OVID
to
his
WIFE
:
Imitated
from
different
Parts
of
his
TRISTIA
.
Jam
mea
cygneas
imitantur
tempora
plumas
,
Inficit
&
nigras
alba
senecta
comas
:
TRIST
.
Lib.
iv
.
Eleg.
8.
MY
aged
head
now
stoops
its
honours
low
,
Bow'd
with
the
load
of
fifty
winters'
snow
;
And
for
the
raven's
glossy
black
assumes
The
downy
whiteness
of
the
cygnet's
plumes
:
Loose
scatter'd
hairs
around
my
temples
stray
,
And
spread
the
mournful
shade
of
sickly
grey
:
I
bend
beneath
the
weight
of
broken
years
,
Averse
to
change
,
and
chill'd
with
causeless
fears
.
The
season
now
invites
me
to
retire
To
the
dear
lares
of
my
household
fire
;
To
homely
scenes
of
calm
domestic
peace
,
A
poet's
leisure
,
and
an
old
man's
ease
;
To
wear
the
remnant
of
uncertain
life
In
the
fond
bosom
of
a
faithful
wife
;
In
safe
repose
my
last
few
hours
to
spend
,
Nor
fearful
nor
impatient
of
their
end
.
Thus
a
safe
port
the
wave-worn
vessels
gain
,
Nor
tempt
again
the
dangers
of
the
main
;
Thus
the
proud
steed
,
when
youthful
glory
fades
,
And
creeping
age
his
stiffening
limbs
invades
,
Lies
stretch'd
at
ease
on
the
luxuriant
plain
,
And
dreams
his
morning
triumphs
o'er
again
:
The
hardly
veteran
from
the
camp
retires
,
His
joints
unstrung
,
and
feeds
his
household
fires
,
Satiate
with
fame
enjoys
well-earn'd
repose
,
And
sees
his
stormy
day
serenely
close
.
Not
such
my
lot
:
Severer
fates
decree
My
shatter'd
bark
must
plough
an
unknown
sea
.
Forc'd
from
my
native
seats
and
sacred
home
,
Friendless
,
alone
,
thro'
Scythian
wilds
to
roam
;
With
trembling
knees
o'er
unknown
hills
I
go
,
Stiff
with
blue
ice
and
heap'd
with
drifted
snow
:
Pale
suns
there
strike
their
feeble
rays
in
vain
,
Which
faintly
glance
against
the
marble
plain
;
Red
Ister
there
,
which
madly
lash'd
the
shore
,
His
idle
urn
seal'd
up
,
forgets
to
roar
;
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
,
or
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
?
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
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
CAESAR
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
I
fear
to
all
I
feel
!
Yet
here
,
forever
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
.
CAESAR
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
wilt
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
.