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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Apollo.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Apollo.
When bright Apollo leaves his Winter-Seat
Lycia, and Xanthus' Stream, and in it's Turn
Visits his native Delos, to restore
The Festivals: About his Altars croud,
With mingled Noise, the Cretians, Dryopes,
And painted Agathyrsi: He on Top
Of Cynthus walks, and crowns his flowing Hair
With a soft Wreath of Greens, forms it with Art,
And winds it up in Gold: His sounding Shafts
Hang at his Shoulders.—
Lycia, and Xanthus' Stream, and in it's Turn
Visits his native Delos, to restore
The Festivals: About his Altars croud,
With mingled Noise, the Cretians, Dryopes,
And painted Agathyrsi: He on Top
Of Cynthus walks, and crowns his flowing Hair
71
And winds it up in Gold: His sounding Shafts
Hang at his Shoulders.—
Me
Claros, Delphos, Tenedos obey,
These Hands the Patareian Scepter sway:
The King of Gods begat me: what shall be,
Or is, or ever was, in Fate, I see.
I first to Musick tun'd the sounding Strings,
And from my Bow the Shaft unerring Springs.
Med'cine is mine: what Herbs and Simples grow
In Fields, and Forrests, all their Pow'rs I know:
And am the great Physician call'd below.—
These Hands the Patareian Scepter sway:
The King of Gods begat me: what shall be,
Or is, or ever was, in Fate, I see.
I first to Musick tun'd the sounding Strings,
And from my Bow the Shaft unerring Springs.
Med'cine is mine: what Herbs and Simples grow
In Fields, and Forrests, all their Pow'rs I know:
And am the great Physician call'd below.—
Supreme of Gods, Apollo, who thy Hill
Sacred Soracte, Guardian, dost defend:
Whom we the first adore: for whom we feed
The Fire in piny Piles, and thro' that Fire,
Safe in our Piety, and fearless, walk,
Thy Worshippers, and tread on burning Coals:
Grant me, Almighty Father, by my Arms,
This Blot, this foul Dishonour to remove.—
Sacred Soracte, Guardian, dost defend:
Whom we the first adore: for whom we feed
The Fire in piny Piles, and thro' that Fire,
Safe in our Piety, and fearless, walk,
Thy Worshippers, and tread on burning Coals:
Grant me, Almighty Father, by my Arms,
This Blot, this foul Dishonour to remove.—
The God his own Parnassean Lawrel crown'd,
And in a Wreath his golden Tresses bound,
Graceful his purple Mantle swept the Ground.
High on the Left his Iv'ry Lute he rais'd,
The Lute, emboss'd with glitt'ring Jewels, blaz'd.
In his right Hand he nicely held the Quill,
And ev'n his Posture spoke a Master's Skill.—
And in a Wreath his golden Tresses bound,
Graceful his purple Mantle swept the Ground.
High on the Left his Iv'ry Lute he rais'd,
The Lute, emboss'd with glitt'ring Jewels, blaz'd.
In his right Hand he nicely held the Quill,
And ev'n his Posture spoke a Master's Skill.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |