AT TOMIS, IN BESSARABIA, NEAR THE MOUTHS OF THE DANUBE

TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy X

Should any one there in Rome remember Ovid the exile,
       &nbsp And, without me, my name still in the city survive;

Tell him that under stars which never set in the ocean
       &nbsp I am existing still, here in a barbarous land.

Fierce Sarmatians encompass me round, and the Bessi and Getae;
       &nbsp Names how unworthy to be sung by a genius like mine!

Yet when the air is warm, intervening Ister defends us:
       &nbsp He, as he flows, repels inroads of war with his waves.

But when the dismal winter reveals its hideous aspect,
       &nbsp When all the earth becomes white with a marble-like frost;

And when Boreas is loosed, and the snow hurled under Arcturus,
       &nbsp Then these nations, in sooth, shudder and shiver with cold.

Deep lies the snow, and neither the sun nor the rain can dissolve it;
       &nbsp Boreas hardens it still, makes it forever remain.

Hence, ere the first ha-s melted away, another succeeds it,
       &nbsp And two years it is wont, in many places, to lie.

And so great is the power of the Northwind awakened, it levels
       &nbsp Lofty towers with the ground, roofs uplifted bears off.

Wrapped in skins, and with trousers sewed, they contend with the weather,
       &nbsp And their faces alone of the whole body are seen.

Often their tresses, when shaken, with pendent icicles tinkle,
       &nbsp And their whitened beards shine with the gathering frost.

Wines consolidate stand, preserving the form of the vessels;
       &nbsp No more draughts of wine,—pieces presented they drink.

Why should I tell you how all the rivers are frozen and solid,
       &nbsp And from out of the lake frangible water is dug?

Ister,—no narrower stream than the river that bears the papyrus,—
       &nbsp Which through its many mouths mingles its waves with the deep;

Ister, with hardening winds, congeals its cerulean waters,
       &nbsp Under a roof of ice, winding its way to the sea.

There where ships have sailed, men go on foot; and the billows,
       &nbsp Solid made by the frost, hoof-beats of horses indent.

Over unwonted bridges, with water gliding beneath them,
       &nbsp The Sarmatian steers drag their barbarian carts.

Scarcely shall I be believed; yet when naught is gained by a falsehood,
       &nbsp Absolute credence then should to a witness be given.

I have beheld the vast Black Sea of ice all compacted,
       &nbsp And a slippery crust pressing its motionless tides.

'T is not enough to have seen, I have trodden this indurate ocean;
       &nbsp Dry shod passed my foot over its uppermost wave.

If thou hadst had of old such a sea as this is, Leander!
       &nbsp Then thy death had not been charged as a crime to the Strait.

Nor can the curved dolphins uplift themselves from the water;
       &nbsp All their struggles to rise merciless winter prevents;

And though Boreas sound with roar of wings in commotion,
       &nbsp In the blockaded gulf never a wave will there be;

And the ships will stand hemmed in by the frost, as in marble,
       &nbsp Nor will the oar have power through the stiff waters to cleave.

Fast-bound in the ice have I seen the fishes adhering,
       &nbsp Yet notwithstanding this some of them still were alive.

Hence, if the savage strength of omnipotent Boreas freezes
       &nbsp Whether the salt-sea wave, whether the refluent stream,—

Straightway,—the Ister made level by arid blasts of the North-wind,—
       &nbsp Comes the barbaric foe borne on his swift-footed steed;

Foe, that powerful made by his steed and his far-flying arrows,
       &nbsp All the neighboring land void of inhabitants makes.

Some take flight, and none being left to defend their possessions,
       &nbsp Unprotected, their goods pillage and plunder become;

Cattle and creaking carts, the little wealth of the country,
       &nbsp And what riches beside indigent peasants possess.

Some as captives are driven along, their hands bound behind them,
       &nbsp Looking backward in vain toward their Lares and lands.

Others, transfixed with barbed arrows, in agony perish,
       &nbsp For the swift arrow-heads all have in poison been dipped.

What they cannot carry or lead away they demolish,
       &nbsp And the hostile flames burn up the innocent cots.

Even when there is peace, the fear of war is impending;
       &nbsp None, with the ploughshare pressed, furrows the soil any more.

Either this region sees, or fears a foe that it sees not,
       &nbsp And the sluggish land slumbers in utter neglect.

No sweet grape lies hidden here in the shade of its vine-leaves,
       &nbsp No fermenting must fills and o'erflows the deep vats.

Apples the region denies; nor would Acontius have found here
       &nbsp Aught upon which to write words for his mistress to read.

Naked and barren plains without leaves or trees we behold here,—
       &nbsp Places, alas! unto which no happy man would repair.

Since then this mighty orb lies open so wide upon all sides,
       &nbsp Has this region been found only my prison to be?

TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy XII.

Now the zephyrs diminish the cold, and the year being ended,
       &nbsp Winter Maeotian seems longer than ever before;

And the Ram that bore unsafely the burden of Helle,
       &nbsp Now makes the hours of the day equal with those of the night.

Now the boys and the laughing girls the violet gather,
       &nbsp Which the fields bring forth, nobody sowing the seed.

Now the meadows are blooming with flowers of various colors,
       &nbsp And with untaught throats carol the garrulous birds.

Now the swallow, to shun the crime of her merciless mother,
       &nbsp Under the rafters builds cradles and dear little homes;

And the blade that lay hid, covered up in the furrows of Ceres,
       &nbsp Now from the tepid ground raises its delicate head.

Where there is ever a vine, the bud shoots forth from the tendrils,
       &nbsp But from the Getic shore distant afar is the vine!

Where there is ever a tree, on the tree the branches are swelling,
       &nbsp But from the Getic land distant afar is the tree!

Now it is holiday there in Rome, and to games in due order
       &nbsp Give place the windy wars of the vociferous bar.

Now they are riding the horses; with light arms now they are playing,
       &nbsp Now with the ball, and now round rolls the swift-flying hoop:

Now, when the young athlete with flowing oil is anointed,
       &nbsp He in the Virgin's Fount bathes, over-wearied, his limbs.

Thrives the stage; and applause, with voices at variance, thunders,
       &nbsp And the Theatres three for the three Forums resound.

Four times happy is he, and times without number is happy,
       &nbsp Who the city of Rome, uninterdicted, enjoys.

But all I see is the snow in the vernal sunshine dissolving,
       &nbsp And the waters no more delved from the indurate lake
.
Nor is the sea now frozen, nor as before o'er the Ister
       &nbsp Comes the Sarmatian boor driving his stridulous cart.

Hitherward, nevertheless, some keels already are steering,
       &nbsp And on this Pontic shore alien vessels will be.

Eagerly shall I run to the sailor, and, having saluted,
       &nbsp Who he may be, I shall ask; wherefore and whence he hath come.

Strange indeed will it be, if he come not from regions adjacent,
       &nbsp And incautious unless ploughing the neighboring sea.

Rarely a mariner over the deep from Italy passes,
       &nbsp Rarely he comes to these shores, wholly of harbors devoid.

Whether he knoweth Greek, or whether in Latin he speaketh,
       &nbsp Surely on this account he the more welcome will be.

Also perchance from the mouth of the Strait and the waters Propontic,
       &nbsp Unto the steady South-wind, some one is spreading his sails.

Whosoever he is, the news he can faithfully tell me,
       &nbsp Which may become a part and an approach to the truth.

He, I pray, may be able to tell me the triumphs of Caesar,
       &nbsp Which he has heard of, and vows paid to the Latian Jove;

And that thy sorrowful head, Germania, thou, the rebellious,
       &nbsp Under the feet, at last, of the Great Captain hast laid.

Whoso shall tell me these things, that not to have seen will afflict me,
       &nbsp Forthwith unto my house welcomed as guest shall he be.

Woe is me! Is the house of Ovid in Scythian lands now?
       &nbsp And doth punishment now give me its place for a home?

Grant, ye gods, that Caesar make this not my house and my homestead,
       &nbsp But decree it to be only the inn of my pain.