Stern winter in eternal triumph reigns,
Shuts up the bounteous year and starves the plains,
My failing eyes the weary waste explore,
The savage mountains and the dreary shore,
And vainly look for scenes of old delight;
No lov'd familiar objects meet my sight;
No long remember'd streams nor conscious bowers,
Wake the gay memory of youthful hours.
I fondly hop'd, content with learned ease,
To walk amidst cotemporary trees;
In every scene some fav'rite spot to trace,
And meet in all some kind domestic face;
To stretch my limbs upon my native soil,
With long vacation from unquiet toil;
Resign my breath where first that breath I drew,
And sink into the spot from whence I grew.
But if my feeble age is doom'd to try
Unusual seasons and a foreign sky,
To some more genial clime let me repair,
And taste the healing balm of milder air;
Near to the glowing sun's directer ray,
And pitch my tent beneath the eye of day.
Could not the winter in my veins suffice,
Without the added rage of Scythian skies?
The snow of time my vital heat exhaust,
And hoary age without Sarmatian frost ?
Yet storm and tempest are of ills the least Which this inhospitable land infest:
Society than solitude is worse,
And man to man is still the greatest curse,
A savage race my fearful steps surround,
Practis'd in blood, and disciplin'd to wound;
Unknown alike to pity as to fear,
Hard as their soil, and as their skies severe.
Skill'd in each mystery of direst art,
They arm with double death the poison'd dart!
Uncomb'd and horrid grows their spiky hair;
Uncouth their vesture, terrible their air:
The lurking dagger at their side hung low,
Leaps in quick vengeance on the hapless foe.
No stedfast faith is here, no sure repose!
An armed truce is all this nation knows:
The rage of battle works, when battles cease;
And wars are brooding in the lap of peace.
Since CESAR wills, and I a wretch must be,
Let me be safe at least in misery!
To my sad grave in calm oblivion steal,
Nor add the woes of fear to all I feel!
Ye tuneful maids! who once in happier days,
Beneath the myrtle grove inspir'd my lays,
How shall I now your wonted aid implore;
Where seek your footsteps on this savage shore,
Whose ruder echoes ne'er were taught to bear
'The poet's numbers or the lover's care?
Yet here, for ever here, your bard must dwell, Who sung of sports and tender loves so well. Here must he live but when he yields his breath O let him not be exil'd even in death!
Lest mix'd with Scythian shades, a Roman ghost
Wander on this inhospitable coast.
CESAR no more shall urge a wretch's doom;
The bolt of Jove pursues not in the tomb.
To thee, dear wife, some friend with pious care
All that of OVID then remains shall bear ;
Then will thou weep to see me so return,
And with fond passion clasp my silent urn.
O check thy grief, that tender bosom spare,
Hurt not thy cheeks, nor soil thy flowing hair.
Press the pale marble with thy lips, and give
One precious tear, and bid my memory live.
The silent dust shall glow at thy command,
And the warm ashes feel thy pious hand.
WITH SOME PAINTED FLOWERS.
Ecce ferunt nymphæ calathis.
FLOWERS
LOWERS to the fair: To you these flowers I bring
And strive to greet you with an earlier spring.
Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like you;
Emblems of innocence, and beauty too.
With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair,
And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear.
Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew,
In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew.
To loftier forms are rougher tasks assign'd;
The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind,
The tougher yew repels invading foes,
And the tall pine for future navies grows;
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But this soft family, to cares unknown,
Were born for pleasure and delight alone.
Gay without toil, and lovely without art,
They spring to cheer the sense, and glad the heart. Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these;
Your best, your sweetest empire is-to please.
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