A savage race my fearful steps surround,

Practised in blood and disciplined to wound;
Unknown alike to pity as to fear,

Hard as their soil, and as their skies severe.
Skilled in each mystery of direst art,

They arm with double death the poisoned dart;
Uncombed 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 steadfast 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 Cæsar 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 inspired 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 exiled even in death!

Lest mixed with Scythian shades, a Roman ghost

Wander on this inhospitable coast.

Cæsar 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.

FLOWERS 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 assigned;
The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind,

The tougher yew repels invading foes,
And the tall pine for future navies grows;
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.