
Sufficient to its own Felicity.
Nought here below, Nought in our Pow'r it needs:
Nor smiles at good, nor frowns at wicked Deeds.--

'Tis necessary that there should be Gods,
Nor let us doubt there are:--
Before their ancient Altars let's adore,
And Incense burn, and Wine devoutly pour.
Nor madly think that on celestial Thrones,
And half asleep, they loll, like lazy Drones.
The Gods are ev'ry where, above, below,
Both Heav'n and Earth they fill, and ev'ry Thing they know.
Then innocently live: the Pledge restore:
Nor dare to violate the Oath you swore:
All Fraud detest of whate'er kind it be;
And from all Murder let your Hands be free.--

Has GOD a Place? In Earth, in Seas, in Air,
In Heav'n, in Virtue, he will sure appear:
Why seek we farther then?--
Where--e'er we turn, where--e'er we look, or move,
All, all, is Him, and ev'ry where is Jove.--

There is a GOD most certainly, who hears
Whate'er we say, and sees whate'er we do.--

There is a GOD, whom Time can never change.--

--The great Creator of the Universe
All Things beholds from his exalted Throne:
Nor the Earth's Bulk, nor Night's black Shades impede
His penetrating Sight; which at one Glance
Discerns what is, what was, and what shall be.--

--Alas! their Ignorance of GOD
Is the chief Cause of wretched Mortals' Crimes.--


Gods (Council of.)
See Milky Way.

On lofty Thrones twice six Celestials sate,
Jove in the midst, and held their grave Debate:
Each God by proper Features was exprest,
But Jove's majestic Mein excell'd the rest,--

And now th' Almighty Father of the Gods,
Convenes a Council in the blest Abodes.
Far in the bright Recesses of the Skies,
High o'er the rowling Heav'ns, a Mansion lies:
Whence, far below, the Gods at once survey
The Realms of rising, and declining Day,
And all th' extended Space of Earth, and Air, and Sea.
Full in the midst, and on a starry Throne,
The Majesty of Heav'n superior shone:
Serene he look'd, and gave an aweful Nod,
And all the trembling Spheres confess'd the God,
At Jove's Assent, the Deities around
In solemn State the Consistory crown'd:
Next a long Order of inferior Pow'rs
Ascend from Hills, and Plains, and shady Bow'rs:
Those from whose Urns the rolling Rivers flow,
And those that give the wandring Winds to blow.
Here all their Rage, and e'en their Murmurs cease,
And sacred Silence reigns, and universal Peace.
A shining Synod of majestic Gods
Gilds with new Luster the divine Abodes,
Heav'n seems improv'd with a superior Ray
And the bright Arch reflects a double Day.
Th' Almighty then his solemn Silence broke,
The still Creation listen'd while he spoke,
Each sacred Accent bears eternal Weight,
And each irrevocable Word is Fate.--


Good and Evil Mix'd.

Behold the Earth, the gliding Streams, or Flood,
Faults are on all Sides, Bad is mixt with Good.
Thus barren Seasons midst the best appear,
And a small Turn blasts all the blooming Year.
A Port turns Shelf, and the inglorious Sand
Forfeits that Praise which once its Safety gain'd.
Now Streams thro' Plains in smooth Meanders play,
Now force thro' Rocks, and roaring roll away.--

How short, how trifling are the Joys of Life,
If with the Evils that it brings compar'd!
This is the Fate of Man, by Heav'n decreed;
That all his Pleasure shall be mix'd with Pain,
And lasting Woe succeed each short Delight!--


Greatness.
See Ambition. King.

Would'st Thou to Honours and Preferments climb?
Be bold in Mischief, dare some mighty Crime,
Which Dungeons, Death, or Banishment deserves:
For Virtue is but dryly prais'd, and starves.
Great Men, to great Crimes, owe their Plate emboss'd,
Their Palaces, their Furniture of Cost,
And high Commands;--a sneaking Sin is lost.--

What had he done, had he beheld, on high
Our Praetor seated, in mock Majesty:
His Chariot rolling o'er the dusty Place,
While with dumb Pride, and a set formal Face,
He moves in the dull ceremonial Track,
With Jove's embroider'd Coat upon his Back?
A Suit of Hangings had not more oppress'd
His Shoulders, than that long laborious Vest.
A heavy Gewgaw, (call'd a Crown,) that spread
About his Temples, drown'd his narrow Head,
And would have crush'd it with the massy Freight,
But that a sweating Slave sustain'd the Weight:
A Slave in the same Chariot seen to ride,
To mortify the mighty Madman's Pride.
Add now th' Imperial Eagle rais'd on high,
With golden Beak, the Mark of Majesty:
Trumpets before, and on the Left and Right,
A Cavalcade of Nobles, all in white:
In their own Nature false and flatt'ring Tribes,
But made his Friends, by Places and by Bribes.--

If golden Sconces hang not on the Walls,
To light the costly Suppers, and the Balls:
If the proud Palace shines not with the State
Of burnish'd Bowls, and of reflected Plate:
If well--tun'd Harps, nor the more pleasing Sound
Of Voices, from the vaulted Roofs rebound:
Yet, on the Grass, beneath a Poplar Shade,
By the cool Stream, our careless Limbs are laid:
With cheaper Pleasures innocently bless'd,
When the warm Spring with gawdy Flow'rs is dress'd.

Nor will the raging Fever's Fire abate,
With golden Canopies and Beds of State:
But the poor Patient will as soon be sound,
On the hard Mattress, or the Mother--Ground.

Then, since our Bodies are not eas'd the more
By Birth, or Pow'r, or Fortune's wealthy Store,
'Tis plain these useless Toys of ev'ry kind
As little can relieve the lab'ring Mind:
Unless we could suppose the dreadful Sight
Of marshall'd Legions moving to the Fight,
Could, with their Sound and terrible Array,
Expel our Fears, and drive the Thoughts of Death away.

But, since the Supposition vain appears;
Since clinging Cares, and Trains of inbred Fears,
Are not with Sounds to be affrighted thence,
But in the midst of Pomp pursue the Prince:
Not aw'd by Arms, but in the Presence bold,
Without Respect to Purple, or to Gold:
Why should not we these Pageantries despise,
Whose Worth but in our want of Reason lies?--

Oh! were the Minds of Courtiers seen;
What Cares tempestuous rage within,
And scourge their Souls! the Brutian Sea
Toss'd by wild Storms more calm than They.

Let Others, insolent, and great,
Enjoy the treach'rous Smiles of Fate:
To Courts, Ah! never let me roam!
Blest with Content, and Peace at Home.
May my small Bark in Safety Sail,
Ne'er tempted by a prosp'rous Gale,
Roving to leave the Sight of Shore,
And dang'rous, distant Deeps explore.--

Let him who would be Good from Courts retire.--

On level Ground whoever haps to fall,
(Tho' that's a Thing which rarely haps at all,)
The Hurt so gentle, and so slight the Pain,
No sooner is he down than up again:
But when Elpenor from the Turret fell,
His Soul went weeping to the Gates of Hell.--

Thoughtless of Glory pass thy downy Hours,
Unknown, unenvy'd, in Obscurity:
And chuse Companions of thy own Degree.--


Grief.
See Lamentation. Mourning for the Dead.

Soon hasty Fame, thro' the sad City bears
The mournful Tidings, to the Mother's Ears:
An icy Cold benumbs her Limbs: She shakes:
Her Cheeks the Blood, her Hand the Web forsakes.
She runs the Rampires round amidst the War,
Nor fears the flying Darts: she rends her Hair,
And with her Lamentations fills the Air.--

All Day, all Night, in trackless Wilds, alone
She pin'd, and taught the list'ning Rocks her Moan.
On the bare Earth she lies, her Bosom bare,
Loose her Attire, dishevell'd is her Hair.
Nine times the Moon unbarr'd the Gates of Light,
As oft were spread th' alternate Shades of Night:
So long no Sustenance the Mourner knew,
But what her Tears supply, or what the falling Dew.--

As when, complaining, in melodious Groans,
Sweet Philomel, beneath a Poplar Shade,
Mourns her lost Young: which some rough Village Hind
Observing, from their Nest, unfledg'd, has stole:
She weeps all Night: and, perch'd upon a Bough,
With plaintive Notes repeated fills the Grove.--

Defil'd with Filth his Robe, with Tears his Cheeks,
No Sustenance but Grief and Care he seeks:
Of rigid Fate incessant he complains,
And Hell's inexorable Gods arraigns.--

No farther Voice her mighty Grief affords,
For Sighs come rushing in betwixt her Words,
And stop'd her Tongue: but what her Tongue deny'd,
Soft Tears, and Groans, and dumb Complaints supply'd--

