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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Poets.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Poets.
Let me for once presume t' instruct the Times,To know the Poet from the Man of Rhimes:
'Tis He who gives my Breast a thousand Pains,
Can make me feel each Passion that he feigns,
Enrage, compose, with more than magic Art,
With Pity, and with Terror, tare my Heart:
And snatch me o'er the Earth, or thro' the Air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.—
The Good to cherish, Friends to reconcile:
The Furious to restrain, and love the Man
Who fears a wicked Deed: Temp'rance to praise;
Strict Justice, and his Country's Laws support:
To preach up sacred Hospitality,
And to conceal, not aggravate Mistakes,
Becomes the Poet.—He too implores the Gods
To raise the wretched, and the Proud pull down.—
What seeks the Poet for, but only Fame?
Nought crowns his Labours but an empty Name.
By Kings and Heroes, as old Authors shew,
Poets, in ancient Times,—
Were lov'd, protected, and rewarded too.
Then to the Name much Rev'rence was allow'd,
And they with rich Possessions were endow'd.
Ennius with Honours was by Scipio grac'd,
And, next his own, the Poet's Statue plac'd.
But now their ivy Crowns bear no Esteem,
And all their Learning's thought an idle Dream.—
No Fraud the Poet's sacred Breast can bear,
Mild are his Manners, and his Heart sincere:
Nor Wealth he seeks, nor feels Ambition's Fires,
But shuns the Bar, and Books and Shades requires.
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And, both, to Tenderness our Hearts incline:
Something divine is in Us, and from Heav'n
Th' inspiring Spirit can alone be giv'n.—
Painters and Poets have been still allow'd
Their Pencils and their Fancies unconfin'd.—
A Poet should inform us, or divert:
But joyning both he shews his greatest Art.—
Poets may take a boundless Liberty,
Nor are confin'd to Truths in History.—
But let whate'er of Fiction, You bring in,
Be so like Truth, to seem, at least, a-kin.—
Learn'd or unlearn'd we write:—we're Poets all.
But this Mistake, a Madness tho' it be,
Produces such good Qualities as these:
The Poet's Soul is free from Avarice
The Muse his Mistress, her alone he courts:
And laughs at Losses, Robberies, or Fires.
His Friend he will not cheat, nor wrong his Ward.
Contentedly he lives on homely Fare:
And tho' unactive, and for War unfit,
At home he dwells, a useful Citizen.
Great Things are brought about by humble Means:
Youth's stammering Tongue the Poet forms to Speech:
From leud Expressions guards the tender Ears,
And generous Precepts pours into the Soul,
Correcting Envy, Savageness, and Rage.
Facts rightly he relates: the rising Age
With great Examples fires: the Sick revives,
And to the Wretched Consolation brings.—
—Whoever joins Instruction with Delight
Pleasure with Profit, is most surely right.
Pleasure with Profit, is most surely right.
Most Poets fall into the grossest Faults,
Deluded by a seeming Excellence.
By striving to be short, they grow obscure:
And when they would write smoothly, they want Strength,
Their Spirits sink: while Others, that affect
A lofty Stile, swell to a Tympany.
Some tim'rous Wretches start at ev'ry Blast,
And fearing Tempests, dare not leave the Shore:
Others in love with wild Variety,
Draw Boars in Waves, and Dolphins in a Wood.
Thus fear of erring, joyn'd with want of Skill,
Is the most certain Way of erring still.—
If I discern not the true Stile, and Air,
Deluded by a seeming Excellence.
By striving to be short, they grow obscure:
And when they would write smoothly, they want Strength,
Their Spirits sink: while Others, that affect
A lofty Stile, swell to a Tympany.
Some tim'rous Wretches start at ev'ry Blast,
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Others in love with wild Variety,
Draw Boars in Waves, and Dolphins in a Wood.
Thus fear of erring, joyn'd with want of Skill,
Is the most certain Way of erring still.—
Nor how to give the proper Character
To ev'ry Kind of Work, how dare I claim,
And challenge to myself a Poet's Name?—
But he, whose noble Genius is allow'd,
Who with stretch'd Pinions soars above the Crowd,
Who mighty Thought can cloath with manly Dress,
He, whom I fancy, but can ne'er express:
Such, such a Wit, tho' rarely to be found,
Must be secure from Want, if not abound:
Easy and Quiet in his Mind must be,
From Care, from Bus'ness, and from Trouble free.
He must have Groves, and lonely Fountains chuse,
And pleasing Solitudes to bait his Muse;
Unvex'd with Thought of Wants which may betide,
Or for to Morrow's Dinner to provide.
Horace ne'er wrote but with a rosy Cheek,
Full were his Pockets, and his Sides were sleek.
A Wit should have no Care, or this alone,
To make his rising Numbers justly run.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |