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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Manes.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Manes.
See Funerals.
—To Polydore we first performHis Obsequies: a lofty Pile of Earth
Is rais'd: and Altars to the Manes built,
Mournful with fun'ral Wreaths, and gloomy Boughs
Of Cypress: With their Tresses scatter'd loose
(Such is th' accustom'd Rite) the Trojan Dames
Stand round: We offer Jars of tepid Milk,
And frothing Bowls of consecrated Blood:
Within the Grave compose his Soul to Rest,
Invoke him loud, and take our last Farewel.—
—Close in a Grove,
Andromache the mournful Off'rings paid,
And solemn Sacrifice at Hector's Tomb,
His empty Tomb: which, with two Altars built
On the green Turf, th' Incentives of her Grief,
She consecrated: and with Tears invok'd
His Manes.—
—Æneas summons his assembled Friends,
And thus bespeaks them from a rising Ground:
Ye gen'rous Trojans! sprung from Blood divine:
One yearly Circle is by rolling Months
Compleat, since in the Grave we laid to Rest
The mortal Relicks of my godlike Sire,
And consecrated Fun'ral Altars rais'd.
And now That Day, if I remember right,
Is come, by me (so You, ye Gods, decreed)
For ever honour'd, and for ever mourn'd.
This Day, did I on Lybia's barren Sands
In Exile live, or on the Grecian Sea
Detain'd, or in Mycenæ: annual Vows
Ev'n then I would perform, and solemn Pomps,
And on his Altars pile th' Oblations due.
Now to my Father's Self, his Bones, and Dust
(Not without Providence, and Heav'n's Design,
As I suppose,) we come, and enter safe
These friendly Ports. Come on then, let Us all
Honour this Festival with Joy, implore
From him propitious Winds, and Leave to pay
These annual Oblations.—
And thus bespeaks them from a rising Ground:
Ye gen'rous Trojans! sprung from Blood divine:
One yearly Circle is by rolling Months
Compleat, since in the Grave we laid to Rest
The mortal Relicks of my godlike Sire,
And consecrated Fun'ral Altars rais'd.
And now That Day, if I remember right,
Is come, by me (so You, ye Gods, decreed)
For ever honour'd, and for ever mourn'd.
This Day, did I on Lybia's barren Sands
In Exile live, or on the Grecian Sea
Detain'd, or in Mycenæ: annual Vows
Ev'n then I would perform, and solemn Pomps,
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Now to my Father's Self, his Bones, and Dust
(Not without Providence, and Heav'n's Design,
As I suppose,) we come, and enter safe
These friendly Ports. Come on then, let Us all
Honour this Festival with Joy, implore
From him propitious Winds, and Leave to pay
These annual Oblations.—
He said: and with his Mother's Myrtle Wreath
His Temples crowns. Directly to the Tomb
He from th' Assembly goes, by Thousands round
Attended. For Libation here he pours
Two Bowls of Wine, unmix'd, upon the Ground,
Two of warm Milk, and two of Holy Blood:
Then scatters purple Flow'rs, and Thus he speaks.
His Temples crowns. Directly to the Tomb
He from th' Assembly goes, by Thousands round
Attended. For Libation here he pours
Two Bowls of Wine, unmix'd, upon the Ground,
Two of warm Milk, and two of Holy Blood:
Then scatters purple Flow'rs, and Thus he speaks.
Hail sacred Sire! Again, Ye Ashes, hail;
In vain revisited! and Thou, the Ghost
Of him who gave me Birth!
In vain revisited! and Thou, the Ghost
Of him who gave me Birth!
Five Sheep, obsequious to th' accustom'd Rite,
He sacrifices: next, as many Sows,
And Heifers black: then pours the Wine from Bowls,
Invoking great Anchises' Soul, dismiss'd
From Acheron. Nor less his Friends, as each
With Store was furnish'd, offer Gifts, and load
The Altars, sacrificing Oxen slain:
Others in order Cauldrons fix: and, stretch'd
Along the Grass, o'er Heaps of burning Coals
Place Spits, and fry the Entrails on the Fire.—
Hither in Throngs they crowded to the Bank:
He sacrifices: next, as many Sows,
And Heifers black: then pours the Wine from Bowls,
Invoking great Anchises' Soul, dismiss'd
From Acheron. Nor less his Friends, as each
With Store was furnish'd, offer Gifts, and load
The Altars, sacrificing Oxen slain:
Others in order Cauldrons fix: and, stretch'd
Along the Grass, o'er Heaps of burning Coals
Place Spits, and fry the Entrails on the Fire.—
Matrons, and Men, Souls of brave Heroes dead,
Boys, and unmarried Girls, and Youths consum'd
On Fun'ral Piles before their Parents Eyes.
Unnumber'd, as the Leaves, which fall in Woods,
By Autumn's first sharp Blasts: Or as the Birds
Which flock from Sea to Land, when the cold Year
Drives them beyond Sea, seeking warmer Climes.
Praying they stood, first to be wafted o'er:
And, longing for the farther Bank, their Hands
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To all their Cries, now These, now Those receives:
But drives the rest at distance from the Beach.
Æneas, (for that Tumult much surpriz'd,
And struck his Soul) thus speaks: O sacred Maid!
Tell me, what means this Concourse to the Lake?
What do the Ghosts desire? And why distinct
Leave These the Banks, while Others sweep with Oars
The livid Ford?—To Him in brief replies
The aged Priestess:—You see
Profound Cocytus, and the Stygian Pool:
Whose Deity the Gods by Oaths revere,
And dread to violate. This Crowd is All
Distress'd, and unintomb'd: That Ferryman
Is Charon; Those who sail the Lake, interr'd.
But 'tis not giv'n to pass the horrid Banks,
And hoarse resounding fluent: till in Graves
Their Bones are laid: An hundred Years they rove,
And flutter round these Shores, and then at length
Admitted, to the wish'd for Stream return.—
Soon as Cornelia reach'd the friendly Strand,
Pompey's last Rites employ her pious Hand:
To his dear Shade she builds a fun'ral Pile,
And decks it proud with many a noble Spoil.
There shone his Arms, with antick Gold inlaid,
There the rich Robes which she herself had made:
Robes to imperial Jove in Triumph thrice display'd:
The Relicks of his past victorious Days,
Now this his latest Trophy serve to raise,
And in one common Flame together blaze,
Such was the weeping Matron's pious Care:
The Soldiers, taught by her, their Fires prepare:
To ev'ry valiant Friend, a Pile they build,
That fell for Rome in curs'd Pharsalia's Field:
Stretch'd wide along the Shores, the Flames extend,
And grateful to the wandring Shades, ascend.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |