Medulla Poetarum Romanorum Or, the Most Beautiful and Instructive Passages of the Roman Poets. Being a Collection, (Disposed under proper Heads,) Of such Descriptions, Allusions, Comparisons, Characters, and Sentiments, as may best serve to shew the Religion, Learning, Politicks, Arts, Customs, Opinions, Manners, and Circumstances of the Antients. With Translations of the same in English Verse. By Mr. Henry Baker |
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Suicide.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Suicide.
See Despair. Lover desponding.
Now to the inmost Court fierce Dido flies,
And rolls with ghastly Looks her glaring Eyes:
Tho' pale, and shiv'ring, at her purpos'd Doom,
And ev'ry dreadful Thought of Death to come,
Yet many a crimson Flush, with various Grace,
Glows on her Cheek, and kindles in her Face.
And rolls with ghastly Looks her glaring Eyes:
Tho' pale, and shiv'ring, at her purpos'd Doom,
And ev'ry dreadful Thought of Death to come,
Yet many a crimson Flush, with various Grace,
Glows on her Cheek, and kindles in her Face.
Furious she mounts the Pyre, and draws the Sword,
The fatal Present of the Dardan Lord:
For no such End bestow'd. The conscious Bed,
And Robes she view'd, and Tears in Silence shed:
Stood still, and paus'd a Moment:—Then she cast
Her Body on the Couch, and spoke her last.
The fatal Present of the Dardan Lord:
For no such End bestow'd. The conscious Bed,
And Robes she view'd, and Tears in Silence shed:
Stood still, and paus'd a Moment:—Then she cast
Her Body on the Couch, and spoke her last.
Ye dear, dear Relicks of the Man I lov'd,
While Fate consented, and the Gods approv'd,
Relieve my Woes, this Rage of Love controul,
Take my last Breath, and catch my parting Soul.
My fatal Course is finish'd, and I go
A Ghost majestic to the Realms below:
Happy! thrice happy! if the Dardan Band
Had never touch'd upon the Lybian Land.
Then pressing with her Lips the Trojan Bed,
Shall I then die, and unreveng'd? (she said,)
Yet die I will:—and thus, and thus, I go—
Thus—fly with Pleasure, to the Shades below.
While Fate consented, and the Gods approv'd,
Relieve my Woes, this Rage of Love controul,
Take my last Breath, and catch my parting Soul.
My fatal Course is finish'd, and I go
A Ghost majestic to the Realms below:
Happy! thrice happy! if the Dardan Band
Had never touch'd upon the Lybian Land.
Then pressing with her Lips the Trojan Bed,
Shall I then die, and unreveng'd? (she said,)
Yet die I will:—and thus, and thus, I go—
Thus—fly with Pleasure, to the Shades below.
Mean time, the sad Attendants as she spoke,
Beheld her strike, and sink beneath the Stroke.
At once her snowy Hands were purpled o'er,
And the bright Faulchion smoak'd with streaming Gore.—
With sudden Shrieks the Palace rings around:
Beheld her strike, and sink beneath the Stroke.
At once her snowy Hands were purpled o'er,
And the bright Faulchion smoak'd with streaming Gore.—
The long, long Cries, from Street to Street resound:
Nothing is heard but Groans and Women's Cries,
And loud Laments re-echo thro' the Skies.—
A Rock there stood, whose Side the beating Waves
Had long consum'd, and hollow'd into Caves:
409
And cast a dreadful Covert o'er the Deep.
The wretched Ino, on Destruction bent,
Climb'd up the Cliff: such Strength her Fury lent:
Thence with her guiltless Boy, who wept in vain,
At one bold Spring she plung'd into the Main.—
He who could often, and alone, withstand
The Foe, the Fire, and Jove's own partial Hand,
Now cannot his un-master'd Grief sustain,
But yields to Rage, to Madness, and Disdain.
Then snatching out his Faulchion, Thou, said He,
Art mine:—or lays Ulysses claim to Thee?
O often try'd, and ever trusty Sword,
Now do thy last kind Office to thy Lord:
'Tis Ajax who requests thy Aid, to show,
None but himself, himself could overthrow.
He said, and with so good a Will to die,
Did to his Breast the fatal Point apply,
It found his Heart: a Way till then unknown,
Where never Weapon enter'd, but his own.
No Hands could force it thence, so fixt it stood,
Till out it rush'd, expell'd by Streams of spouting Blood.—
My gallant Friends! whom our hard Fates decree,
This Night, this short Night only, to be free:
Think what remains to do, but think with Haste,
E'er the brief Hour of Liberty be past.
Perhaps, reduc'd to this so hard Extream,
Too short, to some, the Date of Life may seem:
Yet know, brave Youths! that none untimely fall,
Whom Death obeys, and comes but when they call.
'Tis true, the neighb'ring Danger waits us nigh:
We meet but that from which we cannot fly:
Yet think not with inferior Praise we die.
Dark and uncertain is Man's fatal Doom:
If Years, or only Moments, are to come,
All is but Dying: he who gives an Hour,
Or he that gives an Age, gives all that's in his Pow'r.
Sooner or late, all Mortals know the Grave,
But to chuse Death distinguishes the Brave.
Behold where, waiting round, yon hostile Band,
Our Fellow-Citizens, our Lives demand.
Prevent we then their cruel Hands, and bleed:—
Tis but to do what is too sure decreed,
And where our Fate would drag us on, to lead.
This Night, this short Night only, to be free:
Think what remains to do, but think with Haste,
E'er the brief Hour of Liberty be past.
Perhaps, reduc'd to this so hard Extream,
Too short, to some, the Date of Life may seem:
Yet know, brave Youths! that none untimely fall,
Whom Death obeys, and comes but when they call.
'Tis true, the neighb'ring Danger waits us nigh:
We meet but that from which we cannot fly:
Yet think not with inferior Praise we die.
411
If Years, or only Moments, are to come,
All is but Dying: he who gives an Hour,
Or he that gives an Age, gives all that's in his Pow'r.
Sooner or late, all Mortals know the Grave,
But to chuse Death distinguishes the Brave.
Behold where, waiting round, yon hostile Band,
Our Fellow-Citizens, our Lives demand.
Prevent we then their cruel Hands, and bleed:—
Tis but to do what is too sure decreed,
And where our Fate would drag us on, to lead.
Is there a gen'rous Youth, Vulteius cry'd,
Whose worthy Sword may pierce your Leader's Side?
He said: and at the Word, from ev'ry Part,
An hundred pointed Weapons reach'd his Heart.
Dying he prais'd 'em all, but him the chief,
Whose eager Duty brought the first Relief:
Deep in his Breast he plung'd the deadly Blade,
And with a grateful Stroke the friendly Gift repaid.
Whose worthy Sword may pierce your Leader's Side?
He said: and at the Word, from ev'ry Part,
An hundred pointed Weapons reach'd his Heart.
Dying he prais'd 'em all, but him the chief,
Whose eager Duty brought the first Relief:
Deep in his Breast he plung'd the deadly Blade,
And with a grateful Stroke the friendly Gift repaid.
At once all rush, at once to Death they fly,
And on each others Swords alternate dye.—
And on each others Swords alternate dye.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |