Four times happy is he, and times without number is happy,
  Who the city of Rome, uninterdicted, enjoys.

But all I see is the snow in the vernal sunshine dissolving,
  And the waters no more delved from the indurate lake.

Nor is the sea now frozen, nor as before o’er the Ister
  Comes the Sarmatian boor driving his stridulous cart.

Hitherward, nevertheless, some keels already are steering,
  And on this Pontic shore alien vessels will be.

Eagerly shall I run to the sailor, and, having saluted,
  Who he may be, I shall ask; wherefore and whence he hath come.

Strange indeed will it be, if he come not from regions adjacent,
  And incautious unless ploughing the neighboring sea.

Rarely a mariner over the deep from Italy passes,
  Rarely he comes to these shores, wholly of harbors devoid.

Whether he knoweth Greek, or whether in Latin he speaketh,
  Surely on this account he the more welcome will be.

Also perchance from the mouth of the Strait and the waters Propontic,
  Unto the steady South-wind, some one is spreading his sails.

Whosoever he is, the news he can faithfully tell me,
  Which may become a part and an approach to the truth.

He, I pray, may be able to tell me the triumphs of Caesar,
  Which he has heard of, and vows paid to the Latian Jove;

And that thy sorrowful head, Germania, thou, the rebellious,
  Under the feet, at last, of the Great Captain hast laid.

Whoso shall tell me these things, that not to have seen will afflict me,
  Forthwith unto my house welcomed as guest shall he be.

Woe is me!  Is the house of Ovid in Scythian lands now? 
  And doth punishment now give me its place for a home?

Grant, ye gods, that Caesar make this not my house and my homestead,
  But decree it to be only the inn of my pain.