A savage race my fearful steps surround, Practised in blood and disciplined to wound; Hard as their soil, and as their skies severe. They arm with double death the poisoned dart; The lurking dagger at their side hung low, 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; Whose ruder echoes ne'er were taught to bear Yet here, for ever here, your bard must dwell, 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 ; 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. With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair, The tougher yew repels invading foes, 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. |