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multaque in adversos effudit verba Penates

pro deplorato non valitura viro.

iamque morae spatium nox praecipitata negabat,
versaque ab axe suo Parrhasis Arctos erat.
quid facerem? blando patriae retinebar amore :
ultima sed iussae nox erat illa fugae.
a! quotiens aliquo dixi properante 'quid urges ?
vel quo festinas ire, vel unde, vide.'
a! quotiens certam me sum mentitus habere
horam, propositae quae foret apta viae.
ter limen tetigi, ter sum revocatus, et ipse
indulgens animo pes mihi tardus erat.
saepe 'vale' dicto rursus sum multa locutus,
et quasi discedens oscula summa dedi.
saepe eadem mandata dedi meque ipse fefelli,
respiciens oculis pignora cara meis.

denique 'quid propero ? Scythia est, quo mittimur,' inquam, 'Roma relinquenda est. utraque iusta mora est.

uxor in aeternum vivo mihi viva negatur,

et domus et fidae dulcia membra domus,

quosque ego dilexi fraterno more sodales,
o mihi Thesea pectora iuncta fide !
dum licet, amplectar: numquam fortasse licebit
amplius. in lucro est quae datur hora mihi.'
nec mora, sermonis verba inperfecta relinquo,
conplectens animo proxima quaeque meo.
dum loquor et flemus, caelo nitidissimus alto,
stella gravis nobis, Lucifer ortus erat.

dividor haud aliter, quam si mea membra relinquam,
et pars abrumpi corpore visa suo est.

sic doluit Mettus tunc cum in contraria versos

ultores habuit proditionis equos.

tum vero exoritur clamor gemitusque meorum,
et feriunt maestae pectora nuda manus.
tum vero coniunx umeris abeuntis inhaerens
miscuit haec lacrimis tristia verba meis :

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non potes avelli. simul hinc, simul ibimus:' inquit,

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et mihi facta via est, et me capit ultima tellus : accedam profugae sarcina parva rati.

85 te iubet e patria discedere Caesaris ira,

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me pietas. pietas haec mihi Caesar erit.'
talia temptabat, sicut temptaverat ante,
vixque dedit victas utilitate manus.
egredior, sive illud erat sine funere ferri,
squalidus inmissis hirta per ora comis.
illa dolore amens tenebris narratur obortis
semianimis media procubuisse domo :
utque resurrexit foedatis pulvere turpi
crinibus et gelida membra levavit humo,

95 se modo, desertos modo complorasse Penates,
nomen et erepti saepe vocasse viri,
nec gemuisse minus, quam si nataeque virique
vidisset structos corpus habere rogos,
et voluisse mori, moriendo ponere sensus,
respectuque tamen non periisse mei.
vivat, et absentem, quoniam sic fata tulerunt,
vivat ut auxilio sublevet usque suo.

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§ 4

OVID, Tristia i. 3. (8 A.D.)

An Exile's Longing for Home.

'No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleased thy pale ghost or graced thy mournful bier;
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,
By strangers honoured and by strangers mourned.'

POPE.

This elegy on the same subject approaches more nearly to genuine feeling, and even genuinely emotional writing, though the commonplace of the first twelve lines barely succeeds in avoiding the comic. Ovid had wit, but no humour. Perhaps the most notable trait in the poem is the yearning for the very earth of home, so faithfully caught by Kipling in 'A Charm'

'Take of English earth as much

As either hand may rightly clutch-'

a poem which should be read and studied at length. See also I. 7, c. 54, §§ 2 and 3.

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IS words,' you'll say surprised, but not his hand!'

a foreign land,

A foreign land, the limit of the unknown;
My very life I hardly call my own.
And oh, my thoughts! lying in this drear land,
Hemmed in by barbarous hordes on either hand.
I loathe the clime: I cannot bear the rains :
The earth is vile, and every prospect pains.
Ignobly housed, the food the sick should have
I have not, none with doctor's art to save.
No friend is here to solace me, to cheat
With talk Time's all too slowly gliding feet.

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Weary I lie at Earth's remotest post,

And my sick fancy paints what I have lost.

The thoughts of thee all thoughts, dear wife, outshine,

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Thou reign'st supreme still in this heart of mine.

On thee I call afar, aloud I pray

Each night for thee, and each returning day.

They say I rave, whenas in love I frame

Aloud thine oft-reiterated name.

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Anon I faint: tongue to parch'd palate clings;
The wine they give but little succour brings;
A word 'She's here!', and quickly I arise,
For strength renew'd the hope 'tis thee supplies.
Say not that, as I hang 'twixt death and life,
Happy at home, thou hast forgot, dear wife;
Nay, nay, I swear it, joy of my heart, I know,
To thee without me life must be all woe.
Yet if my years have fill'd their destined space,
If quickly looms the end of this my race,

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Grant this much mercy, mighty gods, that I
At least may be entombed in Italy!
Had sentence been deferred while I draw breath,
Were punishment forestall'd by early death,
Heart-whole ere this the light had I resign'd,-
(Spared for an exile's death, reprieve unkind!)
Ah, must I die then in this unknown land,
Here feel the fall of Fate's too heavy hand?
My fainting limbs the lov'd, familiar bed
Shall never know, unmourn'd, unhonourèd.
My Lady's tears, falling like summer showers,
Shall not recall to life a few short hours ?
No last lament of mourning, no bequest,
No loving hand my fluttering lids to rest,
No ceremony, no dirge, no honour'd bust,
But barbarous earth commingling with my dust ?
But when thou know'st, wilt thou be sore opprest,
And smite with trembling hands a faithful breast,
And vainly stretch thine arms across the sea,
And cry 'Poor husband!', all in vain, to me ?
Dear love, to rend thy locks, thy cheeks, forbear;
For this last parting did my first prepare :

That was my death when I lost Italy

An earlier and a bitterer death to me.

Now if thou canst, (ah, canst thou ?) wife and queen,

Rejoice that I am dead and pain has been.

Bear, as thou canst, this woe, in strength secure,
As the long years have school'd thee to endure.
Would that my soul could perish with this clay,
And hungry flames consume me quite away!
If the old seer of Samos spake aright,
And the soul dies not, floating o'er the night,
Mid barbarous shades, unshelter'd and unknown,
A Roman ghost shall drift for aye alone.
Yet let a little urn this dust enclose,
For thus in death may exiles find repose.
None can refuse: not e'en a king's decree
From brother's burial kept Antigone.-
Herbs and sweet balsam sprinkle it within,
And find some niche beyond the City's din.
This stave write large upon the marble high
To catch the hurrying traveller's passing eye:

'The wanton of soft lyrics here lies dead,
'By his own genius ungarlanded;

'Be 't well with thee, O lover, if thou pray

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Rest to the bones of Naso!"

" on thy way!'

More than this write not, for my songs shall be
Greater, immortal memory of me;

For all their wounds, I know that they will give

The singer glory and long days to live.
Yet daily o'er my corse oblations strew,
Fresh flowers that thine own bright tears bedew.
This flesh, albeit dust o' the fire, shall move,
To feel the quick'ning impulse of thy love.

More would I write, but my parch'd lips refuse
Strength to dictate, my voice forgets its use.
This message take, the last I e'er may tell-
As he who speaks can never do, -' Farewell!'

OVID, Tristia iii. 3. (Circ. 8 A.D.)

§ 5

Cicero's Return from Exile.

The mood in which Cicero bore his exile was not unlike that in which Ovid bore his. See the Tristia, passim, and Cicero's Letters, especially ad Att. 3. 15 and 23. But Cicero knew the joy of restoration, and return from death to life, and his joy is as superabundant and self-centred as his sorrow had been, though some of his letters to his wife and children (ad Fam. 14. 1 and 2) show genuine sympathy with the sufferings of his family.

The following letter shows also Cicero's main weakness, his inordinate vanity. But his love of Italy and Rome is stronger even than this.

Y DEAR ATTICUS,

MY

Rome, 57 в.с.

As soon as ever I reached Rome, and could prudently post to you, my first thoughts in my delight were to send you an account of your absent friend's journey home. I must admit I had felt that your courage arage and foresight had hardly surpassed my own, and that considering my respect for your opinion, 5

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