Ovid: Tristia
Book Four
‘laeta fere laetus cecini, cano tristia tristis:
happy, I once sang happy things, sad
things
I sing in sadness:’
Ex Ponto III:IX:35
Translated by A. S. Kline ã2003 All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Contents
Book TIV.I:1-48 His Love of Poetry
Book TIV.I:49-107
His Love of Poetry
Book TIV.II:1-74
Tiberius’s Triumph
Book TIV.III:1-48
To His Wife: Death Would be Better
Book TIV.III:49-84
To His Wife: He Asks For Her Help
Book TIV.IV:1-42
To Messalinus: His Guilt
Book TIV.IV:43-88
To Messalinus: His Sentence
Book TIV.V:1-34 To
A Loyal Friend (Probably Cotta)
Book TIV.VII:1-26
Request for A Letter
Book TIV.VIII:1-52
The Onset of Age
Book TIV.X:1-40
Ovid’s Autobiography: Childhood, Boyhood
Book TIV.X:41-92
Ovid’s Autobiography: Youth and Manhood
Book TIV.X:93-132
Ovid’s Autobiography: Exile and Immortality
Reader,
if you find fault with my books, and you will,
accept
my excuse: this time when they were written.
I’m
an exile, and I looked for solace, not fame,
lest
my mind became too absorbed with misfortune.
That’s
why the man in shackles, digging ditches,
still
eases his hard labour with unlearned song.
And
he who bows down to the sand and mud,
dragging
a slow barge against the current, sings:
and
he who draws flexed oars to his chest, together,
striking
a rhythm with his arms, as he beats the water.
The
tired shepherd, leaning on his crook, or sitting
on
a stone, soothes his flock with the reed pipe’s tune.
The
slave girl, singing at her work, spinning the thread,
diverts
herself, and whiles away the hours of toil.
They
say that Achilles, sad, when Briseis of Lyrnesus
was
stolen, eased his cares, with the Thessalian
lyre.
Orpheus mourned the wife twice lost
to him,
as
he drew the trees and harsh rocks to his singing.
The
Muse helped me too, when I sailed to
Pontus
as
ordered: she alone remained a friend to my flight:
she
alone was unafraid of ambush, or the blades
of
Sintian soldiers, storms, seas,
and foreign shores.
She
knows too the error that misled me,
when I was ruined,
that
there was guilt, but not wickedness, in my actions.
Surely
she’s good to me now because she harmed me before,
when
she was charged, with me, with a mutual crime.
Since
they were once destined to be dangerous,
I
might wish I’d never touched the Pierian
rites.
But
what can I do, now? Their very power holds me,
and,
maddened, I love song, though song wounded me.
So
the strange lotus-flowers, Odysseus’s
men tasted,
gave
pleasure by a flavour that did harm.
Often
a lover’s aware of his own ruin, still he clings,
chasing
after the substance of his mistake.
I
too, I delight in books, though they harmed me,
and
I love the weapon that dealt my wound.
Perhaps
these studies might seem like madness,
but
the madness has a certain benefit.
It
stops the mind from always gazing at its woes,
and
makes it forget its present circumstance.
Like
a Bacchante, possessed, feeling no
wound,
while
the wild howling of the Idaean
rites numbs her,
so,
when my mind’s inspired, stirred by the leafy thyrsus,
the
spirit is lifted above mortal suffering.
It
feels no exile, no Scythian
seashores,
it’s
not aware of the angry gods.
As
if I were drinking soporific Lethean
draughts,
so
the feeling of these hostile hours is absent.
So,
it’s right for me to revere the goddesses, who ease my ills,
friends
of my anxious flight, Muses of Helicon,
who
now by sea and now by land, deigned to follow
my
traces, either aboard ship or on foot.
I
pray that they at least are good to me!
Since
the rest of the gods are of great Caesar’s party,
heaping
as many as evils on me, as sand on the shore,
fishes
in the sea, or the very spawn of those same fish.
You’d
sooner count spring flowers, summer wheat,
autumn
fruit, or the wintry snowflakes,
than
the ills I endured, driven through the wide world,
a
wretch who sought the left-hand Euxine
shore.
But
my evil fate’s no easier since I arrived:
misfortune
has followed my track here too.
Here
too I recognise the threads spun at my birth,
threads
of a black fleece, twisted for me.
To
say nothing of ambush, or the risks to my life,
real,
but too serious for their reality to be believed,
how
wretched to be living among Bessi and
Getae,
a
man who was always there on people’s lips!
How
wretched to defend my life, at gate and wall,
scarcely
protected by the strength of the place!
I avoided harsh military contests when I
was young,
and
only touched weapons with my hands in play:
now
I’m old I strap a sword to my side, a shield
to
my left arm, and place a helmet on my grey head.
When
the lookout gives the signal for a raid
from
his tower, I quickly arm myself, my hands trembling.
The
enemy, with his bow, his arrows dipped in venom,
circles
the walls fiercely on his snorting steed:
and
as a ravening wolf carries off a sheep, outside
the
fold, and drags it through the woods and fields,
so
with anyone the barbarians find in the fields,
who
hasn’t reached the protection of the gates:
he
either follows them, a captive, and accepts the chain
round
his neck, or dies by a venomous shaft.
This
is the anxious place, where I, a new colonist,
am
hidden away: ah, the lengthy days of my sentence!
Yet
still my Muse suffers me to return to poetry
and
the ancient rites, a guest despite misfortune.
But
there’s no one to recite my verses to,
none
whose ears appreciate Latin words.
I
write, and read to myself – what else should I do?
and
my writing’s safe in its own self-criticism.
Still
I often say: ‘Who’s it for, this careful labour?
Will
Sarmatians and Getae read my writings?’
Often
copious tears run down, too, as I write,
the
paper has been soaked by my weeping,
and
my heart feels the old wounds, like new,
and
the rain of sorrow trickles down my chest.
When
I think of what I am, and what I was, how fortune
changes,
from where to where my fate has carried me,
often
my hand, furiously, angered by its efforts,
has
hurled my verses into the fire, to burn.
Since
few of so many survived, see that you,
whoever
you are, read them with forgiveness.
And
you too, Rome, denied me, take them
in
good part, songs no better than my fate.
Savage
Germany, defeated, may have already
submitted,
like
the rest of the world, on bended knee, to the Caesars,
and
perhaps the high Palatine is
clothed with garlands,
and
incense is crackling on the flames, staining the light,
while
dark blood spurts over the earth, from the throat
of
the bright sacrifice, struck by the axe-blow,
the
gifts promised to the temples of the benign gods,
are
being prepared for offering by both victorious Caesars,
and
by young Germanicus and Drusus, bearing that
name,
so
that their house will rule the world for ever:
and
Livia, with their fine wives, Agrippina,
and
Livilla, is offering gifts, as
ever, for her son’s safety,
to
the noble gods, and the women with her, and the sinless
Vestals, who serve the pure fires
in eternal virginity:
the
loyal People, and the Senate with them, rejoice,
and
the knights, among whom I recently played my small part:
but
I miss the communal joy, I’m driven far away,
and
only faint rumour travels as far as this.
So
all the people will be able to watch the triumph,
and
read the names of leaders and captured towns,
and
see the captive kings with chains round their necks,
marching
in front of the garlanded horses,
and
behold some with down-turned faces, as is fitting,
others,
still terrible, indifferent to their fate.
Some
people will ask for histories, facts and names,
others
will answer, though they know little.
‘He,
who shines on high in Sidonian
purple,
was
leader in the war: this one next in command.
That
one now who fixes his wretched gaze on the ground,
did
not look so when he was carrying weapons.
This
fierce one, with hostile eyes still burning,
was
the instigator and planned the battles.
That
traitor, who hides his face in his shaggy hair,
trapped
our men in a treacherous place.
They
say the one who follows him was their priest,
who
sacrificed captives to their gods, gifts often refused.
These
floats: lakes, mountains, all the forts and rivers,
filled
with fierce slaughter, running with blood.
Drusus, the elder, once
earned his name there,
who
was a fine son worthy of his father.
This
with broken horns badly covered with green sedge,
is
the Rhine himself discoloured
with his blood.
See
even Germany is carried along with loosened hair,
seated
sorrowing at the feet of the undefeated leader.
Offering
her proud neck to the Roman axe
she
wears chains on the arms that carried weapons.’
You’ll
ride in the victory chariot, Caesar, high above,
wearing
purple for the people, according to custom,
applauded
by their clapping, all along the way,
flowers
falling everywhere to cover your route.
Soldiers,
their heads wreathed in Apollo’s laurel,
will
chant: ‘Hurrah, for the triumph’ in loud voices.
Often
you’ll see the four horses rearing at the noise
of
all the chanting, the applause, and the din.
Then
you’ll reach the citadel, and the shrines that favour
your
prayers, and you’ll offer the votive wreath to Jove.
All
this, I, the exile, will see with my mind, as I may:
it
still has a right to the place that was taken from me:
it
travels freely through immeasurable lands,
and
reaches the heavens on its swift way,
leads
my eyes into the middle of the city,
not
allowing them to lose so great a good:
and
my spirit will find a place to see the ivory car:
and
so for a short while I’ll be in my native country.
Yet
the happy people will own the true spectacle,
the
joyful crowd will be there with their leader.
And
I will enjoy the fruits in imagination only,
and
far removed, in hearing, from it all,
and
there’ll scarcely be anyone, sent so far from Italy
to
this distant world, to tell me what I long for.
He’ll
tell of a late triumph, already out of date,
still
I’ll be glad to hear of it, whenever.
That
day will come: I’ll lay aside my gloom,
and
the public fate will outweigh the private.
Ursa Major and Minor, one that guides
the Greek
the
second Phoenician ships, both
un-wet, since
you
see all from the heights of the northern pole,
and
never sink below the western waters,
and
your orbit, circling the celestial reaches
stands
clear of the earth it never touches,
gaze
at those walls that Remus, Ilia’s son,
leapt
across, they say, to his undoing,
and
turn your bright face upon my lady,
and
tell me if she thinks of me or no.
Ah,
why should I fear? I seek what is clearly known.
Why
should my hope be mixed with anxious dread?
Believe
in what’s as you wish, cease to doubt what’s true,
and
have firm faith in that faith that’s firm,
and
what the pole of the fixed fires cannot tell you,
say
to yourself in a voice that does not lie,
she
who’s your greatest care, thinks of you,
having
with her all she has of you, your name.
She
clings to your features as if you were there,
and
if she lives, loves you, though far away.
So,
when her weary mind broods on her just grievance,
does
soft sleep leave her caring heart?
Do
cares rise, while you touch my place in the bed,
that
does not allow you to forget me,
does
anguish come, and the night seem endless,
do
the weary bones ache in your troubled body?
I
don’t doubt these and other things occur,
that
your love shows the marks of sorrow’s pain,
that
you’re tormented no less than Andromache,
seeing
blood-stained Hector dragged by Achilles’ chariot.
I’m
not sure what prayer to speak, I can’t say
what
feelings I wish you to have in your mind.
Are
you sad? I’m troubled to be the cause of your grief:
Not
sad? I’d have you worthy of an exiled husband.
Grieve
truly for your loss, sweetest of wives,
endure
the sad season of our misfortune,
weep
for my fate: there’s a release in weeping,
grief
is worked through, and relieved by tears.
And
I wish what you had to grieve for was my death
and
not my life, that you’d been left widowed, and alone!
This
spirit, with your help, would have issued out
into
its native air, loving tears would have wet my breast,
my
eyes, staring at the familiar sky, on my last day,
would
have been closed by your fingers,
my
ashes laid to rest in my ancestors’ tomb,
and
the earth that bore me would have had my body:
and,
in short, I’d have been as sinless as I lived.
Now
my life is shamed by this punishment.
I’m
wretched if, when they call you an exile’s wife,
you
turn your head away, and a blush comes to your cheeks!
I’m
wretched, if you think it a disgrace to be married to me!
I’m
wretched if you’re ashamed to be mine!
Where
is that time when you used to boast
of
your husband, and not hide his name?
Where
is that time – unless you don’t wish it recalled –
when,
I remember, you loved to be, and be called, mine?
Like
a true woman you were pleased with my every gift,
and
your fond love added others to the real ones.
There
were none you preferred – I seemed so great to you –
no
other man you wished for as a husband.
Don’t
be ashamed even now, that you married me:
it
should bring you grief, but never shame.
When
reckless Capaneus died, at that
sudden blow,
did
you read that Evadne blushed for
her husband?
Phaethon was not abandoned by
his sisters,
because
the king of the world quelled fire
with fire.
Semele was not born of some other
father than Cadmus,
because
she was destroyed through her rash request.
Don’t
let the blush of shame redden your cheeks,
because
I’ve been struck by Jupiter’s
fierce lightning.
But
rise, in your faithfulness, to my defence, instead,
be
the example of a noble wife to me,
and
drown a sad theme with your virtues:
glory
climbs the heights by dangerous paths.
Who
would know of Hector, if Troy had been happy?
The
road to virtue’s paved with public ills.
Tiphys the helmsman’s art, is idle
when the sea’s calm:
Phoebus, your art of medicine is idle
if men are well.
The
virtue that’s hidden and remains unknown
in
good times, appears, asserts itself, in adversity.
My
fate grants you the opportunity for fame:
now
the loyalty you bear me can lift its head.
Use
this time, in which the chance is given,
and
the widest field lies open to your glory.
O you, who are noble in ancestral
titles,
who
outshine your tribe in nobility of character,
whose
mind mirrors your father’s brilliance,
yet
does not lack a brilliance of its own,
whose
wit is eloquent in your father’s tongue,
bettered
by no other in the Roman forum -
little
though I wish to do so, I address you
with
descriptions not names, forgive my praise of you.
I’ve
sinned in nothing: your known virtues betray you,
and
if what you are is revealed I’m free from blame.
Nor
does the tribute offered you by my verse
have
power to harm you, I think, with our just prince.
The
Father of the Country himself – and who is milder
than
him – tolerates being mentioned often in my verse,
nor
can he prevent it, since Caesar is the State,
and
a share of the common wealth is also mine.
Jupiter adds his divinity to the
poet’s art,
allowing
himself to be glorified by every tongue.
So
your cause is safe, given these two deities,
of
whom one’s seen to be, the other’s thought, a god.
Though
I won’t need to, I’ll accept the blame,
since
this letter of mine wasn’t prompted by you.
And
I commit no new offence in speaking to you,
since
I often spoke to you in happier days.
Don’t
fear lest my friendship with you be a crime,
if
there’s any harm its author can be blamed.
I
always honoured your father from
my earliest days -
at
least don’t wish that fact to be concealed,
and
(you may remember) he approved my talent
even
more than, in my judgement, it deserved:
he
used to speak of my verse with that eloquence
which
was a part of his great nobility.
If
your house made me welcome, it was not you
but
your father before you was deceived.
Yet,
there was no deceit, believe me: and my life
is
worth defending in all its actions but the last.
You
would deny this fault too that ruined me
is
a crime, if my sequence of ill luck
was known to you.
Either
fear or error harmed me, above all error.
Ah!
Let me not remember my fate:
Let
me not touch and open those wounds
that
are not yet closed: rest itself will scarcely heal them.
So
I’m rightly paying the penalty, but no
act
or stratagem is connected with my sin:
this
the god knows: so my life was not taken,
nor
my possessions appropriated by another.
Perhaps,
if I live, he might end this exile
one
day when time has softened his anger.
For
now I beg him to order me to another place,
if
my prayer is not without respect and humility.
I
pray for a milder place, a little nearer home,
and
one that’s further from the savage enemy:
and
such is Augustus’s clemency, if someone
were
to petition him for me, he might grant it.
The
frozen shores of the Euxine, the
‘hospitable’, Sea
hold
me: called Axenus, ‘inhospitable’,
by men of old,
since
its waters are troubled by immoderate winds,
and
there are no quiet harbours for foreign ships.
There
are tribes round it, seeking plunder and mayhem,
and
the land’s no less fearful than the hostile sea.
Those
you hear of, men delighting in human blood,
live
almost beneath the same starry sky as myself,
and
not far away from here is the dread Tauric
altar
of
Diana, goddess of the bow,
stained with murder.
They
say this was once the kingdom of Thoas,
not
envied by the evil, nor desired by the good.
Here
virgin Iphigenia, for whom a
deer was substituted,
cared
for the offerings, of whatever nature, to her goddess.
Later,
Orestes came here, either in piety
or wickedness,
driven
by the Furies, his own
conscience,
and
Pylades came, his friend, an
example of true love:
and
they were a single mind in two bodies.
They
were brought straight to the sad altar
that
stood, blood-stained, before the double doors.
yet
neither of them feared death, but each
grieved
for the death that came to the other.
The
priestess had already taken her place, knife drawn,
her
Greek hair bound with barbarous sacred ribbons,
when
she recognised her brother by his speech,
and
Iphigenia gave him her embrace, not his death.
Joyfully,
she carried off the statue of the goddess
who
loathed those cruel rites, to a better home.
Such
is the region, nearly the earth’s remotest,
that
men and gods shun, that’s nearest mine:
And
near my land are those murderous rites,
if
a barbarian country can be Ovid’s land.
O
let the winds, that carried Orestes home,
fill
my returning sails, and the god be appeased.
O you the foremost of my dear
friends,
who
proved the sole altar for my fortunes,
whose
words of comfort revived this dying spirit,
as
the flame does at the touch of Minerva’s
oil:
you
who loyally offered a safe harbour
and
a refuge to the ship blasted by lightning:
through
whose wealth I should not have wanted
had
Caesar stripped me of my inheritance,
while
force of feeling carries me on, forgetting myself,
ah,
how close I’ve come to revealing your name!
You
know it though, and, touched by desire for praise,
wish
you could say out loud: ‘I am that man.’
If
you’d allow it, I’d certainly show you honour,
and
unite your rare loyalty with fame.
But
I fear my verse of thanks might harm you,
an
untimely honouring of your name might obstruct you.
This
you can do (and it’s safe): delight in this inwardly,
that
I’ve remembered you and you’ve been loyal,
and,
as you have, bend your oars to bring me help,
till
there’s a softer breeze and the god’s appeased:
and
save a life that no one can save, unless
he
who drowned it lifts it from the Stygian
depths:
and
do what is rare, devote yourself constantly
to
every act of undiminished friendship.
So
may your fortunes ever go forward,
so
may you need no help, and yet help your own:
so
may your wife equal her husband’s endless kindness,
and
your union meet with no complaints:
and
may that brother, who’s of your blood,
always
love you, with the love of Pollux
for Castor:
so
may your young son be like you, and all
recognise
that he’s yours by his character:
so
may your daughter’s marriage-torch make you
a
father-in-law, and, soon, a grandfather, while you’re young.
In
time the ploughman’s ox is made obedient to the plough,
submitting
its neck to the weight of the curving yoke:
in
time the fiery horse endures the pliant bridle,
and
takes the harsh bit in its gentle mouth:
in
time the rage of African lions is subdued,
the
fierceness they had is absent from their spirit:
the
Indian elephant, obeying its master’s command,
submits
to servitude, conquered by time.
Time
makes the grapes swell on the burgeoning clusters,
till
they can barely hold the juice inside:
time
ripens the seed into white ears of wheat,
and
takes care that the fruits do not taste sour.
It
thins the ploughshare as it turns the soil,
it
wears away hard stone, and solid steel:
it
even softens fierce anger, little by little,
it
lessens sorrow, and eases the grieving heart.
All
can be lessened by time passing,
on
its silent feet, except my troubles.
Since
I lost my native land, the threshing-floor’s twice been
smoothed
for grain, the grapes twice trampled under naked feet.
But
the long space of time hasn’t granted me patience,
and
my mind still feels the emotions of recent troubles.
Indeed
old bullocks often resist the yoke, it’s true,
and
the horse that’s broken-in often fights the bit.
My
current distress is harder than before: though still
similar
in nature, it’s grown and deepened with time.
My
ills were not so well known to me as they are now:
they
weigh more heavily now I know them better.
It’s
no little thing to apply powers still fresh to them,
and
not be exhausted beforehand by time’s ills.
The
new wrestler, on the yellow sand, is stronger
than
the one whose arms are tired by long waiting.
The
unwounded gladiator, in shining armour, is better
than
the man with weapons stained by his own blood.
A
fresh built ship does well in a furious storm:
even
a little squall shatters an old one.
I
too once endured, what I now endure, more patiently:
how
my troubles have been multiplied by passing time!
Believe
me, I’m failing, and as far as I can see, given
my
bodily powers, there’s little time left for these ills.
I’ve
neither the strength nor the colour I used to have:
I’ve
barely skin enough to cover my bones.
My
body’s troubled, but my mind is worse,
absorbed
in contemplating its ills, endlessly.
The
sight of the city’s absent, my dear friends, absent,
and
my wife’s absent, none dearer to me than her.
A
mob of Scythians are present,
crowds of trousered Getae:
So
what I can see, and what I can’t see, moves me.
There’s
only one hope that comforts me in all this,
these
troubles will not outlast my death.
The
sun has twice drawn near me, after the icy winter cold,
and
twice completed his journey, reaching
Pisces.
In
all that time why hasn’t your hand
stirred
itself to write me a few lines?
Why
has your loyalty ended, while those
with
whom I had little acquaintance have written?
Why
whenever I broke the seal on some letter
have
I hoped that it contained your name?
The
gods grant that you have indeed written, often,
though
not one letter has been delivered to me.
I
hope there’s an obvious reason. I’d sooner believe
that
Medusa’s Gorgon face was wreathed in snaky
hair,
that
virgin Scylla has
dogs below her belly, that there’s
a
Chimaera, lioness and serpent
segmented by fire,
that
there are four-hooved Centaurs,
with human breasts,
three-bodied
Geryon, and triple-headed Cerberus,
Sphinx, and Harpies, and snake-footed Giants,
Gyas of the hundred hands, the Minotaur, half man, half bull.
I’d
rather believe all this, than that
you, dearest friend,
have
changed, and abandoned your affection for me.
There
are innumerable mountains, between you and me,
roads,
and rivers, and plains and many seas.
There
are a thousand reasons why frequent letters,
from
you, should rarely reach my hands.
But
defeat those thousand reasons by writing often,
so
I’m not always making excuses for you, my friend.
My
temples already take on the colour of swan’s plumage,
and
white old age is bleaching my dark hair.
The
years of frailty, and the inertia of age, already
steal
over me, and it’s hard for me to endure my weakness.
Now’s
the time when, my labour ended,
I
should be living without troubling fears,
to
indulge in the leisure my mind always enjoyed,
and
to live at ease with my studies,
keeping
a humble house with its ancient gods,
and
the fields I inherited, now lacking a master,
growing
old with my lady’s devotion, dear friends,
and
at peace in my native country.
Youth
once hoped for such a fulfilment:
I
deserved to spend my years like that.
The
gods did not see it so, who have driven me
over
earth and sea, and landed me in Sarmatia.
Shattered
boats are drawn up in dry-dock,
in
case they fall apart in deep water.
The
horse, that has won many races, grazes idly
in
the meadow, before he fails and dishonours his victories.
When
the long-serving soldier is no longer useful
he
dedicates the weapons he carried to the ancient Lares.
Since
the slowness of old age is sapping my strength
its
time now for me to receive the gladiator’s wooden sword.
It’s
time I no longer breathed foreign air,
or
quenched my parched thirst at Getic
fountains,
but
retired now to the sheltered gardens I owned,
and
enjoyed the sight of men, and the city, again.
So,
with a mind unaware of what the future would bring,
I
once prayed to be able to live peacefully when old,
The
Fates were hostile, bringing ease
to
my early years, pain to the later ones.
Now
after half a century without stain,
I’m
crushed, in the harshest years of life:
not
far from the winning post, I thought I’d reached,
my
chariot has been gravely wrecked.
In
my madness, did I drive him to hostile anger,
the
most gracious man in all the world?
Has
his mercy been quenched by my wrongdoings,
yet
my life has not been forfeit, for my error?
I
must spend it far from home, under the Northern
pole,
in
the land to the sinister left of the Euxine
Sea.
If
Dodona or Delphi itself had proclaimed it to
me,
both
oracles would have seemed unbelievable.
Nothing
is strong enough, though bound with steel,
to
stand firm against Jove’s swift
lightning:
nothing’s
so high and reaches so far beyond danger,
that
it’s not inferior, and subject, to a god.
And
though I brought a part of my trouble
on myself,
by
my sin, I suffered more from the divine power’s wrath.
Be
warned by my fate, too, to make yourselves worthy
of
that man who deserves to be equal to the gods.
If
it’s right and you allow me, I’ll keep your name
and
what you did quiet, consign the act to Lethe’s
waters,
and
my clemency will be won by your late tears,
if
only you clearly have repented: if only
you
condemn yourself, and are eager to erase
that
moment of Tisiphonean
madness from your life.
If
not, if your heart still burns with hatred for me,
barren
indignation will be driven to use its weapons.
If
I’m banished, as I am, to the edge of the earth,
my
anger will still reach out to you from here.
If
you don’t know it, Caesar has left me all my rights,
and
my only punishment is to lose my
country.
My
country: I even hope for that from him, if he lives:
the
oak blasted by Jove’s lightning
often grows green again.
And
if I’ve no chance for revenge, in the end,
the
Muses will grant me strength
and their weapons.
Though
I live far away on the shores of Scythia,
with
those stars visible that never touch the sea,
my
cry will go out to countless peoples,
my
complaint will be known throughout the world.
What
I relate will travel from sunrise to sunset,
and
the East bear witness to the Western voice.
I’ll
be heard on land, and over the deep waters,
and
my lament will find a mighty voice in the future.
It
won’t be your own age only, that will know it was you,
you’ll
be guilty in the eyes of posterity forever.
I’m
already charging, without raising my horns,
and
I wish I’d no reason to raise them at all.
The
Circus is still quiet: but
the fierce bull scatters sand,
and
paws the earth, already, with its angry hoof.
That
too is more than I want. Sound the retreat, Muse,
while
that man’s still able to hide his name.
Listen
Posterity, and find out who this ‘I’ was,
this
playful poet of tender passions you read.
Sulmo’s my native place, rich in
icy streams,
and
ninety miles distant from the City.
There
I was born: if you want to know the date,
it
was when both Consuls died at Mutina.
If
it matters, I was heir to an ancient line,
not
a knight new-made by fortune’s gift.
I
was not the first child: I’d an elder brother,
who
was born twelve months before me.
The
same day of the year saw both our
birthdays:
one
day celebrated with both our offering of cakes,
the
first day stained with the blood of combat,
in
armed Minerva’s festival, the
Quinquatrus.
We
began our education at a tender age, and, through
our
father’s care, went to men distinguished in the city’s arts.
My
brother tended towards oratory from his early years:
he
was born to the harsh weapons of the noisy forum:
but
even as a boy the heavenly rites delighted me,
and
the Muse was drawing me secretly to
her work.
My
father often said: ‘Why follow useless studies?’
Maeonian Homer himself left no wealth
behind.’
Moved
by his words, and leaving Helicon
alone,
I
tried to write words that were free of metre.
But
verse came, of itself, in the right measures,
and
whatever I tried to write was poetry.
Meanwhile,
as the silent-footed years slipped by,
my
brother and I assumed the freer adult toga:
our
shoulders carried the broad purple stripe,
our
studies remained what they were before.
My
brother had just doubled his first ten years of life,
when
he died, and I went on, part of myself lost.
Still,
I achieved tender youth’s first honours,
since
at that time I was one of the tresviri.
The
Senate awaited me: I narrowed my purple stripe:
it
would have been an effort too great for my powers.
I’d
neither the strength of body, nor aptitude of mind
for
that vocation, and I shunned ambition’s cares,
and
the Aonian Muses urged me on to seek
that
safe seclusion my tastes always loved.
I
cherished and cultivated the poets of those times,
I
thought the bards that existed so many gods.
Often
old Macer read to me about those
birds of his,
the
snakes that harm you, and the herbs that heal.
Often
Propertius would tell about
his passions,
by
right of that friendship by which we were united.
Ponticus, too, famous for epic, Bassus for iambics,
were
members of that mutual circle dear to me.
And
many-metered Horace captivated
us,
when
he sang his polished songs to the Italian
lyre.
Virgil I only saw: and greedy fate
granted
Tibullus no time for my
friendship.
He
came after you, Gallus: Propertius after him:
I
was the fourth, after them, in order of time.
And
the younger poets cultivated me, as I the elder,
since
my Muse, Thalia, was not slow
to become known.
When
I first read my youthful efforts in public,
my
beard had only been shaved once or twice.
She
who was called Corinna, by me, not
her real name,
she
stirred my wit, she who was sung throughout the City.
I
wrote a good deal, but what I considered lacking
I
gave to the flames myself, for them to revise it.
Even
then, when I was leaving, I burnt certain things,
that
were pleasing, angry with my studies and my verse.
Soft,
and never safe from Cupid’s arrows,
was
my heart, that the slightest thing could move.
But
though I was such, fired by the smallest spark,
no
scandal was associated with my name.
I
was given a worthless and useless wife when I was
scarcely
more than a boy: married to me for a brief while.
A
bride succeeded her, who, though she was blameless,
was
not destined to remain sharing my bed.
Lastly
she who remained with me till I was old,
who’s
lived to be the bride of an exiled husband.
My
daughter, twice a mother, by
different husbands,
when
she was young, has made me a grandfather.
And
my father had already completed his fated time,
after
adding years to years till he was ninety.
I
wept for him as he would have wept for me
if
I had died. Next I bore my mother to her grave.
Both
lucky to have been buried at the right time,
dying
before the days of my punishment!
And
I’m fortunate my trouble wasn’t while they lived,
and
that they never had to grieve for me!
Yet
if the dead are left something more than a name,
if
a slender ghost escapes the towering pyre,
if
news of me has reached you, spirits of my parents,
and
my guilt is proclaimed in the courts of Styx,
know,
I beg you ( it would be a sin to deceive you)
the
cause of the exile decreed was an error
not a crime.
Let
this suffice the shades: I turn again, to you,
studious
spirits, who wish to know the facts of my life.
Already,
white hairs had come, driving away
my
best years, flecking my ageing locks,
and
ten times since my birth, the
victorious rider
wreathed
with olive, had carried off the Olympic
prize,
when
a wounded prince’s anger ordered me
to
Tomis on the left of the Black Sea.
The
cause, too well known to all, of my
ruin,
is
not to be revealed by any testimony of mine.
Why
tell of friends’ wickedness and servants’ harm?
I
suffered things no less evil than exile itself.
Yet
my mind refused to succumb to misfortune,
and
proved invincible, relying on its own powers.
Forgetting
myself and my life of leisure
I
grasped the unaccustomed weapons of that time:
and
I suffered as many troubles on sea or land
as
stars between the visible and hidden poles.
At
length, driven through long wanderings, I reached
that
shore, where Sarmatians and
Getic bowmen unite.
Here,
though the noise of weapons surrounds me,
I
ease my sad fate with such song as I can.
Though
there’s no one to listen to me,
still
this is the way I pass, and deceive, the days.
So
the fact that I live, and struggle against harsh suffering,
not
filled with weariness by the anxious days,
is
thanks to you, my Muse: you grant me
solace,
you
come as a rest from, and a cure for, care.
You
are both guide and friend, who spirit me
from
the Danube to a place in the
midst of Helicon:
you’ve
given me, something rare, while still alive,
the
honoured name fame only grants us when we’re dead.
Nor
has Envy, that belittles present
things,
attacked
any work of mine with malignant teeth.
Though
this age of ours has produced great poets,
fame
has not been unkind to my gifts,
and
though I set many above myself, people say
I’m
not inferior, and I’m the most widely read of all.
So,
if there’s truth in poet’s
prophecies,
I’ll
not be yours, earth, though I die today.
Whether
I’ve won fame through fashion or through
poetry
itself, it’s right that I thank you, honest reader.
The End of Tristia Book IV