OVID to his WIFE : Imitated from different Parts of his TRISTIA . Jam mea cygneas imitantur tempora plumas , Inficit & nigras alba senecta comas : TRIST . Lib. iv . Eleg. 8. MY aged head now stoops its honours low , Bow'd with the load of fifty winters' snow ; And for the raven's glossy black assumes The downy whiteness of the cygnet's plumes : Loose scatter'd hairs around my temples stray , And spread the mournful shade of sickly grey : I bend beneath the weight of broken years , Averse to change , and chill'd with causeless fears . The season now invites me to retire To the dear lares of my household fire ; To homely scenes of calm domestic peace , A poet's leisure , and an old man's ease ; To wear the remnant of uncertain life In the fond bosom of a faithful wife ; In safe repose my last few hours to spend , Nor fearful nor impatient of their end . Thus a safe port the wave-worn vessels gain , Nor tempt again the dangers of the main ; Thus the proud steed , when youthful glory fades , And creeping age his stiffening limbs invades , Lies stretch'd at ease on the luxuriant plain , And dreams his morning triumphs o'er again : The hardly veteran from the camp retires , His joints unstrung , and feeds his household fires , Satiate with fame enjoys well-earn'd repose , And sees his stormy day serenely close . Not such my lot : Severer fates decree My shatter'd bark must plough an unknown sea . Forc'd from my native seats and sacred home , Friendless , alone , thro' Scythian wilds to roam ; With trembling knees o'er unknown hills I go , Stiff with blue ice and heap'd with drifted snow : Pale suns there strike their feeble rays in vain , Which faintly glance against the marble plain ; Red Ister there , which madly lash'd the shore , His idle urn seal'd up , forgets to roar ; Stern winter in eternal triumph reigns , Shuts up the bounteous year and starves the plains . My failing eyes the weary waste explore , The savage mountains and the dreary shore , And vainly look for scenes of old delight ; No lov'd familiar objects meet my sight ; No long remember'd streams , or conscious bowers , Wake the gay memory of youthful hours . I fondly hop'd , content with learned ease , To walk amidst cotemporary trees ; In every scene some fav'rite spot to trace , And meet in all some kind domestic face ; To stretch my limbs upon my native soil , With long vacation from unquiet toil ; Resign my breath where first that breath I drew , And sink into the spot from whence I grew . But if my feeble age is doom'd to try Unusual seasons and a foreign sky , To some more genial clime let me repair , And taste the healing balm of milder air ; Near to the glowing sun's directer ray , And pitch my tent beneath the eye of day . Could not the winter in my veins suffice , Without the added rage of Scythian skies ? The snow of time my vital heat exhaust , And hoary age , without Sarmatian frost ? Ye tuneful maids ! who once , in happier days , Beneath the myrtle grove inspir'd my lays , How shall I now your wonted aid implore ; Where seek your footsteps on this savage shore , Whose ruder echoes ne'er were taught to bear The poet's numbers or the lover's care ? Yet storm and tempest are of ills the least Which this inhospitable land infest : Society than solitude is worse , And man to man is still the greatest curse . A savage race my fearful steps surround , Practis'd in blood and disciplin'd to wound ; Unknown alike to pity as to fear , Hard as their soil , and as their skies severe . Skill'd in each mystery of direst art , They arm with double death the poison'd dart : Uncomb'd and horrid grows their spiky hair ; Uncouth their vesture , terrible their air : The lurking dagger at their side hung low , Leaps in quick vengeance on the hapless foe : No stedfast faith is here , no sure repose ; An armed truce is all this nation knows : The rage of battle works , when battles cease ; And wars are brooding in the lap of peace . Since CAESAR 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 I fear to all I feel ! Yet here , forever here , your bard must dwell , Who sung of sports and tender loves so well . Here must he live : but when he yields his breath O let him not be exil'd even in death ! Lest mix'd with Scythian shades , a Roman ghost Wander on this inhospitable coast . CAESAR 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 ; Then wilt thou weep to see me so return , And with fond passion clasp my silent urn . O check thy grief , that tender bosom spare , Hurt not thy cheeks , nor soil thy flowing hair . 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 .