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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Death (Against the Fear of it.)
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Death (Against the Fear of it.)
See Death.
What has this Bugbear Death to frighten Man,If Souls can die as well as Bodies can?
For as before our Birth we felt no Pain,
When Punic Arms infested Land and Main:
So when our mortal Frame shall be disjoyn'd,
The lifeless Lump uncoupled from the Mind,
From Sense of Grief and Pain we shall be free:
We shall not feel, because we shall not be.
Tho' Earth in Seas, and Seas in Heav'n were lost,
We should not move, we only should be toss'd.
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The Soul could feel in her divided State,
What's that to Us? for We are only We,
While Souls and Bodies in one Frame agree.—
But to be snatch'd from all thy Household Joys,
From thy chaste Wife, and thy dear prattling Boys,
Whose little Arms about thy Legs are cast,
And climbing for a Kiss, prevent their Mother's Haste,
Inspiring secret Pleasure through thy Breast:
All these shall be no more:—thy Friends oppress'd
Thy Care and Courage now no more shall free:—
Ah! Wretch! thou cry'st; Ah! miserable me!
One woeful Day sweeps Children, Friends, and Wife,
And all the brittle Blessings of my Life!—
Add one Thing more, and All thou say'st is true:
Thy Want and Wish of them is vanish'd too:
For Thou shalt sleep, and never wake again,
And quitting Life, shall quit thy living Pain.
The worst that can befall Thee, measur'd right,
Is a sound Slumber, and a long Good-Night.—
When careful Thoughts of Death disturb thy Head,
Consider, Ancus, great and good, is dead:
Ancus, thy better far, was born to die:
And Thou! dost Thou bewail Mortality?
How many Monarchs with their mighty State,
Who rul'd the World, were over-rul'd by Fate?
Consider, Ancus, great and good, is dead:
Ancus, thy better far, was born to die:
And Thou! dost Thou bewail Mortality?
How many Monarchs with their mighty State,
Who rul'd the World, were over-rul'd by Fate?
That haughty
King, who lorded o'er the Main,
And whose stupendous Bridge did the wild Waves restrain:
In vain they foam'd, in vain they threaten'd Wreck,
While his proud Legions march'd upon their Back:
Him Death, a greater Monarch, overcame,
Nor spar'd his Guards the more for their immortal Name,
And whose stupendous Bridge did the wild Waves restrain:
In vain they foam'd, in vain they threaten'd Wreck,
While his proud Legions march'd upon their Back:
Him Death, a greater Monarch, overcame,
Nor spar'd his Guards the more for their immortal Name,
The Roman Chief, the Carthaginian Dread,
Scipio the Thunderbolt of War is dead,
And like a common Slave by Fate in Triumph led.
Scipio the Thunderbolt of War is dead,
And like a common Slave by Fate in Triumph led.
The Founders of invented Arts are lost;
And Wits who made Eternity their Boast:
Where now is Homer, who possess'd the Throne?
Th' immortal Work remains, the mortal Author's gone.
And Wits who made Eternity their Boast:
Where now is Homer, who possess'd the Throne?
Th' immortal Work remains, the mortal Author's gone.
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Democritus perceiving Age invade,
His Body weaken'd, and his Mind decay'd,
Obey'd the Summons with a chearful Face;
Made haste to welcome Death, and met him half the Race.
His Body weaken'd, and his Mind decay'd,
Obey'd the Summons with a chearful Face;
Made haste to welcome Death, and met him half the Race.
That Stroke, ev'n Epicurus could not bar,
Tho' he in Wit surpass'd Mankind, as far
As does the mid-day Sun the mid-night Star.
Then Thou, dost Thou disdain to yield thy Breath,
Whose very Life is little more than Death?
More than one half by lazy Sleep possess'd,
And when awake, thy Soul but nods at best,
Day-Dreams and sickly Thoughts revolving in thy Breast.
Eternal Troubles haunt thy anxious Mind,
Whose Cause and Cure thou never hop'st to find:
But still uncertain, with thyself at Strife,
Thou wander'st in the Labyrinth of Life.—
Tho' he in Wit surpass'd Mankind, as far
As does the mid-day Sun the mid-night Star.
Then Thou, dost Thou disdain to yield thy Breath,
Whose very Life is little more than Death?
More than one half by lazy Sleep possess'd,
And when awake, thy Soul but nods at best,
Day-Dreams and sickly Thoughts revolving in thy Breast.
Eternal Troubles haunt thy anxious Mind,
Whose Cause and Cure thou never hop'st to find:
But still uncertain, with thyself at Strife,
Thou wander'st in the Labyrinth of Life.—
One Moment from the Length of Death we gain:
For all behind belongs to his eternal Reign.
When once the Fates have cut the mortal Thread,
The Man as much to all Intents is dead,
Who dies to Day, and will as long be so,
As He who dy'd a thousand Years ago.—
Yet thus the Fools, who would be thought the Wits,
Disturb their Mirth with melancholy Fits,
When Healths go round, and kindly Brimmers flow,
Till the fresh Garlands on their Foreheads glow,
They whine, and cry, let us make haste to live!
Short are the Joys that human Life can give!
Eternal Preachers, that corrupt the Draught,
And pall the God, that never thinks with Thought:
Idiots with all that Thought, to whom the worst
Of Death, is Want of Drink, and endless Thirst.
Or any fond Desire as vain as these.
Disturb their Mirth with melancholy Fits,
When Healths go round, and kindly Brimmers flow,
Till the fresh Garlands on their Foreheads glow,
They whine, and cry, let us make haste to live!
Short are the Joys that human Life can give!
Eternal Preachers, that corrupt the Draught,
And pall the God, that never thinks with Thought:
Idiots with all that Thought, to whom the worst
Of Death, is Want of Drink, and endless Thirst.
Or any fond Desire as vain as these.
For ev'n in Sleep, the Body wrapt in Ease
Supinely lyes as in the peaceful Grave,
And wanting nothing, nothing can it crave.
Were that sound Sleep eternal, it were Death:
Yet the first Atoms then, the Seeds of Breath
Are moving near to Sense: we do but shake
And rouse that Sense, and straight we are awake.
Then Death, to Us, and Death's Anxiety,
Is less than Nothing, if a Less could be;
For then our Atoms, which in order lay,
Are scatter'd from their Heap, and puff'd away;
And never can return into their Place,
When once the Pause of Life has left an empty Space.—
Death's always past or coming on; in this
Supinely lyes as in the peaceful Grave,
And wanting nothing, nothing can it crave.
Were that sound Sleep eternal, it were Death:
Yet the first Atoms then, the Seeds of Breath
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And rouse that Sense, and straight we are awake.
Then Death, to Us, and Death's Anxiety,
Is less than Nothing, if a Less could be;
For then our Atoms, which in order lay,
Are scatter'd from their Heap, and puff'd away;
And never can return into their Place,
When once the Pause of Life has left an empty Space.—
There never any thing of present is:
And the Delays of Death more painful are,
Than Death itself, or Dying is, by far.—
You, whom the Terrors of cold Death affright:
Why do you tremble at an empty Name,
A Dream of Darkness, and a fancy'd Flame?
Vain Themes of Wit! which but in Poems pass,
And Fables of a World that never was!
Nought feels the Body when the Soul expires,
By Time corrupted, or consum'd by Fires:
Nor dies the Spirit, but new Life repeats
In other Forms, and only changes Seats.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |