Sylvæ, or, The second part of Poetical miscellanies

ELEGY (II.) Lib. 5. De Trist. Ovid complains of his three years Banishment.

COndemn'd to Pontus, tir'd with endless toil, Since Banish'd Ovid left his native soil, Thrice has the frozen Ister stood, and thrice The Euxine Sea been cover'd o're with ice.

Ten tedious years of Seige the Trojans bore, But count my sorrow I have suffer'd more: For me alone old Chronus stops his glass, For years like ages slowly seem to pass: Long days diminish not my nightly care, Both Night and Day their equal portion share. The course of nature sure is chang'd with me, And all is endless, as my misery. Do time and Heav'n their common motion keep, Or are the Fates, that spin my thred, a sleep? In Euxine Pontus here I hide my Face, How good the Name! but oh how bad the place! The people round about us threaten War, Who live by spoils, and Thieves or Pyrates are: No living thing can here protection have, Nay scarce the dead are quiet in their grave, For here are Birds as well as Men of prey, That swiftly snatch unseen the Limbs away.

Darts are flung at us by the neighb'ring foe, Which oftentimes we gather as we go. He who dares Plough (but few there are who dare) Must arm himself as if he went to War. The Sheepherd puts his Helmet on to keep, Not from the Wolves but Enemies, his Sheep: While mournfully he tunes his rural Muse, One Foe the Sheepherd and his Sheep persues. The Castle which the safest place shou'd be Within, from cruel tumults is not free. Of't dire contentions put me in a fright, The rude Inhabitants with Graecians fight. In one abode amongst a barb'rous rout I live, but when they please they thrust me out: My hatred to these Brutes takes from my fear, For they are like the Beasts whose skins they wear. Ev'n those who as we think were born in Greece, Wrap themselves up in Rugs and Persian Frize;

They easily each other understand, But I alas am forc'd to speak by hand! Ev'n to these Men (if I may call 'em so) Who neither what is right or reason know I a Barbarian am; hard f••te to see When I speak Latine how they laugh at me! Perhaps they falsly add to my disgrace, Or call me wretched Exile to my Face. Besides the cruel Sword 'gainst Natures Laws, Cuts off the Innocent without a cause. The Market-place by lawless Arms possest, Has slaughter-houses both for Man and Beast. Now, O ye fates, 'tis time to stop my breath, And shorten my misfortunes by my death. How hard my sentence is to live among A cut-throat, barb'rous, and unruly throng;

But to leave you, my Friends, a harder doom, Though banish'd here, I left my Heart at Rome, Alas I left it where I cannot come! To be forbid the City, I confess, That were but just, my crime deserves no less. A place so distant from my native Air, Is more than I deserve, or long can bear. Why do I mourn? The fate I here attend Is a less grief than Caesar to offend!