Medulla Poetarum Romanorum - Vol. Ii. (Soul - Style) Poem by Henry Baker

Soul.
See Druids. Elysium. Hell. Manes. Purgatory.

--Souls for ever live:
But often their old Habitations leave,
To dwell in new; which them, as Guests, receive.
All alter, Nothing finally decays;
Hither, and thither, still the Spirit strays:
Free to all Bodies; out of Beasts it flies
To Men, from Men to Beasts: and never dies.
As pliant Wax each new Impression takes,
Fixt to no Form, but still the Old forsakes,
Yet is the same: so Souls the same abide,
Tho' various Figures their Reception hide.--

We know not yet the Soul: how 'tis produc'd:
Whether with Body born, or else infus'd:
Whether, in Death, breath'd out into the Air,
She mix confus'dly with't, and perish there:
Or thro' vast Shades, and horrid Silence go,
To visit Brimstone Caves, and Pools below:
Or into Beasts retires.--

Brave Souls when loos'd from this ignoble Chain
Of Clay, and sent to their own Heav'n again,
From Earth's gross Orb on Virtue's Pinions rise,
In Æther wanton, and enjoy the Skies.--

Who could know Heav'n, unless that Heav'n bestow'd
The Knowledge? or find God, but Part of God?
How could the Space immense be e'er confin'd
Within the Compass of a narrow Mind?
How could the Skies, the Dances of the Stars,
Their Motions adverse, and eternal Wars,
Unless kind Nature in our Breasts had wrought,
Proportion'd Souls, be subject to our Thought.--

Can any doubt that God resides in Man,
That Souls from Heav'n descend, and when the Chain
Of Life is broke, return to Heav'n again?
As in the greater World, aspiring Flame,
Earth, Water, Air, make the material Frame:
And thro' the Members a commanding Soul
Infus'd, directs the Motion of the Whole:
So 'tis in Man, the lesser World: the Case
Is Clay, unactive, and an earthly Mass:
But the Blood's Streams the ruling Soul convey
Thro ev'ry Part, to actuate the Clay.
Then who can wonder that the World is known
So well by Man, since he himself is One?
The same Composure in his Form is shew'd,
And Man's the little Image of the God.--

When once th' appointed Years are roll'd away,
The passing Minds their former Load sustain,
Are born a--new, and sheath'd in Flesh again.--

Mean while whate'er was in the Pow'r of Flame
Was all consum'd: his Body's nervous Frame
No more was known, of human Form bereft:
Th' eternal Part of Jove was only left.
As an old Serpent, cast his scaly Vest,
Writhes in the Sun, in youthful Glory drest:
So when Alcides' mortal Mold resign'd,
His better Part enlarg'd, and grew refin'd:
August his Visage shone: Almighty Jove
In his swift Car his honour'd Offspring drove:
High o'er the hollow Clouds the Coursers fly,
And lodge the Hero in the starry Sky.--

Dying Reflections of the Emperor Adrian.

Poor little, pretty, flutt'ring Thing!
Must we no longer live together?
And dost Thou prune thy trembling Wing,
To take thy Flight Thou know'st not whither?
Thy humorous Vein, thy pleasing Folly
Lies all neglected, all forgot:
And pensive, wav'ring, melancholy,
Thou dread'st, and hop'st, Thou know'st not what.--

Ah fleeting Spirit! wandring Fire
That long has warm'd my tender Breast!
Must Thou no more this Frame inspire?
No more a pleasing chearful Guest?

Whither, ah whither art Thou flying!
To what dark undiscover'd Shore?
Thou seem'st all trembling, shiv'ring, dying,
And Wit and Humour are no more.--


Speech.

Nature the Power of framing Sounds affords
To Man, but 'twas Convenience taught us Words.
As Infants now for Want of Words devise
Expressive Signs, and speak with Hands and Eyes:
Their speaking Hand the Want of Words supplies.

But, that one Man the Names of Things contriv'd,
And that from him their Knowledge all deriv'd,
'Tis fond to think: for how could that Man tell
The Names of Things, or speak a Syllable,
And not another Man do so as well?

Besides, if Others us'd not Words as soon,
How was their Profit and Convenience known?
Or how could he instruct the Other's Mind?
Or make them understand what he design'd?
Since being single, neither Force nor Wit
Could conquer many, or make them submit
To learn his Words, or e'en with Patience bear
A meanless Jargon rattling in their Ear?--

Therefore since proper Parts, since Voice, and Tongue,
By Nature's Gift bestow'd, to Man belong,
Where lies the Wonder, that Mankind should frame
For ev'ry diff'rent Thing a diff'rent Name?
Since even brute Creatures make a diff'rent Noise,
Oppress'd by Pains, or Fears, or fill'd with Joys.--


Spring.
See Seasons. Venus. Year.

When Winter ends, and Spring serenely shines;
Then fat the Lambs, and mellow are the Wines:
Then soft the Slumbers on the verdant Ground;
Then with thick Shades the lofty Mountain's crown'd.--

The Spring to Forests yields a kindly Aid:
To Woods the Spring restores the useful Shade:
In the kind Spring the Lands abound with Juice,
And ask for Seeds that give a large Produce.
Then the All--potent Air, prolific Showers
On the soft Lap of his glad Consort pours:
From her vast Womb the mighty Store proceeds,
And all, the mighty He commix'd, with Plenty feeds.
The Birds their Songs repeat to ev'ry Grove;
And Herds perceive the Season of their Love:
Then teem the Fields, and make their Bosoms bare
To the warm Breezes of the western Air.
Then kindly Moisture over all Things sheds:
Plants trust new Suns, and boldly rear their Heads:
Nor fears the Vine lest southern Storms should rise,
Or the rough North pour Rivers from the Skies:
But boldly shoots her Buds from ev'ry Bough,
And all her Leaves displays with pompous Show.
So dawn'd the Days, such was, methinks, their Course
In the weak Childhood of the Universe:
Then Spring was all, for then the mighty Ring,
Roll'd, free from Winter's Storms, in constant Spring.--

And now the Fields all teem, and every Tree:
Now bloom the Groves, now smiles the beauteous Year.--

Seas then lie husht: then Earth grows bold to bear,
And trusts young Flow'rs to the serener Air:
Then Beasts in Fields, and Birds in every Grove,
Press on with Fury, to consummate Love.
With joyous Song the vocal Forests ring,
And various Leaves adorn the gaudy Spring:
With such brisk Powers are Nature's Parts possest,
When, wak'd, she rouses from her Winter's Rest.--

Sharp Winter melts, Favonius spreads his Wing,
And brings a pleasing Change, the smiling Spring.
Ships from the Docks are now drawn out again,
And spread their Canvas on the curling Main.
Nor Stalls the Ox, nor Fires the Clown delight,
Nor Frosts no longer cloth the Fields in White.
The Nymphs and Graces joyn'd, thro' flowry Meads,
By Moon--light dance, and lovely Venus leads.
Nimbly they shift their Feet, and shake the Ground,
While Vulcan lab'ring at his Forge is found.
Then crown'd with Myrtle be, or fragant Flow'rs,
Rais'd from the loos'ned Earth by balmy Show'rs:
To Faunus offer, in the sacred Groves,
A Lamb, or Kid, which e'er he best approves.--

The Snows are gone, behold a World's new Face!
How Grass the Ground, how Leaves their Branches grace.
The Streams that lately over--flow'd the Grounds,
Now gently glide within their proper Bounds.
The Nymphs and Graces naked dance around,
And nimbly o'er the flow'ry Meadows bound.--

The Spring, the new, the warbling Spring appears,
The youthful Season of reviving Years:
In Spring the Loves enkindle mutual Heats,
The feather'd Nations chuse their tuneful Mates:
The Trees grow fruitful with descending Rain,
And drest in diff'ring Greens adorn the Plain.--

Now Bulls o'er Stalks of Broom extend their Sides,
Secure of Favours from their lowing Brides.
Now stately Rams their fleecy Consorts lead,
Who bleating follow thro' the winding Shade.
And now the Goddess bids the Birds appear,
Raise all their Musick, and salute the Year:
Then deep the Swan begins, and deep the Song
Runs o'er the Water where he sails along:
While Philomela tunes a treble Strain,
And from the Poplar charms the list'ning Plain.--


The Stage.

Thespis, 'tis said, did Tragedy devise.
Unknown before, and rude at it's first Rise,
In Carts the Gypsy--Actors strol'd about,
Their Faces smear'd with Lees of Wine and Soot,
And thro' the Towns amus'd the wond'ring Rout.
Then Æschylus brought Masks and Habits in,
And built a Play--House, and contriv'd a Scene,
The buskin'd Heroes taught, with Grace and Art
To tread the Stage, and boldly speak their Part.--

He, who at first in Tragick Numbers wrote,
(When the poor Poet labour'd for a Goat,)
Brought in his Satyrs naked to divert
And mix'd the comick with the serious Part:
This was the Bait to bribe the Crowd to stay,
When drunk and wanton, and sit out the Play.

No Flute, or Trumpet, grac'd the antient Scene,
But Pipes whose Stops were few, and Model mean.
Such gain'd Applause, and pleas'd in former Days,
When to be chast and modest was a Praise,
When Folks lov'd Thrift, and few frequented Plays.
But after Rome had stretch'd her Conquests round,
And wider Walls enlarg'd the City's Bound:
Then Bards in bolder Strains began to sing,
And form'd their Numbers to the tuneful String.
Then graceful Motion, and a pompous Dress,
Gave to the growing Stage deserv'd Success:
The Lyre in more melodious Style was heard,
And Art in all it's Elegance appear'd:
With manly Sense sweet Elocution flow'd,
And spoke prophetick as the Delphick God.--


Stars.
See Chance. Orion. Pilot.

The glittering Stars at equal Distance lie,
Make various Shapes, and chequer all the Sky.
Above them Nought: to the World's Top they rose,
Painting the Roof of Nature's common House:
Which in a wide Embrace does all contain,
The spacious Air, the Earth, and raging Main.
They set in order, and in order rise,
As West drives down, or East brings up the Skies.--

So thick with Stars the Skies are spangled o'er,
That not the Sands upon the winding Shore,
That not the Billows in tempestuous Floods,
That not the Leaves when Autumn shakes the Woods,
Can shew their Number.--Numbers they surmount;
Arithmetick is lost in the Account.--
And as in Cities, where, in Ranks decreed,
First Nobles go, and then the Knights succeed;
A Right to come the next the People claim;
The Rabble last, a Croud without a Name.
So are the Heav'ns by different Stars possest:
Some, like the Nobles, with more Rays are drest,
Some shine with less, the num'rous Croud with least.
Were these endow'd with a proportion'd Heat,
Were they in Pow'r, as they're in Number great,
They, long agoe, must have dissolv'd the Frame,
Nor could the World have born so fierce a Flame.--


Style.
See Authors. Poetry. Poets.

Let Writers match their Subject to their Strength,
And often try what Weight they can support,
And what their Shoulders are too weak to bear:
After a serious and judicious Choice,
Method and Eloquence will never fail.--

Men ever had, and ever will have leave
To coin new Words, well suited to the Age.
Words are like Leaves; some wither ev'ry Year,
And ev'ry Year a younger Race succeeds.
Death is a Tribute all Things owe to Fate.
Why then should Words challenge Eternity,
When greatest Men, and greatest Actions die?

Use may revive the obsoletest Words,
And banish those that now are most in Vogue:
Use is the Judge, and Law, and Rule of Speech.--

Good Sense must be the certain Standard still,
To All, that e'er pretend to Writing well:
Chuse but a Subject which You throughly know,
And Words, unsought, therefrom with Ease will flow.--

Who knows the Duty of all Ranks of Men,
And what we owe to Country, Parents, Friends,
How Judges, and how Senators should act,
And what becomes a General to do,
And give to all their proper Characters.--

--Heraclitus whom vain Greeks admire
For dark Expression: but the sober few,
Who seek for, and delight in what is true,
Scorn and contemn:--for Fools alone regard
What seems obscure, and intricate, and hard:
Take that for Truth whose Phrases smooth appear,
And dancing Periods charm the wanton Ear.--

Mark where a bold expressive Phrase appears,
Bright thro' the Rubbish of some hundred Years:
Command old Words that long have slept, to wake;
Such as wise Bacon, or brave Raleigh spake:
Or bid the New be English Ages hence,
(For Use will father what's begot by Sense.)
Pour the full Tide of Eloquence along,
Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong,
Rich with the Treasures of each foreign Tongue.
Prune the Luxuriant, the Uncouth refine,
But shew no Mercy on an empty Line:
Then polish all with so much Life and Ease,
You think 'tis Nature, and a Knack to please.--

I lose my Patience, and I own it too,
When Works are censur'd, not as bad, but new:
While if our Elders break all Reason's Laws,
These Fools demand not Pardon, but Applause.

He who to seem more deep than You or I,
Extols old Bards, or Merlin's Prophecy,
Mistake him not: he envies, not admires,
And to debase the Sons exalts the Sires.
Had antient Times conspir'd to disallow
What then was new, what had been antient now?
Or what remain'd, so worthy to be read
By learned Criticks, of the mighty Dead?--