Some take flight, and none being left to defend their possessions,
  Unprotected, their goods pillage and plunder become;

Cattle and creaking carts, the little wealth of the country,
  And what riches beside indigent peasants possess.

Some as captives are driven along, their hands bound behind them,
  Looking backward in vain toward their Lares and lands.

Others, transfixed with barbed 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.

Naked and barren plains without leaves or trees we behold here,—­
  Places, alas! unto which no happy man would repair.

Since then this mighty orb lies open so wide upon all sides,
  Has this region been found only my prison to be?

TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy XII.

Now the zephyrs diminish the cold, and the year being ended,
  Winter Maeotian 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.

Thrives the stage; and applause, with voices at variance, thunders,
  And the Theatres three for the three Forums resound.