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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Superstition.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Superstition.
How Egypt, mad with Superstition grown,
Makes Gods of Monsters, but too well is known:
One Sect Devotion to Nile's Serpent pays,
Others to Ibis, that on Serpents preys.
Where, Thebes, thy hundred Gates lie unrepair'd,
And where maim'd Memnon's magic Harp is heard,
Amidst their Ruins, wondrous to behold,
A Monkey's sacred Statue glows with Gold.
Fish-Gods you'll meet, with Fins and Scales o'ergrown:
Diana's Dog's ador'd in ev'ry Town:
The Dog has Temples, but the Goddess none!
'Tis mortal Sin an Onion to devour,
Each Clove of Garlick is a sacred Power.
Religious Nations sure, and blest Abodes,
Where ev'ry Orchard is o'er-run with Gods!
To kill, is Murder, Sacriledge to eat
A Kid, or Lamb:—Man's Flesh is lawful Meat.—
Makes Gods of Monsters, but too well is known:
One Sect Devotion to Nile's Serpent pays,
Others to Ibis, that on Serpents preys.
Where, Thebes, thy hundred Gates lie unrepair'd,
And where maim'd Memnon's magic Harp is heard,
Amidst their Ruins, wondrous to behold,
A Monkey's sacred Statue glows with Gold.
Fish-Gods you'll meet, with Fins and Scales o'ergrown:
Diana's Dog's ador'd in ev'ry Town:
The Dog has Temples, but the Goddess none!
'Tis mortal Sin an Onion to devour,
Each Clove of Garlick is a sacred Power.
Religious Nations sure, and blest Abodes,
Where ev'ry Orchard is o'er-run with Gods!
To kill, is Murder, Sacriledge to eat
A Kid, or Lamb:—Man's Flesh is lawful Meat.—
Athens does Pallas, Cynthia
Crete adore,
Vulcan is pray'd to on the Lemnian Shore,
Altars to Juno are at Sparta rais'd,
Faunus th' Arcadians worship,—
And Mars, at Latium, is the God that's prais'd.—
Vulcan is pray'd to on the Lemnian Shore,
Altars to Juno are at Sparta rais'd,
Faunus th' Arcadians worship,—
And Mars, at Latium, is the God that's prais'd.—
419
The Jews, like their bigotted Sires before,
Do nothing but the Clouds and Heav'n adore:
So superstitious, that they'll sooner dine
Upon the Flesh of Men, than that of Swine.
Our Roman Customs they despise and jeer,
But learn and keep their Country Rites with Fear.
That Worship only they in Rev'rence have,
Which in dark Volumes their great Moses gave.
Ask 'em the Road, and they shall point you wrong,
Because you do not to their Tribe belong.
They'll not betray a Spring to quench your Thirst,
Unless you shew 'em Circumcision first.
So they are taught, and do it to obey
Their Fathers, who devote the Seventh Day
To Idleness, nor will thereon perform
The least Concern of Life.—
Do nothing but the Clouds and Heav'n adore:
So superstitious, that they'll sooner dine
Upon the Flesh of Men, than that of Swine.
Our Roman Customs they despise and jeer,
But learn and keep their Country Rites with Fear.
That Worship only they in Rev'rence have,
Which in dark Volumes their great Moses gave.
Ask 'em the Road, and they shall point you wrong,
Because you do not to their Tribe belong.
They'll not betray a Spring to quench your Thirst,
Unless you shew 'em Circumcision first.
So they are taught, and do it to obey
Their Fathers, who devote the Seventh Day
To Idleness, nor will thereon perform
The least Concern of Life.—
Old Images, of Form mishapen, stand,
Rude and unknowing of the Artist's Hand:
With hoary Filth begrim'd each ghastly Head
Strikes the astonish'd Gazer's Soul with Dread.
No Gods, who long in common Shapes appear'd,
Were e'er with such religious Awe rever'd:
But zealous Crowds in Ignorance adore,
And still the less they know, they fear the more.—
Rude and unknowing of the Artist's Hand:
With hoary Filth begrim'd each ghastly Head
Strikes the astonish'd Gazer's Soul with Dread.
No Gods, who long in common Shapes appear'd,
Were e'er with such religious Awe rever'd:
But zealous Crowds in Ignorance adore,
And still the less they know, they fear the more.—
When the bright Dog-Star o'er Calabria reigns,
And parches with excessive Heat her Plains,
The stupid Peasants, struck with annual Fear,
Assembled in some ancient Grove appear:
In superstitious Rites they pass the Day,
And, as the Priest directs, the Wretches pray.—
And parches with excessive Heat her Plains,
The stupid Peasants, struck with annual Fear,
Assembled in some ancient Grove appear:
In superstitious Rites they pass the Day,
And, as the Priest directs, the Wretches pray.—
Ombus and Tentyr, neighb'ring Towns, of late
Broke into Outrage of deep-fester'd Hate:
A Grudge in both, Time out of Mind begun,
Was mutually bequeath'd from Sire to Son.
Religious Spight and pious Spleen bred first
This Quarrel, which the headstrong Bigots nurs'd.
Each calls the Other's God a senseless Stock,
His own divine.—
Broke into Outrage of deep-fester'd Hate:
A Grudge in both, Time out of Mind begun,
Was mutually bequeath'd from Sire to Son.
Religious Spight and pious Spleen bred first
This Quarrel, which the headstrong Bigots nurs'd.
421
His own divine.—
From servile Fear the fancy'd Gods first came;
For when the Lightnings, with impetuous Flame,
Proud Walls beat down, and lofty Athos fir'd,
Religious Horror ev'ry Breast inspir'd:
Lustrations strait were paid the radiant Sun,
And changing Cynthia heav'nly Honours won.
Hence Idol-Crowds the tim'rous World o'erflow'd,
And not one Month but had its Patron God.
By such an Impotence of Mind betray'd,
The Swain to Ceres Autumn-Honours paid:
Bacchus was crown'd with Clusters of the Vine,
And from the Sheep-Cote Pales grew divine:
Neptune was set to rule the Ocean's Tide,
And Pallas o'er deep Caverns to preside.
Each, as his Guilt or Av'rice prompts Deceit,
Invents new Gods, and aids the pious Cheat.—
For when the Lightnings, with impetuous Flame,
Proud Walls beat down, and lofty Athos fir'd,
Religious Horror ev'ry Breast inspir'd:
Lustrations strait were paid the radiant Sun,
And changing Cynthia heav'nly Honours won.
Hence Idol-Crowds the tim'rous World o'erflow'd,
And not one Month but had its Patron God.
By such an Impotence of Mind betray'd,
The Swain to Ceres Autumn-Honours paid:
Bacchus was crown'd with Clusters of the Vine,
And from the Sheep-Cote Pales grew divine:
Neptune was set to rule the Ocean's Tide,
And Pallas o'er deep Caverns to preside.
Each, as his Guilt or Av'rice prompts Deceit,
Invents new Gods, and aids the pious Cheat.—
Our Superstitions with our Life begin:
The good old Grandame, or the next of Kin,
The new-born Infant from the Cradle takes,
And of her Spittle a Lustration makes:
Then in the Spawl her middle Finger dips,
And dawbs the Temples, Forehead, and the Lips,
Of Evil Eyes the Mischiefs to prevent,
By Virtue of her nasty Excrement.—
The good old Grandame, or the next of Kin,
The new-born Infant from the Cradle takes,
And of her Spittle a Lustration makes:
Then in the Spawl her middle Finger dips,
And dawbs the Temples, Forehead, and the Lips,
Of Evil Eyes the Mischiefs to prevent,
By Virtue of her nasty Excrement.—
The Mother, whose dear Son has lain oppress'd
By a cold Quartan, half a Year at least,
Gets up betimes, and prays;—O mighty Jove!
Who dost Diseases bring, and dost remove,
If Thou wilt stop the Fits, restore my Joy,
And spare the Body of my lovely Boy,
At thy next solemn Fast, Thou gracious God!
I'll set him naked in cold Tiber's Flood.
And, now, let Chance, or Nature's Strength release,
Or Physick's Force suppress the long Disease,
The frantic Mother will perform her Vow,
And her weak Son into the Tiber throw:
The Cold brings a Relapse, and kills the Lad:
And hath not Superstition made her mad?—
By a cold Quartan, half a Year at least,
Gets up betimes, and prays;—O mighty Jove!
Who dost Diseases bring, and dost remove,
If Thou wilt stop the Fits, restore my Joy,
And spare the Body of my lovely Boy,
At thy next solemn Fast, Thou gracious God!
I'll set him naked in cold Tiber's Flood.
And, now, let Chance, or Nature's Strength release,
Or Physick's Force suppress the long Disease,
The frantic Mother will perform her Vow,
And her weak Son into the Tiber throw:
423
And hath not Superstition made her mad?—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |