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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Dying.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Dying.
See Suicide. Wound.
—
She strives with Pain
To lift her heavy Lids, and fainting sinks:
The Wound infix'd sounds deep beneath her Breast.
Thrice, leaning on her Arm, she feebly rais'd
Her Body: thrice roll'd back upon the Bed:
With swimming Eyes seeks the last Light of Heav'n,
And groans to find it. Then the Wife of Jove,
Pitying her tedious Pangs, and struggling Death,
Sends Iris from above, to disengage
Her agonizing Soul. For since she fell
Neither by Fate, nor by a Death deserv'd,
But dy'd unfortunate before her Time,
Transported by a sudden Passion's Rage;
As yet Proserpina her yellow Hair
Had not shorn off, nor to the Stygian Shades
Consign'd her. Iris then, with saffron Wings,
Dewy, and drawing from the opposing Sun
A thousand various Colours in the Sky,
Alighted swift: and hov'ring o'er her Head,
This Lock to Pluto sacred, by Command,
I bear: and from this Body set thee free.
She said, and with her Right Hand cut the Lock:
At once the vital Heat is all extinct,
And Life dissolving fleets into the Winds.—
To lift her heavy Lids, and fainting sinks:
The Wound infix'd sounds deep beneath her Breast.
Thrice, leaning on her Arm, she feebly rais'd
Her Body: thrice roll'd back upon the Bed:
With swimming Eyes seeks the last Light of Heav'n,
And groans to find it. Then the Wife of Jove,
Pitying her tedious Pangs, and struggling Death,
Sends Iris from above, to disengage
Her agonizing Soul. For since she fell
Neither by Fate, nor by a Death deserv'd,
But dy'd unfortunate before her Time,
Transported by a sudden Passion's Rage;
As yet Proserpina her yellow Hair
Had not shorn off, nor to the Stygian Shades
273
Dewy, and drawing from the opposing Sun
A thousand various Colours in the Sky,
Alighted swift: and hov'ring o'er her Head,
This Lock to Pluto sacred, by Command,
I bear: and from this Body set thee free.
She said, and with her Right Hand cut the Lock:
At once the vital Heat is all extinct,
And Life dissolving fleets into the Winds.—
—
She dying tugs
The sticking Jav'lin: but between the Bones,
In the deep Wound, fix'd stands the pointed Steel:
All pale she sinks: her cold Eyes sink in Death:
And from her Cheeks the rosy Colour flies.
Then thus, expiring, Acca she bespeaks,
Her best lov'd Friend, and Partner of her Cares:
—My Sister Acca, now
My Life-Blood issues thro' the aking Wound,
And all Things swim in Mists before my Eyes:
Haste, and to Turnus these last Mandates bear:
Let him succeed to Battle, and repel
The Trojans from the Town. And now,—Adieu.
So saying, from her slacken'd Hand she drops
The Reins: and not spontaneous flows to Earth:
Cold, by Degrees, she sobs her Life away:
Reclines her hanging Neck, and heavy Head;
—And to the Shades below
With Indignation flies her groaning Soul.—
The sticking Jav'lin: but between the Bones,
In the deep Wound, fix'd stands the pointed Steel:
All pale she sinks: her cold Eyes sink in Death:
And from her Cheeks the rosy Colour flies.
Then thus, expiring, Acca she bespeaks,
Her best lov'd Friend, and Partner of her Cares:
—My Sister Acca, now
My Life-Blood issues thro' the aking Wound,
And all Things swim in Mists before my Eyes:
Haste, and to Turnus these last Mandates bear:
Let him succeed to Battle, and repel
The Trojans from the Town. And now,—Adieu.
So saying, from her slacken'd Hand she drops
The Reins: and not spontaneous flows to Earth:
Cold, by Degrees, she sobs her Life away:
Reclines her hanging Neck, and heavy Head;
—And to the Shades below
With Indignation flies her groaning Soul.—
When to the Youth his mournful Sire appears,
His dying, weak, unweildy Head he rears:
With lifted Eyes, he cast a mournful Look,
His pale Lips mov'd, and fain he would have spoke:
But unexpress'd, th' imperfect Accent hung,
Lost in his falling Jaws, and fault'ring Tongue:
Yet in his speechless Visage seems exprest,
What, had he Words, would be his last Request:
That aged Hand to seal his closing Eye,
And in his Father's fond Embrace to dye.—
His dying, weak, unweildy Head he rears:
With lifted Eyes, he cast a mournful Look,
His pale Lips mov'd, and fain he would have spoke:
But unexpress'd, th' imperfect Accent hung,
Lost in his falling Jaws, and fault'ring Tongue:
Yet in his speechless Visage seems exprest,
What, had he Words, would be his last Request:
That aged Hand to seal his closing Eye,
And in his Father's fond Embrace to dye.—
275
The Wound is mortal; Art affords no Aid.
So Violets, Poppies, and soft Lillies so,
Bruise but the tender Stem on which they grow,
Instant sink down their unsupported Heads,
And bend, decaying, to their earthy Beds:
So hung his dying Looks; so, oversway'd,
His languid Neck was on his Shoulder laid.—
So Violets, Poppies, and soft Lillies so,
Bruise but the tender Stem on which they grow,
Instant sink down their unsupported Heads,
And bend, decaying, to their earthy Beds:
So hung his dying Looks; so, oversway'd,
His languid Neck was on his Shoulder laid.—
—A deadly Rest,
And iron Slumbers seal his heavy Eyes,
And closes them in everlasting Night.—
And iron Slumbers seal his heavy Eyes,
And closes them in everlasting Night.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |