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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Peace.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Peace.
—Ages mild
Shall next succeed, and War no more be heard:
Then Faith, and Vesta, and Quirinus, joyn'd
With Remus, shall give Laws: strong massy Bars,
And Bolts of solid Iron, fast shall close
War's dreadful Portals: impious Rage within
Sitting on horrid Armour, and behind
Bound with an hundred brazen Knots, shall roar
With bloody Mouth, and foaming bite his Chains.—
Shall next succeed, and War no more be heard:
Then Faith, and Vesta, and Quirinus, joyn'd
With Remus, shall give Laws: strong massy Bars,
And Bolts of solid Iron, fast shall close
War's dreadful Portals: impious Rage within
Sitting on horrid Armour, and behind
Bound with an hundred brazen Knots, shall roar
With bloody Mouth, and foaming bite his Chains.—
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She first, white Peace, the Earth with Plough-shares broke,
And bent the Oxen to the crooked Yoke:
First rear'd the Vine, and hoarded first with Care
The Father's Vintage for his drunken Heir.—
Peace plies the Prong, and brights the shining Share;
Let eating Rust destroy the Tools of War.—
And bent the Oxen to the crooked Yoke:
First rear'd the Vine, and hoarded first with Care
The Father's Vintage for his drunken Heir.—
Peace plies the Prong, and brights the shining Share;
Let eating Rust destroy the Tools of War.—
Come, fost'ring Peace, to Us, and kindly bear
In thy fair Hand the Harvest's golden Ear:
And from thy Lap with lavish Plenty pour
Ripe Apples, and the Garden's bounteous Store.—
In thy fair Hand the Harvest's golden Ear:
And from thy Lap with lavish Plenty pour
Ripe Apples, and the Garden's bounteous Store.—
Peace is the greatest Good Mankind can know:
Peace, Peace alone, outweighs a thousand Triumphs:
Peace, the dear Blessing of Security,
To all impartial, gives.—
Peace, Peace alone, outweighs a thousand Triumphs:
Peace, the dear Blessing of Security,
To all impartial, gives.—
By the fair Name of Peace we are betray'd.—
None deep in Mines would dig the brazen Ore,
Mark out the Trench, or raise the lofty Tow'r;
Ne'er would the Steed in Armour seek the Plain,
Or Fleets encounter on th' unstable Main,
If Liberty could well be chang'd for Peace.—
None deep in Mines would dig the brazen Ore,
Mark out the Trench, or raise the lofty Tow'r;
Ne'er would the Steed in Armour seek the Plain,
Or Fleets encounter on th' unstable Main,
If Liberty could well be chang'd for Peace.—
Oh see at length! with Pity, Cæsar, see
These with'ring Arms, these Hairs grown white for Thee.
In painful Wars our joyless Days have pass'd,
Let weary Age lie down in Peace at last:
Give Us, on Beds, our dying Limbs to lay,
And sigh, at home, our parting Souls away:
Let our poor Babes, and weeping Wives be by,
To close our drooping Eye-lids when we die.
Be merciful, and let Disease afford
Some other Way to die, beside the Sword:
Let us no more a common Carnage burn,
But each be laid in his own decent Urn.—
These with'ring Arms, these Hairs grown white for Thee.
In painful Wars our joyless Days have pass'd,
Let weary Age lie down in Peace at last:
Give Us, on Beds, our dying Limbs to lay,
And sigh, at home, our parting Souls away:
Let our poor Babes, and weeping Wives be by,
To close our drooping Eye-lids when we die.
Be merciful, and let Disease afford
Some other Way to die, beside the Sword:
Let us no more a common Carnage burn,
But each be laid in his own decent Urn.—
The Maid Armipotent, that dreadful Pow'r,
Who drives th' embattl'd Host, and shakes the solid Tow'r,
Laid by her Spear, and all her War-attire,
Now mildly mixes with the softer Quire:
The Horror of her Helm, the Warrior's Pride,
Wreaths of fair Roses innocently hide:
She shines with peaceful Decorations dress'd,
And Flow'rs nod harmless from her lofty Crest.—
Who drives th' embattl'd Host, and shakes the solid Tow'r,
Laid by her Spear, and all her War-attire,
Now mildly mixes with the softer Quire:
The Horror of her Helm, the Warrior's Pride,
Wreaths of fair Roses innocently hide:
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And Flow'rs nod harmless from her lofty Crest.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |