Ister defends us :

He, as he flows, repels inroads of war with his waves.

foot; and the billows, Solid made by the frost, hoof-beats of horses indent.

hideous aspect,

When all the earth becomes white with

a marble-like frost ;

ing beneath them,

The Sarmatian steers drag their barbarian carts.

hurled under Arcturus,

Then these nations, in sooth, shudder

and shiver with cold.

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

Hence, ere the first has melted away, another succeeds it,

And two years it is wont, in many places, to lie.

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

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

naught is gained by a falsehood, Absolute credence then should to a witness be given.

I have beheld the vast Black Sea of ice all compacted,

And a slippery crust pressing its motionless tides.

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

If thou hadst had of old such a sea as this is, Leander !

Then thy death had not been charged as a crime to the Strait.

Nor can the curvéd dolphins uplift themselves from the water;

All their struggles to rise merciless winter prevents;

pendent icicles tinkle,

And their whitened beards shine with the gathering frost.

Wines consolidate stand, preserving the form of the vessels;

No more draughts of wine, - pieces presented they drink.

Why should I tell you how all the rivers are frozen and solid,

And from out of the lake frangible water is dug?

Hence, if the savage strength of omnipotent Boreas freezes

Whether the salt-sea wave, whether the refluent stream,

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

Others, transfixed with barbéd arrows, in agony perish,

For the swift arrow-heads all have in poison been dipped.

What they cannot carry or lead away they demolish,

And the hostile flames burn up the innocent cots.

Even when there is peace, the fear of war is impending;

None, with the ploughshare pressed, furrows the soil any more.

Either this region sees, or fears a foe that it sees not,

And the sluggish land slumbers in utter neglect.

No sweet grape lies hidden here in the shade of its vine-leaves,

No fermenting must fills and o'erflows
the deep vats.

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

TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy XII.

Now the zephyrs diminish the cold, and the year being ended,

Winter Mæotian seems longer than ever before;

And the Ram that bore unsafely the burden of Helle,

Now makes the hours of the day equal with those of the night.

Now the boys and the laughing girls the violet gather,

Which the fields bring forth, nobody sowing the seed.

Now the meadows are blooming with

flowers of various colors,

And with untaught throats carol the garrulous birds.

Now the swallow, to shun the crime of her merciless mother,

Under the rafters builds cradles and dear little homes;

And the blade that lay hid, covered up in the furrows of Ceres,

Now from the tepid ground raises its delicate head.

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

Where there is ever a tree, on the tree the branches are swelling,

But from the Getic land distant afar is the tree!

Now it is holiday there in Rome, and to games in due order

Give place the windy wars of the vociferous bar.

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

Now, when the young athlete with flowing oil is anointed,

He in the Virgin's Fount bathes, over wearied, his limbs.

voices at variance, thunders, And the Theatres three for the three Forums resound.

Four times happy is he, and times without number is happy,

Who the city of Rome, uninterdicted, enjoys.

But all I see is the snow in the vernal sunshine dissolving,

And the waters no more delved from the indurate lake.

Nor is the sea now frozen, nor as before

o'er the Ister

Comes the Sarmatian boor driving his stridulous cart.

Hitherward, nevertheless, some keels

already are steering,

thou, the rebellious,

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, Forthwith unto my house welcomed as guest shall he be.

Woe is me! Is the house of Ovid in Scythian lands now ?

And doth punishment now give me its place for a home?

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

will be.

Eagerly shall I run to the sailor, and,

having saluted,

Who he may be, I shall ask; where

fore and whence he hath come.

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

Rarely a mariner over the deep from Italy passes,

Rarely he comes to these shores, wholly of harbors devoid.

Whether he knoweth Greek, or whether in Latin he speaketh,

Surely on this account he the more welcome will be.

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

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

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

LADES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MÉRY. FROM this high portal, where upsprings The rose to touch our hands in play, The Sea, the Town, and the Highway. We at a glance behold three things,

And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear; I drown my best friends in the deep; And those who braved my tempests, here Among my sea-weeds lie asleep!

The Town says: I am filled and fraught
With tumult and with smoke and care;
My days with toil are overwrought,
And in my nights I gasp for air.

The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide

To the pale climates of the North;
Where my last milestone stands abide
The people to their death gone forth.

Here, in the shade, this life of ours,
Full of delicious air, glides by
Amid a multitude of flowers
As countless as the stars on high;

These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil,
Bathed with an azure all divine,
Where springs the tree that gives us oil,
The grape that giveth us the wine;

Beneath these mountains stripped of trees, |
Whose tops with flowers are covered o'er,
Where springtime of the Hesperides
Begins, but endeth nevermore;

Under these leafy vaults and walls,
That unto gentle sleep persuade;
This rainbow of the waterfalls,
Of mingled mist and sunshine made;

Upon these shores, where all invites,
We live our languid life apart;
This air is that of life's delights,
The festival of sense and heart;

This limpid space of time prolong,
Forget to-morrow in to-day,
And leave unto the passing throng
The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.

TO MY BROOKLET.

FROM THE FRENCH OF DUCIS.

THOU brooklet, all unknown to song,
Hid in the covert of the wood!
Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng,
Like thee I love the solitude.

O brooklet, let my sorrows past
Lie all forgotten in their graves,
Till in my thoughts remain at last
Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves.

The lily by thy margin waits ; —
The nightingale, the marguerite;
In shadow here he meditates
His nest, his love, his music sweet.

Near thee the self-collected soul
Knows naught of error or of crime;
Thy waters, murmuring as they roll,
Transform his musings into rhyme.

Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves,
Pursuing still thy course, shall I
Lisp the soft shudder of the leaves,
And hear the lapwing's plaintive cry?

BARRÉGES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF LEFRANC DE

POMPIGNAN.

I LEAVE you, ye cold mountain chains, Dwelling of warriors stark and frore ! You, may these eyes behold no more, Save on the horizon of our plains.

Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views!
Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds!
Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds,
Impracticable avenues!

Ye torrents, that with might and main
Break pathways through the rocky walls,
With your terrific waterfalls
Fatigue no more my weary brain!

Arise, ye landscapes full of charms,
Arise, ye pictures of delight!
Ye brooks, that water in your flight
The flowers and harvests of our farms!

You I perceive, ye meadows green,
Where the Garonne the lowland fills,
Not far from that long chain of hills,
With intermingled vales between.

Yon wreath of smoke, that mounts so
high,
Methinks from my own hearth must come;
With speed, to that beloved home,
Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly!

And bear me thither, where the soul
In quiet may itself possess,

Where all things soothe the mind's dis tress,

Where all things teach me and console.

FORSAKEN.

FROM THE GERMAN.

SOMETHING the heart must have to cherish,

Must love and joy and sorrow learn, Something with passion clasp, or perish, And in itself to ashes burn.

So to this child my heart is clinging, And its frank eyes, with look intense, Me from a world of sin are bringing

Back to a world of innocence.

Disdain must thou endure forever; Strong may thy heart in danger be! Thou shalt not fail! but ah, be never False as thy father was to me.

Never will I forsake thee, faithless,

And thou thy mother ne'er forsake, Until her lips are white and breathless, Until in death her eyes shall break.