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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Sleep.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Sleep.
Near the Cimmerians, lies a Cavern deep
Within a Rock, the Court of lazy Sleep.
This the Sun sees not at his Noon-tide Height,
Nor cheers, with rising, or descending Light:
But hazy Vapours from the Earth arise,
And spread perpetual Twilight o'er the Skies.
No wakeful Cocks, with early Crowings, dare
Proclaim the Rise of rosy Morning there:
No watchful Dogs, or more sagacious Geese,
Disturb with Noise the everlasting Peace.
No Voice of Beasts, no Winds among the Boughs,
No human Sounds this Region ever knows.
Here Silence reigns: yet from the Rock below,
An Arm of Lethe, with a gentle Flow,
Arising upwards, o'er the Pebbles creeps,
And with soft Murmurs calls the coming Sleeps.
Around the Entrance nodding Poppies grow,
And num'rous Herbs that balmy Sleep bestow:
Which Night extracting from their juicy Veins,
Sheds as she passes o'er the dusky Plains.
Least Doors should creak, and creaking hinder Sleep,
No Door there was: no Guard the House to keep.
Amidst the Cave was rais'd a lofty Bed,
Stuff'd with black Down, and on an Ebon Sted:
Black was the Cov'ring too, where lay the God,
And slept supine, his Limbs display'd abroad.
About his Head fantastic Visions fly,
Which various Images of Things supply,
And mock their Forms: the Leaves on Trees not more,
Nor bearded Ears in Fields, nor Sands upon the Shore.—
Within a Rock, the Court of lazy Sleep.
This the Sun sees not at his Noon-tide Height,
Nor cheers, with rising, or descending Light:
But hazy Vapours from the Earth arise,
And spread perpetual Twilight o'er the Skies.
No wakeful Cocks, with early Crowings, dare
Proclaim the Rise of rosy Morning there:
No watchful Dogs, or more sagacious Geese,
Disturb with Noise the everlasting Peace.
No Voice of Beasts, no Winds among the Boughs,
No human Sounds this Region ever knows.
Here Silence reigns: yet from the Rock below,
An Arm of Lethe, with a gentle Flow,
Arising upwards, o'er the Pebbles creeps,
And with soft Murmurs calls the coming Sleeps.
Around the Entrance nodding Poppies grow,
And num'rous Herbs that balmy Sleep bestow:
Which Night extracting from their juicy Veins,
Sheds as she passes o'er the dusky Plains.
Least Doors should creak, and creaking hinder Sleep,
No Door there was: no Guard the House to keep.
Amidst the Cave was rais'd a lofty Bed,
Stuff'd with black Down, and on an Ebon Sted:
375
And slept supine, his Limbs display'd abroad.
About his Head fantastic Visions fly,
Which various Images of Things supply,
And mock their Forms: the Leaves on Trees not more,
Nor bearded Ears in Fields, nor Sands upon the Shore.—
The God his Eye-lids struggles to unloose,
Seal'd, by his deep unbroken Slumbers, close:
Half-way his Head he rears, with sluggish Pain,
Which, heavy, sinks upon his Breast again:
Frequent Attempts without Success he makes,
But, at the last, with long Endeavours, wakes:
Half-rais'd, and half-reclining on his Bed,
Upon his Hand he leans his nodding Head.—
Seal'd, by his deep unbroken Slumbers, close:
Half-way his Head he rears, with sluggish Pain,
Which, heavy, sinks upon his Breast again:
Frequent Attempts without Success he makes,
But, at the last, with long Endeavours, wakes:
Half-rais'd, and half-reclining on his Bed,
Upon his Hand he leans his nodding Head.—
—Again he seeks his Bed,
In whose soft Down he sinks his drooping Head:
Again his Eye-lids are with Sleep opprest,
And the whole God dissolves again to rest.—
In whose soft Down he sinks his drooping Head:
Again his Eye-lids are with Sleep opprest,
And the whole God dissolves again to rest.—
—O sacred Rest!
Sweet pleasing Sleep! of all the Pow'rs the best!
O Peace of Mind! Repairer of Decay,
At whose Approach, Care, sullen, flies away:
Whose Balm renews the weary'd Limbs to Labours of the Day.—
Sweet pleasing Sleep! of all the Pow'rs the best!
O Peace of Mind! Repairer of Decay,
At whose Approach, Care, sullen, flies away:
Whose Balm renews the weary'd Limbs to Labours of the Day.—
Sweet Sleep despises not the Poor,
Nor passes by the Cottage Door:
He loves the Shades, he loves the Plains,
And favours most the lowly Swains.—
Nor passes by the Cottage Door:
He loves the Shades, he loves the Plains,
And favours most the lowly Swains.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |