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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103
Midas.
To him the
God:—
Wish what Thou wilt, and all thy Wish enjoy.
A gen'rous Offer! tho' but ill bestow'd
On One whose Choice so wrong a Judgment show'd.
Grant me, says he, (nor thought he ask'd too much)
That with my Body whatsoe'er I touch,
Chang'd from the Nature which it held of old,
May be converted into yellow Gold,
He had his Wish: but yet the God repin'd,
To think the Fool no better Wish could find.
Wish what Thou wilt, and all thy Wish enjoy.
A gen'rous Offer! tho' but ill bestow'd
On One whose Choice so wrong a Judgment show'd.
Grant me, says he, (nor thought he ask'd too much)
That with my Body whatsoe'er I touch,
Chang'd from the Nature which it held of old,
May be converted into yellow Gold,
He had his Wish: but yet the God repin'd,
To think the Fool no better Wish could find.
In Thought compleatly blest, he leaves the Place,
With Smiles of Gladness sparkling in his Face:
Nor could contain, but, as he took his Way,
Impatient, longs to make the first Essay.
Down from a lowly Branch a Twig he drew,
The Twig strait glitter'd with a golden Hue.
He takes a Stone: the Stone was turn'd to Gold:
A Clod he touches: and the crumbling Mold
Acknowledg'd soon the transmutating Power,
In Weight and Substance a rich Lump of Ore.
He pluck'd the Corn: and strait his Grasp appears
Fill'd with a bending Tuft of golden Ears.
An Apple next he takes: and seems to hold
The bright Hesperian vegetable Gold.
His Hand he careless on a Pillar lays:
With shining Gold the Pillar seems to blaze:
And while he washes, as the Servants pour,
His Touch converts the Stream to Danae's Show'r.
With Smiles of Gladness sparkling in his Face:
Nor could contain, but, as he took his Way,
Impatient, longs to make the first Essay.
Down from a lowly Branch a Twig he drew,
The Twig strait glitter'd with a golden Hue.
He takes a Stone: the Stone was turn'd to Gold:
A Clod he touches: and the crumbling Mold
Acknowledg'd soon the transmutating Power,
In Weight and Substance a rich Lump of Ore.
He pluck'd the Corn: and strait his Grasp appears
Fill'd with a bending Tuft of golden Ears.
An Apple next he takes: and seems to hold
The bright Hesperian vegetable Gold.
His Hand he careless on a Pillar lays:
With shining Gold the Pillar seems to blaze:
And while he washes, as the Servants pour,
His Touch converts the Stream to Danae's Show'r.
To see these Miracles so finely wrought,
Fires with transporting Joy his giddy Thought.
The ready Slaves prepare a sumptuous Board,
Spread with rich Dainties for their happy Lord:
Whose pow'rful Hands the Bread no sooner hold,
But its whole Substance is transform'd to Gold.
Up to his Mouth he lifts the sav'ry Meat,
Which turns to Gold as he attempts to eat:
His Patron's noble Juice! of purple Hue,
Touch'd by his Lips, a gilded Cordial grew:
Unfit for drink, and wondrous to behold,
It trickles from his Jaws a fluid Gold.
Fires with transporting Joy his giddy Thought.
The ready Slaves prepare a sumptuous Board,
Spread with rich Dainties for their happy Lord:
Whose pow'rful Hands the Bread no sooner hold,
But its whole Substance is transform'd to Gold.
105
Which turns to Gold as he attempts to eat:
His Patron's noble Juice! of purple Hue,
Touch'd by his Lips, a gilded Cordial grew:
Unfit for drink, and wondrous to behold,
It trickles from his Jaws a fluid Gold.
The rich poor Fool, confounded with Surprize,
Starving in all his various Plenty lies:
Sick of his Wish, he now detests the Pow'r,
For which he ask'd so earnestly before:
Amidst his Gold with pinching Famine curst,
And justly tortur'd with an equal Thirst.
At last his shining Arms to Heav'n he rears,
And in Distress, for Refuge, flies to Pray'rs.
O, Father Bacchus! I have sinn'd! he cry'd,
And foolishly thy gracious Gift apply'd!
Thy Pity now, repenting, I implore!
Oh! may I feel the golden Plague no more!
Starving in all his various Plenty lies:
Sick of his Wish, he now detests the Pow'r,
For which he ask'd so earnestly before:
Amidst his Gold with pinching Famine curst,
And justly tortur'd with an equal Thirst.
At last his shining Arms to Heav'n he rears,
And in Distress, for Refuge, flies to Pray'rs.
O, Father Bacchus! I have sinn'd! he cry'd,
And foolishly thy gracious Gift apply'd!
Thy Pity now, repenting, I implore!
Oh! may I feel the golden Plague no more!
The hungry Wretch, his Folly thus confest,
Touch'd the kind Deities good-natur'd Breast:
The gentle God annull'd his first Decree,
And from the cruel Compact set him free.—
Touch'd the kind Deities good-natur'd Breast:
The gentle God annull'd his first Decree,
And from the cruel Compact set him free.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |