Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. Ii. (Plunder - Poets) Poem by Henry Baker

Plunder.

Now in the empty Isles of Juno's Fane
Phoenix, and dire Ulysses, chosen Guards,
Watch o'er the Prey. There Trojan Treasure snatch'd
From burning Shrines, the Tables of the Gods,
Goblets of massy Gold, and captive Robes,
Lie pil'd in Heaps: Children, and trembling Dames,
Rank'd in long Rows, stand round.--

Then, while his glowing Fortune yet was warm,
And scatt'ring Terror spread the wild Alarm,
Swift to the hostile Camp he bent his Way,
And led the Soldier greedy to the Prey.
Behold, he cries, our Victory compleat,
The glorious Recompence attends You yet:
Much have You done to Day for Coesar's sake;
'Tis mine to shew the Prey, 'tis your's to take:
'Tis your's, whate'er the vanquish'd Foe has left,
'Tis what your Valour gain'd, and not my Gift.
Treasures immense yon wealthy Tents infold,
The Gems of Asia, and Hesperian Gold.
For You the once great Pompey's Store attends,
With regal Spoils of his Barbarian Friends:
Haste then, prevent the Foe, and seize that Good,
For which you paid so well with Roman Blood.

He said: and with the Rage of Rapine stung,
The Multitude tumultuous rush along.
On Swords, and Spears, on Sires and Sons they tread,
And all remorseless spurn the gory Dead.
What Trench can intercept, what Fort withstand
The brutal Soldier's rude rapacious Hand,
When eager to his Crime's Reward he flies,
And bath'd in Blood, demands the horrid Prize?

There Wealth collected from the World around,
The destin'd Recompence of War, they found.
Then in Patrician Tents Plebeians rest,
And regal Couches are by Ruffians press'd.--


Poetaster.

A mad Dog's Foam, th' Infection of the Plague,
And all the Judgments of the angry Gods
Are not avoided more by Men of Sense,
Than Poetasters in their raging Fits.--

'Tis hard to say, whether for Sacriledge,
Or Incest, or some more unheard--of Crime,
The rhyming Fiend is sent into these Men:
But they are all most visibly possess'd:
And like a baited Bear when he breaks loose,
Without Distinction seize on all they meet:
Learn'd, or unlearn'd, none 'scape within their Reach,
(Sticking like Leeches 'till they burst with Blood,)
Without Remorse insatiably they read,
And never leave 'till they have read Men dead.--

Suffenus, whom You know, the witty,
The gay, the talkative, and pretty:
And, all his Wonders to rehearse,
The Thing which makes a World of Verse:
I'm certain I should not belie him,
To say he 'as sev'ral Thousands by him,
Yet none deform'd with critic Blot,
Or wrote on Vellum to rub out.
Royal Paper! Scarlet Strings!
Gilded Backs! and such fine Things!
But--when you read 'em, then the witty
Gay Suffenus, and the pretty,
Is the dullest heaviest Clown,
So alter'd he can scarce be known.
This is strange, that He, who now,
Could so flatter, laugh, and bow,
So much Wit, such Breeding show,
Should be so ungenteel a Wight,
Whenever he attempts to write.
And yet the Wretch is ne'er so pleas'd,
As when he's with this Madness seiz'd.--


Poetry.
See Poet. Style.

Orpheus, by Harmony divine, subdu'd
Man's savage Nature, and his Thirst of Blood:
For this the sacred Bard was said t'asswage
The Tyger's Fury, and the Lion's Rage:
And when Amphion built the Theban Wall,
'Twas feign'd the list'ning Stones obey'd his Musick's Call.
Verse was contrived then to make Folks wise,
To cherish Virtue, and discourage Vice:
To sep'rate Actions sacred and prophane,
Suppress wild Lust, and link the nuptial Chain:
Tow'rs it plann'd out, and instituted Laws.
Hence Bards were call'd divine, and Verse acquir'd Applause.--

Poems (like Pictures) are of diff'rent Sorts:
Some better at a Distance, others near:
Some love the Dark, some chuse the clearest Light,
And boldly challenge the most piercing Eye:
Some please for once, some will for ever please.--

Now some dispute, to which the greatest Part
A Poem owes, to Nature, or to Art:
But Troth, to speak my Thoughts, I hardly know,
What witless Art, or artless Wit can do.
Each by itself is vain, I'm sure: but join'd,
Their Force is strong, each proves the other's Friend.--

Whoe'er would form a valuable Poem,
Must rigorously discharge the Censor's Part,
And dare reject whatever Words appear
Or void of Elegance, or Weight, or Worth;
Tho' fashionable, tho' rever'd they be.
Words our Forefathers us'd, if apt and just,
Tho' obsolete, and to our Ears uncouth,
He must revive, and bring to Light again.
Such new Expressions let him authorize
As Custom shall produce: and with fresh Stores
Inrich his Mother Tongue, till it becomes
Like some fam'd River, flowing, full, and clear.
Whate'er's redundant let him wisely prune:
Soften what's harsh; reject what is unfit;
And turn, and wind, and work them ev'ry Way.

What is the Verse in Vogue?--When Numbers flow,
Soft without Sense, and without Spirit slow:
So smooth and equal that no Sight can find
The Passage where the polish'd Piece was joyn'd.
So even all, with such a steady View,
As if he shut one Eye to level true.
Whether the vulgar Vice his Passion stings,
The People's Riots, or the Rage of Kings:
The gentle Poet is alike in all:
The Reader hopes no Rise, and fears no Fall.--


Poets.

Let me for once presume t' instruct the Times,
To know the Poet from the Man of Rhimes:
'Tis He who gives my Breast a thousand Pains,
Can make me feel each Passion that he feigns,
Enrage, compose, with more than magic Art,
With Pity, and with Terror, tare my Heart:
And snatch me o'er the Earth, or thro' the Air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.--

The Good to cherish, Friends to reconcile:
The Furious to restrain, and love the Man
Who fears a wicked Deed: Temp'rance to praise;
Strict Justice, and his Country's Laws support:
To preach up sacred Hospitality,
And to conceal, not aggravate Mistakes,
Becomes the Poet.--He too implores the Gods
To raise the wretched, and the Proud pull down.--

What seeks the Poet for, but only Fame?
Nought crowns his Labours but an empty Name.
By Kings and Heroes, as old Authors shew,
Poets, in ancient Times,--
Were lov'd, protected, and rewarded too.
Then to the Name much Rev'rence was allow'd,
And they with rich Possessions were endow'd.
Ennius with Honours was by Scipio grac'd,
And, next his own, the Poet's Statue plac'd.
But now their ivy Crowns bear no Esteem,
And all their Learning's thought an idle Dream.--

No Fraud the Poet's sacred Breast can bear,
Mild are his Manners, and his Heart sincere:
Nor Wealth he seeks, nor feels Ambition's Fires,
But shuns the Bar, and Books and Shades requires.
--Our softer Studies with our Souls combine,
And, both, to Tenderness our Hearts incline:
Something divine is in Us, and from Heav'n
Th' inspiring Spirit can alone be giv'n.--

Painters and Poets have been still allow'd
Their Pencils and their Fancies unconfin'd.--

A Poet should inform us, or divert:
But joyning both he shews his greatest Art.--

Poets may take a boundless Liberty,
Nor are confin'd to Truths in History.--

But let whate'er of Fiction, You bring in,
Be so like Truth, to seem, at least, a--kin.--

Learn'd or unlearn'd we write:--we're Poets all.
But this Mistake, a Madness tho' it be,
Produces such good Qualities as these:
The Poet's Soul is free from Avarice
The Muse his Mistress, her alone he courts:
And laughs at Losses, Robberies, or Fires.
His Friend he will not cheat, nor wrong his Ward.
Contentedly he lives on homely Fare:
And tho' unactive, and for War unfit,
At home he dwells, a useful Citizen.
Great Things are brought about by humble Means:
Youth's stammering Tongue the Poet forms to Speech:
From leud Expressions guards the tender Ears,
And generous Precepts pours into the Soul,
Correcting Envy, Savageness, and Rage.
Facts rightly he relates: the rising Age
With great Examples fires: the Sick revives,
And to the Wretched Consolation brings.--

--Whoever joins Instruction with Delight
Pleasure with Profit, is most surely right.

Most Poets fall into the grossest Faults,
Deluded by a seeming Excellence.
By striving to be short, they grow obscure:
And when they would write smoothly, they want Strength,
Their Spirits sink: while Others, that affect
A lofty Stile, swell to a Tympany.
Some tim'rous Wretches start at ev'ry Blast,
And fearing Tempests, dare not leave the Shore:
Others in love with wild Variety,
Draw Boars in Waves, and Dolphins in a Wood.
Thus fear of erring, joyn'd with want of Skill,
Is the most certain Way of erring still.--

If I discern not the true Stile, and Air,
Nor how to give the proper Character
To ev'ry Kind of Work, how dare I claim,
And challenge to myself a Poet's Name?--

But he, whose noble Genius is allow'd,
Who with stretch'd Pinions soars above the Crowd,
Who mighty Thought can cloath with manly Dress,
He, whom I fancy, but can ne'er express:
Such, such a Wit, tho' rarely to be found,
Must be secure from Want, if not abound:
Easy and Quiet in his Mind must be,
From Care, from Bus'ness, and from Trouble free.
He must have Groves, and lonely Fountains chuse,
And pleasing Solitudes to bait his Muse;
Unvex'd with Thought of Wants which may betide,
Or for to Morrow's Dinner to provide.
Horace ne'er wrote but with a rosy Cheek,
Full were his Pockets, and his Sides were sleek.
A Wit should have no Care, or this alone,
To make his rising Numbers justly run.—