–Her big swoln Grief surpass'd
The Power of Utterance: She stood aghast:
Nor had she Speech, nor Tears, to give Relief:
Excess of Woe suppress'd the rising Grief.
Stupid as Stone, on Earth she fix'd her Eyes,
And then look'd up to Heav'n with wild Surprize:
Now she contemplates o'er, with sad Delight,
Her Son's pale Visage: then her aking Sight
Dwells on his Wounds.--

--Dear Husband, wheresoe'er
Thou'rt gone, thro' Hell, if any Hell there be,
Or empty Chaos, I will follow Thee:
How long my Life's decreed I do not know:
If long, I'll punish it for lasting so.--
She who could bear to see thy Wounds, and live,
New Proofs of Love and fatal Grief shall give:
Nor need she fly for Succour to the Sword,
The steepy Precipice, or deadly Cord:
She from herself shall find her own Relief,
And scorn to die of any Death but Grief.

So said the Matron, and about her Head
Her Veil she draws, her mournful Eyes to shade:
Resolv'd to shroud in thickest Shades her Woe,
She seeks the Ship's deep darksome Hold below:
There lonely left, at leisure to complain,
She hugs her Sorrows, and enjoys her Pain:
Still with fresh Tears the living Grief would feed,
And fondly loves it in her Husband's stead.--

Her flowing Garments mournfully she tares,
And rends the Chaplet with her yellow Hairs:
Her Tears congeal, her Voice is now no more:
And a deep trembling seizes her all o'er--

But Clymenè, enrag'd with Grief, laments,
And as her Grief inspires, her Passion vents:
Wild for her Son, and frantick in her Woes,
With Hair dishevell'd round the World she goes,
To seek where--e'er his Body might be cast:
Till, on the Borders of the Po, at last
The Name inscrib'd on the new Tomb appears.
The dear dear Name she bathes in flowing Tears,
Hangs o'er the Tomb, unable to depart,
And hugs the Marble to her throbbing Heart.
Her Daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn,
(A fruitless Tribute to their Brother's Urn)
And beat their naked Bosoms, and complain,
And call aloud for Phaëton in vain:
All the long Night their mournful Watch they keep,
And all the Day stand round the Tomb and weep.--

When first I heard (from whom I hardly knew)
That You were fled, and all my Joys with You:
Like some sad Statue, speechless, pale, I stood,
Grief chill'd my Breast, and stop'd my freezing Blood:
No Sigh, to rise, no Tear had Pow'r to flow,
Fix'd in a stupid Lethargy of Woe.
But when it's Way th' impetuous Passion found,
I rend my Tresses, and my Breasts I wound:
I rave, then weep, I curse, and then complain,
Now swell to Rage, now melt in Tears again.
Nor fiercer Pangs distract the mournful Dame,
Whose first--born Infant feeds the fun'ral Flame.--

Trembling she spoke, and raging with Despair,
She wounds her Cheeks, and rends her Silver Hair.
In copious Streams fast rolls the briny Show'r,
As down the Hills the rapid Torrents pour,
When Auster with indulgent Softness blows,
Dissolves the Frost, and melts the Mountain Snows:
Thus in a Flood of Tears her Eyes were drown'd,
And from her inmost Breast deep Sighs resound.--


Grotto.

Down in a Vale, of Pine and Cypress made,
Extended wide a venerable Shade:
The chast Diana's private Haunt, where stood,
Full in the Center of the darksome Wood,
A spacious Grotto: all around o'er--grown
With hoary Moss, and arch'd with Pumice--Stone.
From out it's rocky Clefts the Waters flow,
And, trickling, swell into a Lake below.
Nature had ev'ry where so play'd her Part,
That ev'ry where she seem'd to vye with Art.
Here the bright Goddess, toil'd and chaff'd with Heat,
Was wont to bathe her in the cool Retreat.--

Aweful, and tow'ring o'er the Plain, there stood,
By Axes ne'er profan'd, an ancient Wood.
Amidst of which the mouldring Rocks had made
An humble Grot, that Thorns and Brambles shade.
Cool chrystal Streams gush plenteous from its Sides,
And all around the purling Water glides.--

The Grot he enter'd: Pumice built the Hall,
And Tophi made the Rustic of the Wall:
The Floor soft Moss, an humid Carpet spread,
And various Shells the chequer'd Roof inlaid.—