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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Grief.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Grief.
See Lamentation. Mourning for the Dead.
Soon hasty Fame, thro' the sad City bearsThe mournful Tidings, to the Mother's Ears:
An icy Cold benumbs her Limbs: She shakes:
Her Cheeks the Blood, her Hand the Web forsakes.
She runs the Rampires round amidst the War,
Nor fears the flying Darts: she rends her Hair,
And with her Lamentations fills the Air.—
445
She pin'd, and taught the list'ning Rocks her Moan.
On the bare Earth she lies, her Bosom bare,
Loose her Attire, dishevell'd is her Hair.
Nine times the Moon unbarr'd the Gates of Light,
As oft were spread th' alternate Shades of Night:
So long no Sustenance the Mourner knew,
But what her Tears supply, or what the falling Dew.—
As when, complaining, in melodious Groans,
Sweet Philomel, beneath a Poplar Shade,
Mourns her lost Young: which some rough Village Hind
Observing, from their Nest, unfledg'd, has stole:
She weeps all Night: and, perch'd upon a Bough,
With plaintive Notes repeated fills the Grove.—
Defil'd with Filth his Robe, with Tears his Cheeks,
No Sustenance but Grief and Care he seeks:
Of rigid Fate incessant he complains,
And Hell's inexorable Gods arraigns.—
For Sighs come rushing in betwixt her Words,
And stop'd her Tongue: but what her Tongue deny'd,
Soft Tears, and Groans, and dumb Complaints supply'd—
—Her big swoln Grief surpass'd
The Power of Utterance: She stood aghast:
Nor had she Speech, nor Tears, to give Relief:
Excess of Woe suppress'd the rising Grief.
Stupid as Stone, on Earth she fix'd her Eyes,
And then look'd up to Heav'n with wild Surprize:
Now she contemplates o'er, with sad Delight,
Her Son's pale Visage: then her aking Sight
Dwells on his Wounds.—
—Dear Husband, wheresoe'er
Thou'rt gone, thro' Hell, if any Hell there be,
Or empty Chaos, I will follow Thee:
How long my Life's decreed I do not know:
If long, I'll punish it for lasting so.—
She who could bear to see thy Wounds, and live,
New Proofs of Love and fatal Grief shall give:
Nor need she fly for Succour to the Sword,
The steepy Precipice, or deadly Cord:
She from herself shall find her own Relief,
And scorn to die of any Death but Grief.
Thou'rt gone, thro' Hell, if any Hell there be,
Or empty Chaos, I will follow Thee:
How long my Life's decreed I do not know:
If long, I'll punish it for lasting so.—
447
New Proofs of Love and fatal Grief shall give:
Nor need she fly for Succour to the Sword,
The steepy Precipice, or deadly Cord:
She from herself shall find her own Relief,
And scorn to die of any Death but Grief.
So said the Matron, and about her Head
Her Veil she draws, her mournful Eyes to shade:
Resolv'd to shroud in thickest Shades her Woe,
She seeks the Ship's deep darksome Hold below:
There lonely left, at leisure to complain,
She hugs her Sorrows, and enjoys her Pain:
Still with fresh Tears the living Grief would feed,
And fondly loves it in her Husband's stead.—
Her flowing Garments mournfully she tares,
Her Veil she draws, her mournful Eyes to shade:
Resolv'd to shroud in thickest Shades her Woe,
She seeks the Ship's deep darksome Hold below:
There lonely left, at leisure to complain,
She hugs her Sorrows, and enjoys her Pain:
Still with fresh Tears the living Grief would feed,
And fondly loves it in her Husband's stead.—
And rends the Chaplet with her yellow Hairs:
Her Tears congeal, her Voice is now no more:
And a deep trembling seizes her all o'er—
But
Clymenè, enrag'd with Grief, laments,
And as her Grief inspires, her Passion vents:
Wild for her Son, and frantick in her Woes,
With Hair dishevell'd round the World she goes,
To seek where-e'er his Body might be cast:
Till, on the Borders of the Po, at last
The Name inscrib'd on the new Tomb appears.
The dear dear Name she bathes in flowing Tears,
Hangs o'er the Tomb, unable to depart,
And hugs the Marble to her throbbing Heart.
Her Daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn,
(A fruitless Tribute to their Brother's Urn)
And beat their naked Bosoms, and complain,
And call aloud for Phaëton in vain:
All the long Night their mournful Watch they keep,
And all the Day stand round the Tomb and weep.—
And as her Grief inspires, her Passion vents:
Wild for her Son, and frantick in her Woes,
With Hair dishevell'd round the World she goes,
To seek where-e'er his Body might be cast:
Till, on the Borders of the Po, at last
The Name inscrib'd on the new Tomb appears.
The dear dear Name she bathes in flowing Tears,
Hangs o'er the Tomb, unable to depart,
And hugs the Marble to her throbbing Heart.
Her Daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn,
(A fruitless Tribute to their Brother's Urn)
And beat their naked Bosoms, and complain,
And call aloud for Phaëton in vain:
All the long Night their mournful Watch they keep,
And all the Day stand round the Tomb and weep.—
When first I heard (from whom I hardly knew)
That You were fled, and all my Joys with You:
Like some sad Statue, speechless, pale, I stood,
Grief chill'd my Breast, and stop'd my freezing Blood:
No Sigh, to rise, no Tear had Pow'r to flow,
Fix'd in a stupid Lethargy of Woe.
But when it's Way th' impetuous Passion found,
I rend my Tresses, and my Breasts I wound:
I rave, then weep, I curse, and then complain,
Now swell to Rage, now melt in Tears again.
Nor fiercer Pangs distract the mournful Dame,
Whose first-born Infant feeds the fun'ral Flame.—
That You were fled, and all my Joys with You:
449
Grief chill'd my Breast, and stop'd my freezing Blood:
No Sigh, to rise, no Tear had Pow'r to flow,
Fix'd in a stupid Lethargy of Woe.
But when it's Way th' impetuous Passion found,
I rend my Tresses, and my Breasts I wound:
I rave, then weep, I curse, and then complain,
Now swell to Rage, now melt in Tears again.
Nor fiercer Pangs distract the mournful Dame,
Whose first-born Infant feeds the fun'ral Flame.—
Trembling she spoke, and raging with Despair,
She wounds her Cheeks, and rends her Silver Hair.
In copious Streams fast rolls the briny Show'r,
As down the Hills the rapid Torrents pour,
When Auster with indulgent Softness blows,
Dissolves the Frost, and melts the Mountain Snows:
Thus in a Flood of Tears her Eyes were drown'd,
And from her inmost Breast deep Sighs resound.—
She wounds her Cheeks, and rends her Silver Hair.
In copious Streams fast rolls the briny Show'r,
As down the Hills the rapid Torrents pour,
When Auster with indulgent Softness blows,
Dissolves the Frost, and melts the Mountain Snows:
Thus in a Flood of Tears her Eyes were drown'd,
And from her inmost Breast deep Sighs resound.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |