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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Funerals of the Slain. |
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Funerals of the Slain.
—For twelve Days they fix the Truce:
Under its holy Sanction, through the Woods
The Trojans and the Latins mingled rove
In Safety: On the Hills the lofty Ash
With Axes sounds; and Pines which reach the Stars
They roll from Mountains: nor with Wedges cease
Hard Oak, and smelling Cedar to divide,
Nor Firs on groaning Waggons to convey.
Under its holy Sanction, through the Woods
The Trojans and the Latins mingled rove
In Safety: On the Hills the lofty Ash
With Axes sounds; and Pines which reach the Stars
They roll from Mountains: nor with Wedges cease
Hard Oak, and smelling Cedar to divide,
Nor Firs on groaning Waggons to convey.
—On the winding Shore,
By Prince Æneas and by Tarchon rais'd,
The fun'ral Piles stand thick. By ancient Rite
All hither bring the Bodies of their Friends,
And lay them on the Fires: whose smould'ring Smoke
Ascends in Wreaths, and darkens all the Sky.
Thrice the tall blazing Piles, and dusky Flames
They round encompass: Those on Foot, and These
High on their Steeds, all clad in shining Arms:
And loud Laments, and piercing Clamours raise.
The trickling Tears bedew the Earth below,
And down their Armour run: To Heav'n ascend
The Trumpet's Clangor, and the Cries of Men.
Some fling the Spoils, from slaughter'd Latins torn,
Into the Flames: Helmets, and burnish'd Swords,
And Reins, and fervid Wheels: Some add to these
Gifts better known, which by the Dead themselves
Were worn, their Shields, and not successful Darts.
Then num'rous Oxen, bristly Swine, and Sheep,
Choice Victims, snatch'd from all the Fields around,
They sacrifice, and stab them on the Fires.
O'er all the Shore they watch their burning Friends,
Nor from the smoking Dust can be withdrawn,
Till dewy Night inverts the Hemisphere,
And spangles o'er the Face of Heav'n with Stars.
By Prince Æneas and by Tarchon rais'd,
The fun'ral Piles stand thick. By ancient Rite
All hither bring the Bodies of their Friends,
And lay them on the Fires: whose smould'ring Smoke
Ascends in Wreaths, and darkens all the Sky.
Thrice the tall blazing Piles, and dusky Flames
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High on their Steeds, all clad in shining Arms:
And loud Laments, and piercing Clamours raise.
The trickling Tears bedew the Earth below,
And down their Armour run: To Heav'n ascend
The Trumpet's Clangor, and the Cries of Men.
Some fling the Spoils, from slaughter'd Latins torn,
Into the Flames: Helmets, and burnish'd Swords,
And Reins, and fervid Wheels: Some add to these
Gifts better known, which by the Dead themselves
Were worn, their Shields, and not successful Darts.
Then num'rous Oxen, bristly Swine, and Sheep,
Choice Victims, snatch'd from all the Fields around,
They sacrifice, and stab them on the Fires.
O'er all the Shore they watch their burning Friends,
Nor from the smoking Dust can be withdrawn,
Till dewy Night inverts the Hemisphere,
And spangles o'er the Face of Heav'n with Stars.
Nor less, in diff'rent Parts, unnumber'd Piles
The wretched Latins build: Some Corps in Earth
(And many Those) of their dead Friends they hide:
Some to the neighb'ring Coasts, and Towns, they send.
The rest, a huge promiscuous Heap of Slain,
Unhonour'd, undistinguish'd, they consume:
The blazing Fires illumine all the Fields.
Now had the third returning Moon dispell'd
The dewy Shades of Night: the mingled Bones
From the high Ashes, mourning, they collect,
And load them with a Mount of smoking Mould.—
Pompey, thy Favourite once, O Fortune! now
The wretched Latins build: Some Corps in Earth
(And many Those) of their dead Friends they hide:
Some to the neighb'ring Coasts, and Towns, they send.
The rest, a huge promiscuous Heap of Slain,
Unhonour'd, undistinguish'd, they consume:
The blazing Fires illumine all the Fields.
Now had the third returning Moon dispell'd
The dewy Shades of Night: the mingled Bones
From the high Ashes, mourning, they collect,
And load them with a Mount of smoking Mould.—
Demands no Heaps of Frankincense to rise,
No Eastern Odours to perfume the Skies:
No Roman Necks his patriot Coarse to bear:
No rev'rend Train of Statues to appear:
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And tell the Triumphs of his conq'ring Sword:
No Instruments in plaintive Notes to sound,
No Legions sad to march in solemn Round:
A Bier, no better than the Vulgar need,
A little Wood the kindling Flame to feed,
With some poor Hand to tend the homely Fire,
Is all great Pompey's Relicks now require.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |