Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. Ii. (Panic - Passions) Poem by Henry Baker

Panic Fear.
See Fear.

Meanwhile the busy Messenger of Ill,
Officious Fame, supplies new Terror still:
A thousand Slaughters, and ten thousand Fears
She whispers in the trembling Vulgar's Ears:
But when approaching Caesar they would paint,
The stronger Image makes Description faint.
No Tongue can speak, with what amazing Dread,
Wild Thought presents him at his Army's Head:
Unlike the Man familiar to their Eyes,
Horrid he seems, and of gigantic Size:
Unnumber'd Eagles rise amidst his Train,
And Millions seem to hide the crowded Plain.
Thus Fear does half the Work of lying Fame,
And Cowards thus their own Misfortunes frame:
By their own feigning Fancies are betray'd,
And groan beneath those Ills themselves have made.

Nor these Alarms the Crowd alone infest,
But ran alike thro' ev'ry beating Breast:
With equal Dread the grave Patrician's shook,
Their Seats abandon'd, and the Court forsook.
Resolv'd on Flight, yet still unknowing where
To fly from Danger, or for Aid repair,
Hasty, and headlong, diff'rent Paths they tread,
As blind Impulse and wild Distraction lead:
The Crowd, a hurrying, heartless Train, succeed.
Who that the lamentable Sight beheld,
The wretched Fugitives that hid the Field,
Would not have thought the Flames, with rapid haste
Destroying wide, had laid their City waste:
Or groaning Earth had shook beneath their Feet,
While threatning Buildings nodded o'er the Street.
Then Sons forsook their Sires unnerv'd and old,
Nor weeping Wives their Husbands could with--hold:
Each left his Houshold Lares unador'd,
Nor with one parting Pray'r their Aid implor'd:
None stopp'd, or sighing turn'd for one last View,
Or bid the City of his Birth adieu.
The headlong Crowd, regardless, urge their Way,
Tho' e'en their Gods and Country ask their Stay,
And pleading Nature begs 'em to delay.--

--The City then he enter'd:
The City with Confusion wild was fraught,
And trembling shook with ev'ry dreadful Thought.
They think he comes to ravage, sack, and burn:
Religion, Gods, and Temples to o'erturn.
Their Fears suggest him willing to pursue,
Whatever Ills unbounded Pow'r can do.--


Parents.
See Education. Example.

Opidius did, as Story goes, divide
His Farms between his Sons before he dy'd:
And said, and as he said he gravely smil'd,
My Aulus, I observ'd Thee from a Child:
And when I saw thee careless of thy Toys,
And freely give thy Nuts to other Boys:
And You, Tiberius, count them o'er and o'er,
And hoard them up, increasing still your Store:
I fear'd, both mad, would diff'rent Vices chuse,
And One be covetous, and One profuse.
Wherefore I charge You both, by all that's dear,
As You my Blessing hope, or Curses fear,
That neither You consume your small Estate,
Nor You increase, but live content on That:
Since all your proper Wants it will supply,
And Nature thinks enough as well as I.
And lest You be Ambitious, hear my Oath:
Observe, I leave this Curse upon You both:
He that of You shall be Ædilis first,
Or ev'n a Praetor, let him be accurs'd!--

Observe, how ancient Marsus did advise:
My Sons! let these small Cotts and Hills suffice:
Let Us the Harvest of our Labour eat:
'Tis Labour makes the coarsest Diet sweet.

The wiser Antients these Instructions gave:
But now a covetous old crafty Knave,
At dead of Night, shall rouze his Son, and cry,
Turn out, You Rogue! how like a Beast You lie:
Go, buckle to the Law: is this an Hour
To stretch your Limbs!--You'll ne'er be Chancellor.
Or else, yourself to Lelius recommend,
To such broad Shoulders Lelius is a Friend:
Fight under him, there's Plunder to be had:
A Captain is a very gainful Trade:
And when in Service your best Days are spent,
In time You may command a Regiment.
But if the Trumpet's Clangor You abhor,
And cannot undergoe the Toils of War,
Take to a Shop, behind a Counter lie,
Cheat half in half: none thrive by Honesty.
Never reflect upon the sordid Ware
Which You expose: be Gain your only Care.
He that grows rich by scouring of a Sink,
Gets wherewithal to justify the Stink.
This Sentence, worthy Jove himself, record
As true, and take it on a Poet's Word:
``That you get Money, is a needful Task,
``But how you get it, none will ever ask.--

Would any one think now that he's my Father, or that I am his Son!--If he had been a Friend or a Brother, could he have shewn more Kindness or Complaisance? Ought I not to love him! ought I not to wear him next my Heart!--This wonderful Goodness of his engages me to be always upon my Guard, least I should imprudently do any thing to disoblige him.--


Parting.

Then old Evander, with a close Embrace,
Strain'd his departing Son, while Tears o'erflow'd his Face:
Would Heav'n, said He, my Strength and Youth recal,
Such as I was beneath Preneste's Wall:
Such if I stood renew'd, not these Alarms,
Nor Death, should rend me from my Pallas' Arms.
Ye Gods! and mighty Jove! in pity bring
Relief, and hear a Father and a King!
If Fate and You reserve these Eyes to see
My Son return with joyful Victory:
If the lov'd Boy shall bless his Father's Sight:
If we shall meet again with more delight:
Then draw my Life in Length: let me sustain,
In Hopes of his Embrace, the worst of Pain!
But, if your hard Decrees, which,--Oh!--I dread,
Have doom'd to Death his undeserving Head:
This, O this very Moment, let me die!
While Hopes and Fears in equal Ballance lie:
While, yet possess'd of all his youthful Charms,
I strain him close within these aged Arms:
Before that fatal News my Soul shall wound!--
The Servants bear him fainting to his Court.--

-- My Philomel,
If any Sense of Duty sways your Mind,
Let me from You the shortest Absence find.
He wept: then kiss'd his Child: and while he speaks,
The Tears fall gently down his aged Cheeks:
While, in a Voice, with dire Forebodings broke,
Sobbing, and faint, the last Farewel was spoke.--

But when she saw her Lord prepar'd to part,
A deadly Cold ran shiv'ring to her Heart:
Her faded Cheeks are chang'd to boxen Hue,
And in her Eyes the Tears are ever new:
She thrice essay'd to speak, but thrice in vain,
For Sobs and Sighs her falt'ring Voice restrain.--

He soon equips the Ship, supplies the Sails,
And gives the Word to launch.--She trembling views
This Pomp of Death, and parting Tears renews:
Then clasp'd him round, and took a long Farewel,
Sigh'd with a sad Presage, and swooning fell.

While Ceyx seeks Delays, the lusty Crew,
Rais'd on their Banks, their Oars in order drew
To their broad Breasts:--away the Vessel flew.
The Queen, recover'd, rears her humid Eyes,
And first her Husband on the Poop espies,
Shaking his Hand, at Distance, on the Main:
She took the Sign, and shook her Hand again.
Still as the Ground receeds, contracts her View
With sharpen'd Sight, till she no longer knew
The much lov'd Face: that Comfort lost supplies
With less, and now the Galley feeds her Eyes:
The Galley, born from view, by rising Gales,
She follows with her Sight the flying Sails:
When ev'n the flying Sails are seen no more,
Forsaken of all Sight she leaves the Shore:
And on her lonely Bed her Body throws,
Hoping to gain some Respite from her Woes:
Her Husband's Pillow there, and widow'd Part
Which once he press'd, again torment her Heart.--

While thus united Caesar's Arms appear,
And Pompey finds the great Decision near,
Uneasy Thoughts his manly Soul infest,
And dear Cornelia pains his anxious Breast.
To distant Lesbos fain he would remove,
Far from the War, the Partner of his Love.

Oft he prepares to speak, but knows not how;
Knows they must part, but cannot bid her go:
Defers the killing News with fond Delay,
And ling'ring, puts off Fate from Day to Day.

The fleeting Shades began to leave the Sky,
And Slumber soft forsook the drooping Eye,
When, with fond Arms, the fair Cornelia press'd
Her Lord, reluctant, to her snowy Breast:
Wond'ring she found he shunn'd her just Embrace,
And felt warm Tears upon his manly Face.
Heart--wounded with the sudden Woe, she griev'd,
And scarce the weeping Warrior yet believ'd.--
When with a Groan, thus He. My faithful Wife,
To say how much I love Thee more than Life,
Poorly expresses what my Heart would show,
Since Life, alas! is grown my Burden now.
That long, too long delay'd, that dreadful Doom,
That cruel parting Hour at length is come.
Fierce, haughty, and collected in his Might,
Advancing Caesar calls me to the Fight.
Haste then, my gentle Love, from War retreat,
The Lesbian Isle attends, thy peaceful Seat.
Nor seek, Oh! seek not to increase my Cares,
Seek not to change my Purpose with thy Pray'rs:
My self, in vain, the fruitless Suit have try'd,
And my own pleading Heart has been deny'd.

Stunn'd, and astonish'd, at the deadly Stroke,
All Sense, at first, the Matron sad forsook.
Motion, and Life, and Speech at length returns,
And thus, in Words of heaviest Woe she mourns.
No, Pompey! 'tis not that my Lord is dead,
'Tis not the Hand of Fate has robb'd my Bed:
But like some base Plebeian I am curst,
And by my cruel Husband stand divorc'd.
Is thy Cornelia's Faith so poorly known,
That Thou shouldst think her safer whilst alone?
Are not our Loves, our Lives, our Fortunes one?

This said, the Matron start'd from her Bed,
And, wild with Sorrow, from her Husband fled:
She sees all ling'ring, all Delays are vain,
And rushes, headlong, to possess the Pain:
Nor will the Hurry of her Griefs afford
One last Embrace from her forsaken Lord.
How piteous was the parting of these two!
After a Love so lasting and so true,
Neither could bear to speak the Word--Adieu.
In all the woeful Days that cross'd their Bliss,
Sure never Hour was known so sad as this!

Low on the Ground the fainting Dame is laid:
Her Train officious hasten to her Aid:
Then gently rearing, with a careful Hand,
Support her, slow--descending o'er the Strand.
There, while with eager Arms she grasp'd the Shore,
Scarcely the Mourner to the Bark they bore.--


Passions.
See Doubt.

As Grief grows mutual, Joy produces Joy,
For Face to Face conveys strong Sympathy.
Wouldst Thou have me with Tears thy Sorrow share?
Weep first thyself, and let thy Woes appear:
'Tis then to soft Compassion I incline,
Then Fancy works, and thy Misfortune's mine.

The Cholerick must rage, the Sad complain,
The Grave be serious, and the Frolick vain:
For Nature ever doth the Change begin,
The Mind inclines, and models Us within:
According to the various Turns of Fate,
She screws the Soul to an unusual Height,
And swells Us into Rage; or bending low,
She sinks us to the Dust with weighty Woe:
Then, as the Passions diff'rently prevail,
She makes the Tongue declare what inwardly we feel.--

Unless the Mind be purg'd, what Storms arise!
What Dangers still appear before our Eyes!
The Man that's covetous how many Cares
Gall and torment, how many anxious Fears!
What Mischiefs, what dire Murders shall we find,
Where Pride, and Lust,--
Where Luxury, and Sloth, possess the Mind!--

The Man a nobler Empire gains,
That his own craving Will restrains,
Than he whose Sword and wide Command
Join distant Spain and Lybia's Land:
Than he whose far extended Sway,
Carthage both old and new obey.--

Alas! by diff'rent Passions I'm oppress'd!
Fierce Love and Hate contend within my Breast:
My Bosom they divide, but Love I fear
Will prove too strong, and gain a Conquest there.
I'll strive to hate Thee; but if that should prove
A fruitless Strife, spite of myself I'll love.
The Bull dislikes the galling Yoke, but still
He bears the Thing he hates, against his Will.
I hate, I fly Thee, faithless Fair! in vain,
Thy Beauty ever brings me back again,
Thou in my Heart wilt always find a Place:
I hate thy Humour, but I love thy Face.
No Rest I to my tortur'd Soul can give,
Nor with Thee, nor without Thee, can I live.
Oh! that thy Mind We in thy Face could view!
Less lovely that Thou wer't, or else more true!
How diff'rent are thy Manners, and thy Sight?
Thy Deeds forbid Us, but thy Eyes invite.
Thy Actions shock Us, while thy Beauty moves:
And He who hates thy Faults, thy Person loves.
Ah! happy, ever happy should I be,
If I no Charms, or no Defects could see.—