Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. Ii. (Time - Treason) Poem by Henry Baker

Time.

Time of itself is Nothing: but from Thought
Receives it's Rise, by lab'ring Fancy wrought
From Things consider'd; while we think on some
As present, some as past, and some to come.
For none can think of Time, must be confess'd,
Without considering Things, in Motion, or at Rest.--

In all the World there's Nothing at a Stay:
Like Shadows, Things appear, and pass away:
Ev'n Time itself still hastens to be gone,
Like some swift River always rolling on:
The rapid Stream for ever forward flows;
Time does the same, nor any Stoppage knows.
As Waves urg'd on by Waves no Rest can find,
Each driving that before, and drove by that behind;
So Moments other Moments fast pursue,
For ever changing, and for ever new:
What's just now past we never more shall see,
Nor what is present shall hereafter be,
But new shall still succeed, thro' all Eternity.--

Time glides along with undiscover'd Haste,
And mocks our Hopes: no Wings can fly so fast.—


Time wears out all Things.
See Change.


Thy Teeth, devouring Time! thine, envious Age!
On Things below still exercise your Rage:
With venom'd Grinders you corrupt your Meat:
And then, at lingring Meals, the Morsels eat.--

Ev'n the hard Ploughshare Use will wear away,
And stubborn Steel in length of Time decay:
Water is soft, and marble hard, and yet,
We see soft Water thro' hard Marble get.--

Nay more: 'tis certain, ev'ry circling Year,
The Rings, which grace the Hands, diminish there:
Drops hollow Stones; and while we plow, the Share
Grows less: the Streets by often treading wear.--

Hard Stones, and Tow'rs, and Rocks, all feel the Rage
Of pow'rful Time: ev'n Temples waste by Age:
Nor can the Gods themselves prolong their Date,
Change Nature's Laws, or be repriev'd from Fate:
Ev'n Tombs grow old, and waste, by Years o'erthrown,
Men's Graves before, but now become their own.--

Time changes all: and as with swiftest Wings
He passes forward on, he quickly brings
A diff'rent Face, a diff'rent State of Things.
Nature still alters: this grows weak, this strong:
This dies: this rises from it, firm and young.--


Time to be used.
See Delay. Death to be remember'd. Opportunity.

Ev'n now, in bloom of Youth, and Beauty's Prime,
Beware of coming Age, nor waste your Time:
Now, while You may, and rip'ning Years invite,
Enjoy the seasonable, sweet Delight:
For rolling Years, like stealing Waters, glide,
Nor hope to stop their ever--ebbing Tide:
Think not, hereafter will the Loss repay,
For ev'ry Morrow will the Taste decay,
And leave less Relish than the former Day.

The Snake his Skin, the Deer his Horns may cast,
And both renew their Youth and Vigour past:
But no Receipt can Humankind relieve,
Doom'd to decrepid Age without Reprieve.
Then crop the Flow'r which yet invites your Eye,
And which, ungather'd, on it's Stalk must die.--

The Flow'r of Youth decays and fades apace,
(Of our short Being 'tis the shortest Space!)
While the full Bowl with Pleasure circles round,
While we're perfum'd, and with gay Garlands crown'd,
While in the fair One's Arms entranc'd we lie,
Old Age creeps on us, e'er we think it nigh.--

But if you wave your Hopes, and use Delays,
You're wrong, for happy Youth apace decays.
Alas, how swiftly flies away the Light!
Nor slowly moves the Day, nor wheels the Night:
How quickly fades the Earth, as Seasons slide,
Losing it's flow'ry Grace, and purple Pride!
How quickly does the tow'ring Poplar shed
The leafy Honours of it's beauteous Head!
Un--nerv'd by Age, how slothful lies the Horse,
Which flew, when young, in the Olympic Course!
I've known the Old desire their youthful Prime,
And wail their foolish Hours and ill--spent Time.
Ye cruel Gods! the Serpent can renew
His speckl'd Lustre, and his shining Hue:
But Beauty lost, our Art and Pow'r is vain,
E'er to renew the precious Prize again.--

He, free and merrily may live, can say,
As the Day passes, I have liv'd to Day:
And for to Morrow little do I care,
Let the World's Ruler make it foul or fair.--

Cut off long Cares from thy contracted Span,
Nor stretch thy Hopes beyond the Reach of Man.
Now, while we speak, Time, envious, hastes away:
Trust not to morrow then, but seize the present Day.--

Where the white Poplar and the lofty Pine
Their friendly Branches inter--twine,
And hospitable Shades compose:
Where, near at Hand, a limpid River glides,
In winding Streams, and gently chides
The interrupting Pebbles as it flows:
There drink thy gen'rous Wine, thy Odours shed,
And short--liv'd Roses crown thy Head,
While Fortune, Time, and Fate permit:
For thou must soon resign thy Groves, thy House,
Thy Farm where yellow Tyber flows,
And all thy hoarded Wealth thy Heir shall get.--


Tisiphone.
See Furies.

A hundred Snakes her gloomy Visage shade,
A hundred Serpents guard her horrid Head:
In her sunk Eyeballs dreadful Meteors glow:
Such Rays from Phoebe's bloody Circle flow,
When lab'ring with strong Charms, she shoots from high
A fiery Gleam, and reddens all the Sky.
Blood stain'd her Cheeks, and from her Mouth there came
Blew steaming Poisons, and a Length of Flame.
From ev'ry Blast of her contagious Breath,
Famine and Drought proceed, and Plagues, and Death.
A Robe obscene was o'er her Shoulders thrown,
A Dress by Fates and Furies wore alone:
She toss'd her meager Arms: her better Hand
In waving Circles whirl'd a Fun'ral Brand:
A Serpent from her left was seen to rear
His flaming Crest, and lash the yielding Air.--

A flaming Torch besmear'd with clotted Gore
Tisiphone snatch'd up: then hurrying on
Her crimson Robe, in streaming Blood deep'd dy'd,
And girding round her Waist a twining Snake,
Furious she issues forth.--Her close attend
Lamenting Grief, and Fear, and shudd'ring Horror,
And raving Rage with pale and trembling Looks.
When she arriv'd at the Eolian Court,
'Tis said the Columns shook, the Ebon Gate
Turn'd pale, and Phoebus in his Course shrunk back.
Scar'd at these Omens, both the King and Queen
Attempt to fly their Palace: but the Fiend
Fills up the Entrance, and their Passage stops.
Wide she her Arms extends writh'd round with Adders:
And shakes her horrid Locks. The Snakes disturb'd,
Russle, and Part a--down her Shoulders hang,
Part curling round her Temples loudly hiss,
Their Poison spew, and dart their quiv'ring Tongues.--


Tomb.
See Funeral. Manes.

But good Æneas rear'd a stately Tomb,
The Hero's Arms, his Oar, and Trumpet fix'd,
Beneath a lofty Mountain: which from him
Is now Misenus call'd, and keeps it's Name
To everlasting Ages.--

There the vain Youth, who made the World his Prize,
The prosp'rous Robber, Alexander lies.
When pitying Death, at length, had freed Mankind,
To sacred Rest his Bones were here consign'd:
His Bones, that better had been toss'd and hurl'd,
With just Contempt, around the injur'd World.
Oh! should auspicious Years roll round again,
And Godlike Liberty resume her Reign,
Preserv'd to scorn, the Reliques would be shewn
Of the bold Chief, whose boundless Pride alone
This curst Example to Ambition gave,
How many Realms one Mortal can enslave!--

But know, proud Conqueror! thy Wrath, in vain,
Strews with unbury'd Carcasses the Plain.
What is it to thy Malice, if they burn,
Rot in the Field, or moulder in the Urn?
The Forms of Matter all, dissolving, die,
And lost in Nature's blending Bosom lie.
Tho' now thy Cruelty denies a Grave,
These and the World one common Lot shall have:
One last appointed Flame, by Fate's Decree,
Shall waste yon azure Heav'ns, this Earth, and Sea:
Shall knead the Dead up in one mingled Mass,
Where Stars and They shall undistinguish'd pass.
And tho' Thou scorn them now, yet Caesar! know,
High as thy own can soar, these Souls shall go:
Or find, perhaps, a better Place below.
Death is beyond thy Goddess Fortune's Pow'r,
And Parent Earth receives what--e'er she bore.
Nor will we mourn the Fate of those who lie
Beneath the glorious Cov'ring of the Sky:
That starry Arch for ever round 'em turns,
A nobler Shelter far than Tombs or Urns.--


Treachery.
See Dissimulation.

Oppos'd to Ilium lie the Thracian Plains,
Where Polymester safe in Plenty reigns.
King Priam to his Care commits his Son
Young Polydore, the Chance of War to shun.
A wise Precaution! had not Gold, consign'd
For the Child's Use, debauch'd the Tyrant's Mind.
When sinking Troy to its last Period drew;
With impious Hands his royal Charge he slew:
Then in the Sea the lifeless Coarse is thrown,
As, with the Body, he the Guilt could drown.--

My cruel Fate, and my more cruel Wife,
To Grecian Swords betray'd my sleeping Life.
You know in what delusive Joys we past
The Night, that was by Heav'n decreed our last.
For when the fatal Horse, descending down,
Pregnant with Arms, o'er--whelm'd th' unhappy Town:
She feign'd nocturnal Orgies, left my Bed,
And, mix'd with Trojan Dames, the Dances led.
Then waving high her Torch, the Signal made,
Which rous'd the Grecians from their Ambuscade.
With watching over--worn, with Cares opprest;
Unhappy I had laid me down to Rest,
And heavy Sleep my weary Limbs possess'd.
Mean Time, my worthy Wife our Arms mislaid,
And from beneath my Head my Sword convey'd:
The Door unlock'd: and with repeated Calls,
Invites her former Lord within my Walls.
Thus in her Crime her Confidence she plac'd,
And with new Treasons would redeem the past.
What need I more: into the Room they ran,
And basely murder'd a defenceless Man.--

Pompey aproaching near the fatal Shore,
Strikes the wide Sail, and plies the plunging Oar.
Him, in a two--bank'd Boat, the Villains meet,
And with dissembled Cheer the Roman greet.
They feign their hospitable Land address'd
With ready Friendship to receive her Guest.
Excusing much an inconvenient Shore,
Where Shoals lie thick, and meeting Currents roar:
From his large Ship, unequal to the Place,
They beg him to their lighter Boat to pass.

Had not the Gods, unchangeably decreed,
Devoted Pompey in that Hour should bleed,
A thousand Signs the Danger near foretell,
Seen by his sad presaging Friends too well.
If fair and faithfully they had design'd,
If Truth could lodge in an Egyptian Mind,
Their King, himself, with all his Fleet had come,
To lead, in Pomp, his Benefactor home.
But thus Fate wills, and Pompey yields to Fate,
Nor, at their Bidding, stay'd to hesitate:
But left his Ship, and rather chose to bear
Death, tho' 'twere certain, than ignoble Fear.
His Wife, impatient, to be left behind,
To rush, with him, into the Boat design'd:
For now, his Danger only fill'd her Mind.
But, Oh! forbear, (he cries,) my Love! forbear:
Thou and my Son remain in Safety here:
Let this old Head the Danger first explore,
And prove the Faith of yon suspected Shore.--

Just as he enter'd o'er the Vessel's Side,
Hail General! the curs'd Septimius cry'd:
A Roman once, and brave in Arms was He,
Now of the Guard, and Slave to Ptolemy.--

Defenceless, in the Boat, now, Pompey sat,
Surrounded, and abandon'd to his Fate.
Nor long they hold him, in their Power, aboard,
E'er ev'ry Villain drew his ruthless Sword:
The Chief perceiv'd their Purpose soon, and spread
His Roman Gown, with Patience, o'er his Head:
And when the curs'd Achillas pierc'd his Breast,
His rising Indignation close repress'd.
No Sighs, no Groans, his Dignity prophan'd,
Nor Tears his still unsully'd Glory stain'd:
Unmov'd, and firm, he fix'd him on his Seat,
And dy'd, as when he liv'd and conquer'd, Great.--

The bloody Business now compleatly done,
New Furies urge the fierce Septimius on:
He rends the Robe that veil'd the Hero's Head,
And to full View expos'd the recent Dead:
Hard in his horrid Gripe the Face he press'd,
While yet the quiv'ring Muscles Life confess'd:
He drew the dragging Body down with Haste,
Then cross a Rower's Seat the Neck he plac'd:
There, awkward, haggling, he divides the Bone,
(The Headsman's Art was yet but little known.)

Caught by the venerable Locks, which grow,
In hoary Ringlets on his gen'rous Brow,
To Egypt's impious King that Head they bear,
Which Lawrels us'd to bind, and Monarchs fear.--


Treason.
See Treachery.

The Hour was come, when Man's o'erlabour'd Breast
Surceas'd its Care, by downy Sleep possess'd:
All Things now hush'd, Scylla with silent Tread,
Urg'd her Approach to Nisus' royal Bed:
There of the fatal Lock (accursed Theft!)
She her unwitting Father's Head bereft.

In safe Possession of her impious Prey,
Out at a Postern Gate she takes her Way:
Embolden'd by the Merit of the Deed,
She traverses the adverse Camp with Speed,
Till Minos' Tent she reach'd: The righteous King
She thus bespoke, who shiver'd at the Thing.
Behold th' Effect of Love's resistless Sway!
I, Nisus' royal Seed, to Thee betray
My Country, and my Gods.--For this strange Task,
Minos, no other Boon but Thee I ask.
This purple Hair, the Pledge of Love, receive,
And with that Hair my Father's Life I give.
Then off'ring to present the guilty Prize,
Minos the Giver and the Gift denies.
Shock'd at a Crime so new, he thus exclaim'd,
With Mein indignant, and with Eyes inflam'd,
Perdition seize Thee, Thou, thy Kind's Disgrace!
May thy devoted Carcass find no Place
In Earth, or Air, or Sea, by all outcast!
Shall Minos with so foul a Monster blast
His Cretan World, where cradled Jove was nurs'd?
Forbid it Heav'n!--away, Thou most accurst!--