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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Place (Barren.) |
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Place (Barren.)
Their Fountains dry'd, the weeping Naiads mourn'd,
The Trees stood bare, with fearing Cankers burn'd:
No Herbage cloath'd the Ground: a ragged Flock
Of Goats half-famish'd lick'd the naked Rock.—
The Trees stood bare, with fearing Cankers burn'd:
No Herbage cloath'd the Ground: a ragged Flock
Of Goats half-famish'd lick'd the naked Rock.—
Barren, and desolate, those Regions lie,
That border on the Syrts, and feel too nigh
The sultry Summer Sun, and parching Sky.
No Harvest there the scatter'd Grain repays,
But withering dies, and e'er it shoots decays.
There never flourishes the mantling Vine,
Nor round the Elm her wanton Tendrils twine:
The thirsty Dust prevents the swelling Fruit,
Drinks up the gen'rous Juice, and kills the Root.
Thro' secret Veins no temp'ring Moistures pass,
To bind with viscous Force the mould'ring Mass:
But genial Jove averse, disdains to smile,
Forgets, and curses the neglected Soil.
Thence lazy Nature droops her idle Head,
As ev'ry vegetable Sense were dead:
Thence the wide dreary Plains one Visage wear:
Alike in Summer, Winter, Spring appear,
Nor feel the Turns of the revolving Year.—
That border on the Syrts, and feel too nigh
The sultry Summer Sun, and parching Sky.
No Harvest there the scatter'd Grain repays,
But withering dies, and e'er it shoots decays.
There never flourishes the mantling Vine,
Nor round the Elm her wanton Tendrils twine:
The thirsty Dust prevents the swelling Fruit,
Drinks up the gen'rous Juice, and kills the Root.
Thro' secret Veins no temp'ring Moistures pass,
To bind with viscous Force the mould'ring Mass:
But genial Jove averse, disdains to smile,
Forgets, and curses the neglected Soil.
Thence lazy Nature droops her idle Head,
As ev'ry vegetable Sense were dead:
Thence the wide dreary Plains one Visage wear:
Alike in Summer, Winter, Spring appear,
Nor feel the Turns of the revolving Year.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |