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 |
 | I. |
|
|
Druids.
|
| II. |
|
|
|
 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Druids.
Ye
Druids, too, now Arms are heard no more,
Old Mysteries and barb'rous Rites restore.
To You, and You of all Mankind alone,
The Gods are sure reveal'd, or sure unknown:
Whilst in the gloomy Coverts of the Grove,
You dwell retir'd, and Religion love.
Old Mysteries and barb'rous Rites restore.
To You, and You of all Mankind alone,
The Gods are sure reveal'd, or sure unknown:
271
You dwell retir'd, and Religion love.
If dying Mortals' Dooms you sing aright,
No Ghosts descend to dwell in dreadful Night:
No parting Souls to grizly Pluto go,
Nor seek the dreary silent Shades below:
But forth they fly, immortal in their Kind,
And other Bodies, in new Worlds they find.
Thus Life for ever runs its endless Race,
And, like a Line, Death but divides the Space,
A Stop which can but for a Moment last,
A Point between the Future and the Past.
No Ghosts descend to dwell in dreadful Night:
No parting Souls to grizly Pluto go,
Nor seek the dreary silent Shades below:
But forth they fly, immortal in their Kind,
And other Bodies, in new Worlds they find.
Thus Life for ever runs its endless Race,
And, like a Line, Death but divides the Space,
A Stop which can but for a Moment last,
A Point between the Future and the Past.
Thrice happy They, beneath their northern Skies,
And blest in their Mistake,—
Who that worst Fear, the Fear of Death, despise:
Hence they no Cares for this frail Being feel,
But rush, undaunted, on the pointed Steel:
Provoke approaching Fate, and bravely scorn
To spare that Life, which must so soon return.—
And blest in their Mistake,—
Who that worst Fear, the Fear of Death, despise:
Hence they no Cares for this frail Being feel,
But rush, undaunted, on the pointed Steel:
Provoke approaching Fate, and bravely scorn
To spare that Life, which must so soon return.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |