Ovid: Tristia
Book Three
‘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 TIII.I:1-46 His Book Arrives in Rome
Book TIII.I:47-82
His Books Are Banned
Book TIII.II:1-30
The Weariness Of Exile
Book TIII.III:1-46
Longing For His Wife
Book
TIII.III:47-88 His Epitaph
Book TIII.V:1-56
His Error and its Nature
Book TIII.VI:1-38
His Error: The Fatal Evil
Book TIII.VII:1-54
To Perilla: The Delights of the Mind
Book
TIII.VIII:1-42 His Desire for a Change of Place
Book TIII.IX:1-34
The Origins of Tomis
Book TIII.X:1-40
Winter in Tomis
Book TIII.X:41-78
Barbarian Incursions
Book TIII.XI:39-74
Exile As Torture
Book TIII.XII:1-54
Spring in Tomis
Book
TIII.XIII:1-28 Ovid’s Birthday in Tomis
Book TIII.XIV:1-52
To the Keeper of Books
‘I
come in fear, an exile’s book, sent to this city:
kind
reader, give me a gentle hand, in my weariness:
don’t
shun me in fear, in case I bring you shame:
not
a line of this paper teaches about love.
Such
is my author’s fate he shouldn’t try,
the
wretch, to hide it with any kind of wit.
Even
that unlucky work that amused him
in
his youth, too late alas, he condemns and hates!
See
what I bring: you’ll find nothing here
but
sadness, poetry fitting circumstance.
If
the crippled couplets limp in alternate lines,
it’s
the elegiac metre, the long journey:
If
I’m not golden with cedar-oil, smoothed with pumice,
I’d
blush to be better turned out than my author:
if
the writing’s streaked with blotted erasures,
the
poet marred his own work with his tears.
If
any phrase might not seem good Latin,
it
was a land of barbarians he wrote in.
If
it’s no trouble, readers, tell me what place,
what
house to seek, a book strange to this city.’
Speaking
like this, covertly, with anxious speech,
I
found one, eventually, to show me the way.
‘May
the gods grant, what they denied our poet,
to
be able to live in peace in your native land.
Lead
on! I’ll follow now, though, weary, I come
by
land and sea from a distant world.’
He
obeyed, and guiding me, said: ‘This is Caesar’s
Forum,
this is the Sacred Way named
from the rites,
here’s
Vesta’s temple, guarding the Palladium
and
the fire, here was old Numa’s
tiny palace.’
Then,
turning right, here’s the gate to the Palatine,
here’s
Jupiter Stator, Rome was first founded here.
Gazing
around, I saw prominent doorposts hung
with
gleaming weapons, and a house fit for a god.
‘And
is this Jove’s house?’ I said, a wreath of oak
prompting
that thought in my mind.
When
I learnt its owner, ‘No error there,’ I said,
this
is truly the house of mighty Jove.’
But
why do laurels veil the door in front,
their
dark leaves circling the august ones?
Is
it because this house earned unending triumph,
or
because it’s loved by Apollo of Actium forever?
Is
it because it’s joyful, and makes all things joyful?
Is
it a mark of the peace it’s given the world?
Does
it possess everlasting glory, as the laurel
is
evergreen, without a single withered leaf to gather?
The
writing gives the reason for the coronal wreath:
it
says that by his efforts citizens were saved.
Best
of fathers, add one more citizen to them,
driven
away, and hidden at the world’s end,
the
cause of whose punishment, which he confesses
he deserved, lay in nothing that he did,
but in an error.
Ah
me! I dread the place, I dread the man of power,
and
my writing wavers with the tremor of fear.
Can
you see the paper’s colour, bloodless pale?
Can
you see each other footstep tremble?
I
pray, that, some day, your house makes peace with him
who
authored me, and, under the same masters, greets him!
Then
I was led up the high stairway’s even steps,
to
the sublime, shining temple of unshorn Apollo,
where
statues alternate with exotic pillars,
Danaids, and their savage father
with naked sword:
and
all that men of old and new times thought,
with
learned minds, is open to inspection by the reader.
I
searched for my brothers, except those indeed
their
author wishes he had never written.
As
I looked in vain, the guard, from that house
that
commands the holy place, ordered me to go.
I
tried another temple, joined to a nearby theatre:
that
too couldn’t be entered by these feet.
Nor
did Liberty allow me in her
temple,
the
first that was open to learned books.
Our
wretched author’s fate engulfs his children,
and
from birth we suffer the exile he endures.
Perhaps
one day Caesar, aware of the long years,
will
be less harsh to him and to us.
I
pray, gods, or rather – since I shouldn’t address
the
crowd – Caesar, greatest of them, hear my prayer!
Meanwhile,
since the public forum’s closed to me,
let
me lie hidden in some private place.
You
too, ordinary hands, if it’s allowed, take up
my
poetry, dismayed by the shame of its rejection.
So
it was in my destiny to visit Scythia
too,
and
the land that lies under the Lycaonian
pole:
neither
you, you crowd of learned Muses,
nor
you Apollo have brought aid to your
priest.
It’s
no help to me I played about, without real sin,
that
my Muse was more wanton than my life,
since
I’ve suffered many dangers on land and sea,
and
Pontus, seared by perpetual
frost, holds me.
I
who fled from ‘business’, born for idle ease,
I
was tender, and incapable of labour,
now
I endure the extremes, no harbourless seas
no
far-flung journeys have had the power to kill me:
my
spirit matched my ills: my body borrowed
strength
from it to bear what’s scarcely bearable.
Still,
while I was hurled, anxious, over land and sea,
the
effort masked my cares, and my sick heart:
so,
now the journey’s done, the toil is over,
and
I’ve reached the country of my punishment,
only
grieving pleases, there’s no less rain from my eyes
than
water from the melting snow in springtime.
Rome’s in my thoughts, and home, and
longed-for places,
whatever
of mine remains in the city I’ve lost.
Ah,
how often I’ve knocked at the door of my own tomb
and
yet it has never opened to me!
Why
have I escaped so many swords, so many
storms
that threatened to overwhelm an ill-starred life?
Gods,
I’ve found too constant in cruelty,
sharers
of the anger one god feels,
I
beg you, drive my slow fate onwards
forbid
the doors of death to close!
If
you’re wondering perhaps why my letter
is
written in another’s hand, I’m ill.
Ill
in the furthest region of an unknown land,
and
almost unsure that I’ll be better.
How
do you think I feel, lying here
in
a vile place, among Getae and Sarmatians?
I
can’t stand the climate, I’m not used to the water,
and
the land itself, I don’t know why, displeases.
There’s
no house here suitable for a patient, no food
that’s
any use, no one to ease his pain with Apollo’s
art,
no
friend here to bring comfort, no one
to
beguile with talk the slowly moving hours.
I’m
weary lying here among distant peoples, places,
in
sickness now thoughts come to me, of what’s not here.
Though
I think of everything, still you above all, wife,
it’s
you who occupy most of my thoughts.
Absent,
I speak to you: you alone my voice names:
there
no night for me without you, and no day.
They
even say when I babbled disjointed things,
your
name was on my delirious lips.
If
I were failing now, and my tongue stuck to my palate
could
barely be revived by a little wine,
let
someone say my lady’s come, I’ll rise,
hope
of you the reason for my vigour.
So,
maybe, while I’m anxious for my life,
do
you pass happy hours there forgetting me?
Not
you, I know it. Dearest, it’s clear to me
without
me you have no hour that isn’t sad.
Still
if my fate’s fulfilled its destined years,
and
the end of my life’s here, so quickly,
how
difficult was it, O great gods, to spare the dying,
so
I might have been covered by my native earth?
If
sentence might have been delayed till the hour of death,
or
swift death might have anticipated exile.
I
could easily have renounced the light, just now,
when
I was whole, now life’s given me to die in exile.
So
I’ll die far away then, on a foreign shore,
and
my fate will be desolate as the place itself:
my
body won’t grow weak on a familiar couch,
at
my death there’ll be no-one there to weep:
nor
will my lady’s tears be falling on my lips,
adding
a few brief moments to my life:
no
parting instructions, no last lament
as
a friendly hand closes my failing eyes:
but
with no funeral rites, without honour of a tomb,
my
head will bow, un-mourned, in a barbarous land!
Hearing
this won’t your whole heart be shaken
won’t
you strike your faithful breast with trembling hand?
Won’t
you stretch your arms in vain in my direction,
and
call on your wretched husband’s empty name?
Don’t
lacerate your cheeks or tear your hair,
it’s
not now, for a first time, I’m taken from you, mea lux.
Think
that I perished when I lost my native land:
that
was an earlier and a deeper death.
Now
if you can – but you can’t, best of wives –
be
glad that so many of my ills end with my death.
This
you can do, ease the woes by suffering them
with
a brave heart, those you’ve known for a long time.
If
only our souls might vanish with the body,
so
no part of me escapes the
greedy pyre!
Since
if the deathless spirit flies on high in the empty air,
and
old Pythagoras of Samos’s words are true,
a
Roman will wander among Sarmatian
shades,
a
stranger forever among the savage dead.
But
make sure my bones are brought back in a little urn:
so
I’ll not be an exile still in death.
No
one forbids that: Theban Antigone buried
her
brother’s body under the earth, despite the king.
and,
mixing leaves and nard with my bones,
bury
them in ground near the city:
and
carve these lines in fine letters on the marble
for
the hurried eyes of passers-by to read:
I LIE HERE, WHO TOYED WITH TENDER LOVE,
OVID THE POET BETRAYED BY MY GENIUS:
BE NOT SEVERE, LOVER, AS YOU PASS BY,
That
suffices for an epitaph. In fact my books
are
a greater and a lasting monument,
those,
I know, though they’ve injured him
will
give their author fame and enduring life.
But
you, forever, bring funeral gifts to the dead
and
wreaths that are soaked with your tears.
Though
the fire transforms my body to ash,
the
sorrowing dust will know your faithful care.
I’d
write more: but my voice, tired of speech,
and
my dry tongue, deny power to dictate it.
Accept
the last words perhaps my lips will utter,
what
he who sends them to you cannot do: ‘Fare well.’
O
you who were always dear to me, but
truly known
in
hard times, after my hopes collapsed,
if
you believe anything from a friend whom life has taught,
live
for yourself, and keep far away from the great.
Live
for yourself, as far as you can, avoid the bright light:
it’s
a fierce lightning bolt that falls from that bright citadel.
Though
only the powerful can help us,
it’s
no use if they choose to harm us.
The
lowered yard escapes the winter storm,
broad
sails bring more risk than the narrow.
See
how the light cork bobs on the waves,
while
its own weight sinks the heavy net.
If
I who warn you had once been warned myself,
perhaps
I’d be in that city where I ought to be.
While
I lived with you, while the light breeze bore me,
this
boat of mine sailed on through calm water,
He
who falls on level ground – it scarcely happens –
falls
to rise again from the earth he touched,
but
poor Elpenor who tumbled from
the high roof
met
his king again as a cripple and a shade.
Why
is it that Daedalus beat his
wings in safety
while
Icarus gave his name to the
endless waves?
Why
because Icarus flew high, the other lower:
yet
both flew on wings that were not their own.
Believe
me, who lives quietly lives well,
and
every man should be happy with his lot.
Eumedes would not have lost his
child, if Dolon,
his
foolish son, hadn’t yearned for Achilles’
horses.
Merops would not have seen his son on
fire, his daughters
trees,
if he’d sufficed Phaethon as
a father.
You
too, always fear what is too high,
and
narrow the sails of your intentions.
Since
you ought to run life’s course on sound feet,
and
enjoy a brighter destiny than mine.
You
deserve my prayers for you, by your kind
affection,
and that loyalty that clings to me always.
I
saw you grieving for my fate, with such a look
as
I believe my own face must have showed.
I
saw your tears falling on my lips,
tears
that I drank with your faithful words.
Even
now you defend your exiled friend zealously,
easing
the pain that can scarcely be eased.
Live
unenvied, pass sweet years, unknown,
form
friendships equal to your own,
and
love the name of Ovid, the only part of him
not
exiled: the rest Scythian Pontus holds.
The
land near the stars of the Erymanthian
Bear
imprisons
me, earth gripped with freezing cold.
The
Bosphorus, Don, the Scythian marshes lie beyond it,
a
handful of names in a region scarcely known.
Further
there’s nothing but uninhabitable cold.
Ah
how near I am to the ends of the earth!
And
my country’s far away, my dear wife’s far away,
and
everything that, after them, was sweet.
Even
so they’re still present, though I cannot
touch
them: everything’s alive in my mind.
My
home’s before my eyes, the city, the image of places,
every
event that happened in each place.
My
wife’s form is before my eyes, as if
she were here,
She
makes my misfortunes darker: she lightens them:
darkens
them by her absence, lightens them by her gift
of
love, and her strength in enduring the load she bears.
You
too cling to my heart, my friends,
whom
I’d like to mention each by name,
but
cautious fear inhibits that service, and I think
you
wouldn’t want a place in my verse.
You
did before: it was like an honour, deserving thanks,
for
your names to be read in my poems.
Since
it’s dangerous now, I’ll speak to you, each
in
my heart, and be a source of fear to none.
My
verse gives no hints that drag my friends from hiding.
Let
him who loved me, love in secret still.
But
though I’m absent, far away in a distant place,
know
you’re always present in my heart.
And
in whatever way each can, ease my pain somehow,
don’t
refuse an outcast a loyal hand.
So
may good fortune stay with you, and may you never,
touched
by a like fate, have to make the same request.
My
friendship with you was recent, so you
could
have concealed it without trouble,
yet
you couldn’t have embraced me more closely
if
my ship had been running, by chance, before the wind.
When
I fell and everyone ran in fear from my ruin,
turning
their backs against my friendship,
you
dared to touch the body Jove’s
lightning struck,
and
touch the threshold of a house despaired of.
You,
a new friend, not one known by long usage, in my pain,
gave
me what scarcely two or three of my old friends did.
I
saw your expression of grief, noted your face,
wet
with tears and more pallid than my own.
And
seeing your tears falling at every word,
drinking
the tears with my lips, the words in my ears,
I
felt your encircling arms clasp my neck,
and
your kisses mingled with the sound of sobbing.
I’ve
also felt your strong defence of me,
in my absence –
dear
friend, you know that ‘dear’ might
stand for your true name –
and
I possess many clear signs of your affection,
as
well, that will not be absent from my heart.
May
the gods always grant you power to defend your own,
and
aid them in more fortunate circumstances.
If
you ask meanwhile – and I believe, of you,
that
you do – how I am, a ruined man, on these shores,
I’m
led on by the slight hope: don’t remove it from me,
that
the desolating will of the god can be mollified.
Whether
my hope is rash, or whether I touch on what is possible,
may
you set out to prove, I beg, that what I wish is possible,
Whatever
eloquence you have apply to this,
to
showing that my prayer might be effective.
The
greater a man the more his anger can be placated,
and
a noble mind has generous impulses.
It’s
enough for the great lion to bring down his quarry:
when
his enemy’s fallen the battle’s at an end:
but
wolves and lowly bears will worry the dying,
as
will every creature of the lower orders.
Who
can we show at Troy greater than
brave Achilles?
But
he couldn’t suffer aged Dardanian
Priam’s tears.
Porus and the funeral rites of Darius,
display
Emathian Alexander’s mercy, to us.
And
to show not merely human anger turned to mildness,
Juno’s former enemy Hercules is now her son-in-law.
So
it’s impossible for me not to hope of salvation,
since
the cause of my punishment’s not stained with blood.
I never tried to ruin everything by
attacking
Caesar’s
life, which is the life of the world:
I’ve
said nothing: a pure tongue has spoken,
no
impious words poured out with too much wine:
I’m
punished because my unknowing eyes
saw
an offence, my sin’s that of possessing sight.
True
I can’t entirely defend myself from blame,
but
one of my offences was an error.
So
hope remains that he might bring himself to ease
my
punishment by changing the terms of its location.
Might
such a dawn as that be brought to me, by bright
Lucifer with swift horses, herald of
the shining Sun!
Dearest friend, you neither wish to hide
the bond of our
friendship,
nor, if you did wish so, have you the power.
Since,
while it was right, no other was dearer to me,
no
one in the whole city closer to you than me:
that
love was so truly witnessed by the crowd
it
was almost better known than you or I were:
and
your openness of heart to your dear friends –
is
well known to the man you cultivate.
You
concealed nothing I was not aware of,
and
entrusted many hidden things, to my heart:
I told whatever secrets I had to you
except
that one that ruined me.
If
you’d known that too, my friend, you’d be enjoying
your
companions safety, I’d be safe through your advice.
But
my fate was dragging me surely to punishment:
it
closed off every road that led to good.
Whether
with care I might have avoided this evil,
or
whether there’s no way to overcome fate,
Oh,
you, closest to me through long friendship,
you
whom I miss almost the most of all,
remember
me still, and, if favour grants you power,
prove
it on my behalf, I beg you,
lessen
the anger of the injured god,
and
lessen my punishment by a change of place,
and
that because there’s no wickedness in my heart,
an
error was the cause of my offence.
What
chance it was, through which my eyes were witness
to
a fatal evil, it’s not safe or brief to tell.
As
if from its own wound, my mind shrinks
from
that time, and thinking of it is new shame,
and
whatever is able to bring us such shame
should
be veiled and hidden in the blind night.
So
I’ll say nothing but that I sinned,
though
I sought no advantage from that sin,
and
my offence should be called foolishness,
if
you want to give a true name to what I did.
If
it’s not so, find a more distant place:
call
this a country too near Rome for
me.
Go,
greet Perilla,
hastily written letter,
and
be the faithful servant of speech.
You’ll
find her sitting with her sweet mother,
or
among her books, and the Muses.
Wherever
she’s doing when she knows you’ve come
she’ll
stop, and ask you quickly how I am.
Say
I live, but so that I’d rather not live,
my
ills not eased by any length of time:
and
still I return to the Muses though they harmed me,
forcing
words to fit with alternating feet.
Say:
‘Do you still cling to our shared studies,
write
learned verse, though not in your father’s style?
Since
nature and fate gave you modest
manners,
and the rare gift of imagination.
I
was the first to lead you to Pegasus’s
spring
lest
that precious rill of water be lost:
I
first discerned it, in your girlhood’s tender years,
when
I was your friend and guide, father to daughter.
And
if the same fire still burns in your heart,
only
Sappho of Lesbos’s work outshines you.
But
I fear lest my fate holds you back,
and
that since my misfortune your mind is idle.
I
often used to read your verses to me, while I could,
and
mine to you, often your critic, often your teacher:
giving
ear to the poems you had made,
causing
you to blush when you fell silent.
From
the example, perhaps, of how books hurt me,
you
too have been harmed by my punishment.
Have
no fear, Perilla: only let no man or woman
learn
from your writings how to love.
So,
learned girl, reject every reason for idleness,
return
to the true arts and your sacred calling.
The long years will spoil
those precious looks,
and
time’s wrinkles mar your furrowed brow,
Ruinous
age that comes with noiseless step
will
take possession of all your beauty:
you’ll
grieve when someone says: “She was lovely”,
and
you’ll complain that your mirror lies.
You
have a modest fortune, though worth a great one,
but
imagine yours the equal of immense wealth,
still
fortune gives and takes away as she pleases:
suddenly
he’s Irus the beggar, who was Croesus.
In
short, we’ve nothing that isn’t mortal,
except
the benefits of heart and mind.
Look
at me, my country lost, you two, and my home,
and
everything, that could be, taken from me.
still
I follow and delight in my genius:
Caesar
has no power over that.
Let whoever will end this life with a
cruel blade,
yet
my fame will survive when I am dead,
and
I’ll be read as long as warlike Rome
looks,
in victory, from her hills, on all the world.
You
also: may a happier use of art await you,
in
whatever way you can, evade the future’s flame!’
Now I’d wish to drive Triptolemus’s chariot,
he
who scattered fresh seed on uncultivated soil:
now
I’d wish to bridle Medea’s dragons,
she
fled with from your citadel, Corinth:
now
I’d wish for wings to beat in flight,
either
yours Perseus, or yours Daedalus:
so
the gentle air might fall beneath my swiftness
and
suddenly, I’d see my country’s sweet earth,
and
the faces in the house I left, true friends,
and
above all my dear wife’s features.
Foolish,
why utter childish prayers for them in vain,
things
which no day brings, or could bring?
If
you can only pray, worship the divine Augustus,
and
petition the god you’ve known, in the proper way.
He
can bring you feathers and winged chariots:
let
him grant your return and you’ll have wings at once.
If
I pray for this – and there’s nothing I ask more –
I
fear only lest my prayer might be immodest.
Perhaps,
sometime, when his anger’s sated,
I
need to pray then with a still anxious mind.
Meanwhile
something less, but a great gift to me,
would
be to order me somewhere away from here.
Sky,
and water, earth and air don’t suit me:
ah
me! A perpetual weakness grips my body!
Whether
the disease of an ill mind drains my limbs,
or
this region is the cause of my misfortune,
I’m
vexed by insomnia since I reached Pontus,
my
flesh scarce covers bone, food barely finds my lips:
my
skin has the colours of the autumn leaves,
struck
by the first frost, when winter spoils them,
and
no strength of body brings relief,
and
I never lack the cause of grievous pain.
I’m
no fitter in mind than body, rather both
are
ill and I endure a double ache.
The
nature of that fate I must view clings to me,
and
stands before my eyes like a visible form:
and
when I consider this place, the customs, dress,
the
language of the people, what I am and what I was,
my
love of death is such, I complain of Caesar’s anger,
who
did not avenge his wrongs with the sword.
But
as he’s exercised a mild displeasure, once,
let
him ease my exile now, by a change of place.
So
there are Greek cities here – who’d believe it? –
among
the place-names of the savage barbarians:
here
too colonists came, sent by the Miletians,
to
found Greek holdings among the Getae.
But
its ancient name, older than the city’s founding,
was
derived for it from Absyrtus’s murder.
Since
wicked Medea, fleeing the father
she’d left,
in
the Argo, that ship built with the
protection
of
warlike Minerva, and first to course through
these
unknown seas, rested its oars in these shallows.
A
look-out on a high hill saw Aeetes
ship far-off,
and
said: ‘A guest from Colchis, I know
the sail.’
While
the Argonauts rushed to loose the
cables,
while
the anchor was raised swiftly by ready hands,
the
Colchian struck her breast, knowing her guilt,
with
a hand that dared and would dare much evil,
and
though her mind retained its great courage,
there
was a pallor over the girl’s troubled face.
So,
watching the approaching sail, she cried:
‘We’re
caught: my father must be delayed by some trick.’
While
she thought what to do, gazing around her,
her
eyes fell, by chance, on her brother.
Aware
now of his presence, she said: ‘I have it:
his
death will be the means of my salvation.’
While
he was unsuspecting, fearing no such attack,
she
quickly stabbed his innocent heart with a sword.
Then
she tore him apart, and scattered his limbs
through
the fields, to be found in many places.
And
lest her father did not realise, high on a rock,
she
set the bloodless hands, and blood-stained head,
so
her father would be delayed by this new grief,
gathering
those lifeless fragments, on a sad trail.
So
this place was called Tomis,
because they say
it
was here the sister cut up her brother’s body.
If
anyone there still remembers exiled Ovid,
if
my name’s alive in the city now I’m gone,
let
him know that, beneath the stars that never
touch
the sea, I live among the barbarian races.
The
Sarmatians, a wild tribe,
surround me, the Bessi
and
the Getae, names unworthy of my
wit!
While
the warm winds still blow, the Danube
between
defends
us: with his flood he prevents war.
And
when dark winter shows its icy face,
and
the earth is white with marbled frost,
when
Boreas and the snow constrain life
under the Bears,
those
tribes must be hard-pressed by the shivering sky.
Snow
falls, and, once fallen, no rain or sunlight melts it,
since
the north wind, freezing, makes it permanent.
So
another fall comes before the first has melted,
and
in many parts it lingers there two years.
The
power of Aquilo’s northern gales is
such
it
razes high towers, and blows away the roofs.
Men
keep out the dreadful cold with sewn trousers
and
furs: the face alone appears of the whole body.
Often
their hair tinkles with hanging icicles,
and
their beards gleam white with a coat of frost.
Wine
stands exposed, holding the shape of the jar,
and
they don’t drink draughts of mead, but frozen lumps.
Shall
I speak of solid rivers, frozen by cold,
and
water dug out brittle from the pools?
The
Danube itself, no narrower than lotus-bearing Nile,
mingling
with deep water through many mouths,
congeals,
the winds hardening its dark flow,
and
winds its way to the sea below the ice:
Feet
cross now, where boats went before,
and
horses’ hooves beat on waters hard with cold:
and
across this new bridge over the sliding flood
barbarous
wagons are pulled by Sarmatian
oxen.
I’ll
scarcely be believed, but since there’s no prize
for
deceit, the witness should be given due credit:
I’ve
seen the vast waters frozen with ice,
a
slippery shell gripping the unmoving deep.
Seeing
was not enough: I walked the frozen sea,
dry-shod,
with the surface under my feet.
If
such waters had once been
yours, Leander,
those
straits would not be guilty of your death.
Since
the dolphins can’t hurl themselves into the air,
harsh
winter holds them back if they try:
and
though Boreas roars and thrashes his
wings,
there’s
no wave on the besieged waters.
The
ships stand locked in frozen marble,
and
no oar can cut the solid wave.
I’ve
seen fish stuck fast held by the ice,
and
some of them were alive even then.
Whether
the savage power of wild Boreas
freezes
the sea-water or the flowing river,
as
soon as the Danube’s levelled by
dry winds,
the
barbarian host attack on swift horses:
strong
in horses and strong in far-flung arrows
laying
waste the neighbouring lands far and wide.
Some
men flee: and, with their fields unguarded,
their
undefended wealth is plundered,
the
scant wealth of the country, herds
and
creaking carts, whatever a poor farmer has.
Some,
hands tied, are driven off as captives,
looking
back in vain at their farms and homes.
some
die wretchedly pierced by barbed arrows,
since
there’s a touch of venom on the flying steel.
They
destroy what they can’t carry, or lead away,
and
enemy flames burn the innocent houses.
Even
at peace, they tremble on the edge of war,
and
no man ploughs the soil with curving blade.
This
place sees the enemy, or fears him unseen:
the
earth lies idle, abandoned to harsh neglect.
No
sweet grapes are hidden in leafy shade,
no
frothing must fills the deep wine-vats.
This
land’s denied fruit, nor would Acontius
have
an
apple to write words on for Cydippe
to read.
You
can see naked fields without crops or trees:
a
region, ah, that no happy man should enter.
This
then, though the great world stretches wide,
is
the place invented for my punishment!
Cruel,
whoever you are, you who exult in my misfortunes,
bloodthirsty,
endlessly using the law against me,
born
of the rock, nursed on the milk of wild beasts,
and,
I’ll swear, your heart is made of stone.
What
further reach is left to which your ire might stretch?
What
do you seek that’s missing from my ills?
A
barbarous land, the unfriendly coast of Pontus,
the
Maenalian Bear, and her Boreas gaze at me.
I
have no commerce, in speech, with the wild tribes:
every
place fills me with anxiety and fear.
Like
a timid deer trapped by hungry bears,
or
a stricken lamb circled by mountain wolves,
so
I’m in terror of belligerent races, hedged in
on
all sides, the enemy almost at my flank.
If
it were a slight penalty to be deprived
of
my dear wife, my country, those I love:
if
I endured no anger but Caesar’s naked anger,
then
is our Caesar’s naked anger not enough?
Yet
still there’s one who’ll re-open my raw wounds,
and
attack my character in eloquent speeches.
Anyone
can be eloquent when the brief is easy,
and
the least strength shatters what’s already broken.
It’s
brave to take citadels and standing walls:
any
coward can crush what’s already down.
I
am not what I was. Why trample an empty shadow?
Why
attack my tomb, my ashes, with your stones?
Hector existed while he fought the
war: but that
was
not Hector, dragged behind Achilles’
horses.
I
too, remember, whom you once knew, do not exist:
only
the ghost, here, of that man remains.
Why
attack a ghost with bitter words, so cruelly?
I
beg you, cease to trouble my shade.
Imagine
my crimes were all real, nothing
you
might think of as an error not a sin,
then,
as a fugitive – let this be enough for you – I still
pay
a heavy penalty, by exile, and my place of exile.
My
fate might seem sad enough to a hangman:
but
it’s still not profound enough for a judge.
You’re
fiercer than cruel Busiris, fiercer
than Perillus
who
heated the brazen bull in the slow fires,
and
gave that bull to Phalaris,
tyrant of Sicily,
commending
his work of art in these words:
‘There’s
greater worth in my gift than it seems, my king,
not
only the form of my work deserves your praise.
Do
you not see the bull’s right flank can be opened?
You
can thrust a man in here, whom you would destroy.
Shut
him in at once, and roast him over slow coals:
he’ll
bellow, and it will sound like a real bull.
Give
me a prize, I pray, worthy of my genius,
reward
me gift for gift, for this invention.’
So
he spoke, But Phalaris replied: ‘You marvellous
creator
of torments, try out your work in person,’
At
once, roasting in the fires he’d prepared,
Perillus
made double sounds with groaning lips.
Between
Scythians and Getae why speak of Sicilians?
My
complaint returns to you, whoever you are.
If
you can sate your thirst for blood on this,
enjoy
what pleasure you can in your greedy heart:
I’ve
suffered so many evils in flight by land and sea
I
think even you, hearing them, might feel the pain.
Believe
me, if Ulysses is compared to
me,
Neptune’s anger was much slighter
than Jove’s.
So,
whoever you are, rescind the charge against me,
take
your unfeeling hands from my deep wound,
and
allow a scar to form, over my actions,
so
forgetfulness might lessen knowledge of my fault:
remember
mortal fate that lifts a man and crushes him,
and
fear the uncertainties of change yourself.
And
since, though I’d never have thought it possible,
you
take the greatest of interest in my affairs,
you’ve
nothing to fear: my fate’s most miserable,
Caesar’s
anger brings with it every ill.
And
so it’s clear, and I’m not thought a liar,
I’d
like you to try my punishment yourself.
Zephyrus lessens the cold, now
the past year’s done,
a
Black Sea winter that seemed
longer than those of old,
and
the Ram that failed to carry Helle
on its back,
makes
the hours of night and day equal now.
Now
laughing boys and girls gather the violets
that
grow, un-sown, born of the countryside:
and
the meadows bloom with many flowers,
and
the song-birds welcome spring, untaught:
and
the swallow, denying the name of wicked Procne,
builds
her nest with its little roof under the eaves:
and
the shoots that lay hid, buried in the wheat furrows,
show
through, unfurl their tender tips from the earth.
Wherever
the vine grows, buds break from the stem:
but
vines grow far away from these Getic
shores:
wherever
there’s a tree, the tree’s twigs are bursting,
but
trees grow far away from these Getic lands.
It’s
a time of ease there, and a
string of festive days
succeed
the noisy battles of the wordy forum.
Now
they ride horses, practise with light weapons,
play
ball games, or with the swiftly circling hoops:
now
young men, when they’re slick with slippery oil,
soak
their weary limbs in the flow of the Aqua
Virgo,
The
stage is alive, faction flares among separate parties,
and
the three theatres resound not
the three forums.
O
four times, O endlessly blessed that man
who’s
not forbidden, and can enjoy, the city!
But
I only see snow that melts in the spring sun
and
water that’s not dug frozen from the pool.
The
sea’s solid ice no longer, Sarmatian
herdsmen
don’t
drive creaking carts on the Danube,
as before.
Ships
will be starting to make their voyage here,
and
there’ll be friendly prows on the Pontic
shore.
I’ll
go eagerly to meet the captain, and greet him:
I’ll
ask why he comes, who he is and from where.
It’ll
be strange if he’s not from a neighbouring place,
one
who’s not safely ploughed the local waters.
It’s
rare for sailors to cross the deep sea from Italy,
rare
for them to come to this harbourless coast.
Yet
if he knows how to speak in Greek or Latin
–
and for sure the latter tongue would be more welcome –
possibly
someone too who’s sailed with a steady southerly
from
far Propontis, and the mouth
of the straits,
whoever
he is he can recount the news he knows,
and
be the sharer and passer-on of rumour.
I hope he can tell what he’s heard of
Caesar’s triumphs,
of
prayers made to our Roman Jupiter, and that you
rebellious
Germany, at last, have bowed
your
sorrowful head beneath the general’s
foot.
He
who tells me things, I’m sad I haven’t seen,
will
be an instant guest in my house.
Ah,
is Ovid’s house, now, in the Scythian
world?
Does
my sentence assign the land, it specified, as home?
Gods,
let Caesar not will my hearth and home here,
but
only a temporary lodging as a punishment.
Behold,
the god of my birth, comes, on his day,
uselessly
– what was the point of my being born?
Harsh
one, why here, in the wretched years of exile?
You
should, instead, have put an end to them.
If
you had any care for me, or any shame,
you’d
not have followed me beyond my native country,
and
there, where you first knew this ill-fated child,
you
should have tried to know me for the last time,
and
like my friends, as I was leaving the city,
you
too should have said a sad ‘Farewell.’
What
have you to do with Pontus? Did
Caesar’s anger
send
you, as well, to the farthest land of the icy world?
I
suppose you expect the usual kind of honours,
a
white robe hanging from my shoulders,
a
smoking altar circled by garlands,
grains
of incense crackling in the flames,
myself
to offer cakes to mark my birthday,
and
make propitious prayers with fine words?
My
situation and the times aren’t such
that
I can be joyful at your arrival.
A
funeral altar covered with deathly cypress,
fits
me, a flame prepared for a tall pyre.
I
don’t wish to offer incense to unresponsive gods,
fine
words don’t rise to my lips in evil times.
Yet,
if I must ask something from this day,
I
beg you never to return to this place,
not
while this all but farthest stretch of the earth,
Pontus, falsely named Euxine, still holds me.
Keeper and revered supporter of learned
men,
what
are you doing, to befriend my wit at all?
Just
as you used to celebrate me when I was ‘safe’,
do
you still see to it, that I’m not wholly absent?
Do
you still protect my verse, excepting that poem
about
the ‘Art’, that did such harm to the artist?
I
beg, in so far as you can, connoisseur of new poets,
do
so, and keep my ‘body’ of work in the city.
Exile
was decreed for me, not for my books:
they
didn’t deserve their author’s sentence.
Often
a father’s exiled to a foreign shore,
but
his children are still allowed to live in the city.
My
poems were born of me, in the manner of Pallas,
without
a mother: these are my blood-line, my children.
I
commend them to you, they who’ll be a greater burden
to
you their guardian the longer they lack a father.
Three
of my offspring have caught my infection:
let
the rest of the flock be publicly in your care.
There
are also fifteen books of transmuted forms,
verses
snatched from their author’s funeral rites.
That
work might have gained more certain fame
from
a final polish, if I’d not perished first,
now
it has reached peoples’ lips un-revised,
if
anything of mine is on their lips.
Add
this something to my books, as well,
this,
that comes to you from a distant world.
Whoever
reads it - if anyone shall - let him first
remember
the time and place that it was made.
He’ll
be fair to writing that he knows
was
done in a time of exile, a barbarous place;
and
he’ll be amazed I managed to persevere
at
verse at all, with sorrow’s hand, in such adversity.
My
ills have weakened my talent, whose flow
was
scant before, and whose stream was meagre.
But
whatever it was, it has shrunk without nurture,
and
is lost, dried up, by a long neglect.
I’ve
no great supply of books here, to tempt
and
feed me: bows and armour rattle here instead.
If
I recite my verse, there’s no one about,
to
ensure I receive an intelligent hearing:
there’s
no secluded place. The guards on the wall,
and
closed gates keep out the hostile Getae.
I
often search for a word, a name, a location,
and
there’s no one I can ask, to be more certain.
Often
in trying to say something – shameful confession! –
words
fail me, and I’ve forgotten how to speak.
Thracian and Scythian tongues sound round me,
and
I think I could almost write in Getic
metres.
Believe
me, I’m afraid lest you read the words
of
Pontus, in my writings, mixed
with the Latin.
So,
whatever this book may be, think it worth your
favour
and pardon, given the nature of my fate.
The End of Tristia Book III