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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Love (Falling in.) |
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Love (Falling in.)
Dear Maid! In Love's soft Transport tost,
My every Sense at once was lost,
When first I saw Thee: not a Word
Could my disabled Tongue afford:
My Bosom glow'd: the subtle Flame
Ran quick thro' all my vital Frame:
My Ears with hollow Murmurs rung:
And o'er my Eyes a Darkness hung.—
My every Sense at once was lost,
When first I saw Thee: not a Word
Could my disabled Tongue afford:
My Bosom glow'd: the subtle Flame
Ran quick thro' all my vital Frame:
My Ears with hollow Murmurs rung:
And o'er my Eyes a Darkness hung.—
He view'd her Eyes; like heav'nly Lamps that shone;
He view'd her Lips: too sweet to view alone;
Her Fingers, and her Hands, his Passion raise,
While his fond Tongue grows wanton in their Praise:
Her Shoulders almost bare, her fine turn'd Arms
He views, and thinks her Dress conceals superior Charms.
As Fields of Stubble after Harvest burn:
As Hedges into sudden Blazes turn,
If Passengers, or bring too near, or throw
When Light their Torches by, and kindle all the Row.
So burns the God, consuming with Desire,
And feeding in his Breast a fruitless Fire.—
He view'd her Lips: too sweet to view alone;
Her Fingers, and her Hands, his Passion raise,
While his fond Tongue grows wanton in their Praise:
Her Shoulders almost bare, her fine turn'd Arms
He views, and thinks her Dress conceals superior Charms.
As Fields of Stubble after Harvest burn:
As Hedges into sudden Blazes turn,
If Passengers, or bring too near, or throw
When Light their Torches by, and kindle all the Row.
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And feeding in his Breast a fruitless Fire.—
Europa's Son
she knew above the rest,
And more than well became a Virgin Breast:
In vain the crested Helmet veils his Face,
She thinks it adds a more commanding Grace:
His ample Shield, emboss'd with burnish'd Gold,
Still makes the Bearer lovelier to behold:
When the tough Javelin, with a Whirl, he sends,
His Strength and Skill the sighing Maid commends:
Or, when he strains to draw the circling Bow,
And his fine Limbs a manly Posture show,
Compar'd with Phœbus, he performs so well,
Let her be Judge, and Minos shall excell.
But when the Helm, put off, display'd to Sight,
And set his Features in an open Light:
When vaulting to his Seat, his Steed he press'd,
Caparison'd in Gold, and richly drest:
Himself in Scarlet sumptuously array'd;
New Passions rise, and fire the frantic Maid.
O happy Spear! she cries, that feels his Touch:
Nay, ev'n the Reins he holds are blest too much.—
And more than well became a Virgin Breast:
In vain the crested Helmet veils his Face,
She thinks it adds a more commanding Grace:
His ample Shield, emboss'd with burnish'd Gold,
Still makes the Bearer lovelier to behold:
When the tough Javelin, with a Whirl, he sends,
His Strength and Skill the sighing Maid commends:
Or, when he strains to draw the circling Bow,
And his fine Limbs a manly Posture show,
Compar'd with Phœbus, he performs so well,
Let her be Judge, and Minos shall excell.
But when the Helm, put off, display'd to Sight,
And set his Features in an open Light:
When vaulting to his Seat, his Steed he press'd,
Caparison'd in Gold, and richly drest:
Himself in Scarlet sumptuously array'd;
New Passions rise, and fire the frantic Maid.
O happy Spear! she cries, that feels his Touch:
Nay, ev'n the Reins he holds are blest too much.—
Thee, with thy Mother, in our Meads I saw,
Gath'ring fresh Apples: I myself thy Guide:
Then Thou wert little: I, just then advanc'd
To my twelfth Year, could barely from the Ground
Touch with my reaching Hand the tender Boughs:
How did I look! how gaze my Soul away!
How did I die! in fatal Error lost!—
Gath'ring fresh Apples: I myself thy Guide:
Then Thou wert little: I, just then advanc'd
To my twelfth Year, could barely from the Ground
Touch with my reaching Hand the tender Boughs:
How did I look! how gaze my Soul away!
How did I die! in fatal Error lost!—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |