A D S Y L V A S. Elegia VIII.

I complain justly, though I pour forth what achieves nothing,

and the headlong South winds bear away my useless words.

Behold, hear my laments once more, O woods,

you to whom I often speak these things as my sole witnesses.

For the anxious mind is more heavily consumed by silent cares,

but no friend is present to whom I may recount them.

Therefore it is a relief to scatter my laments through the pathless groves;

this is permitted, by these alone must my sorrow be relieved.

Tears are the only medicine for my grief;

that which previously used to be found in my studies is gone.

By what fault have I deserved so fierce a wrath of the divine?

What stars have conspired against my head?

I, who but lately was a most peaceful devotee of the Apollonian art,

had utterly detested harsh wars with their trumpets.

Now I am driven amid the insane arms of violent Mars,

scarcely counting twice two lustra of my life.

And I step forth, my tender side girt with a fierce sword,

I often arm my challenged hands with a sword.

And I feign harshness, and I desire to be feared,

And I study to be fierce with rigid ways.

Was it for this, indeed, that I forsook my parents, weary with age,

And my dear household gods along with my native land?

Lest I should have dealings with the sacred Muses

Any longer? And that I should be one uncultured part of the mob?

If someone had recently foretold this to me as I was setting out,

"You will bear arms as a soldier in these lands you seek":

I would have said, "You too, the Bear, though high above the sea,

Will enter the forbidden waters of the western ocean."

Dip yourselves in the clear waters, O Parrhasian stars,

I bear arms as a soldier in a foreign land:

And enduring the heat of the Icarian star beneath a helmet,

Where I am called, hither and thither I go, covered in dust.

Now I bid you, sweet friends who weep for me,

To be warned by my misfortunes.

Learn to be mindful of future fate, whoever is wise,

And not to place too much trust in peaceful times.

How quickly the Zephyr turns into rushing South winds,

A cloudy day is wont to come, banishing the sun.

The sailor who spreads his canvas from the port with gentle breezes,

Is often sunk in the middle of the sea.

Who would believe that the path leads from the sweet Muses

To the grim battles of dreadful Mars?

O Aonides, it is pleasing to remember the blessed time,

When all things were full of secure peace.

When it was sweet to me, O woods, beneath the cool shade

And near the flowing waters, to compose a song.

Now I venture into swift battles, and the dangers of war,

with the evil now closer to the walls and trenches.

Now also, while I wander through the woods and rocks full of hiding places,

here I am forced to be afraid from every side:

The enemy is not far off, an enemy ignorant of pity,

and the cavalry column always comes for plunder.

And causing widespread carnage with javelins and the scimitar,

he wages savage battles in the customary manner of the Getae.

What should I say of the cohorts which the barbarian Iberian ruler

of the untamed water sent from the western world?

Whoever you are, may the black Erinyes always drive you, hated,

as the avengers of dire treason.

Or torn apart in a thousand ways, may you be ripped asunder

by horses turned in opposite directions, as Mettius once was.

You who dared to disturb the peace of the people beneath the heavens with furies,

and to open your lands to them.

What I pray for will come to pass: the oaks have moved their tops,

and the high forest nodded with shaken leaves.

For a fatherland rushing into disaster and disgrace,

come tell me, was a civil sword not enough?

The coming age will hear and detest these things,

and the grandson will weep for the times of his grieving grandfather.

My heart palpitates and a deep tremor courses through my inmost bones,

when everything I saw comes before my eyes.

How great is the thirst for our blood (but not unpunished)?

How great the love of slaughter in a monstrous breast?

Piety is no obstacle; the religious thresholds of temples too

are wet with the foul blood of old men.

Pious girls fear things worse than death, and flee,

and mothers carry their little children in their bosoms.

And feeble old men struggle with panting pace

From all sides, driven headlong by sharp fear.

Ah, how often, while they direct their steps through pathless haunts,

Does every breeze from behind rouse their fear?

Ah, how often, when the high branches make a rustling,

Does someone believe enemy feet are near?

Meanwhile, squadrons of cavalry from the Scythian borders

Seize the wealth of the fleeing farmer.

And the foot soldier hurls untamed fires upon innocent roofs;

Dark ash flies to the clouds.

But as soon as the martial trumpet gives the signal from the watchtowers,

And the terrible horns and hoarse hides resound:

At once everyone clamors for arms, "arms, arms," they repeat,

And a single voice sounds through the walls: "The enemy is here."

"The enemy is here," a single voice sounds, and once the line is formed

No delay betrays any base fears.

Thence they rush forth, just as from the high mountains of Libya

Either a lion or a boar driven by the bites of hounds.

For the most just grief rouses burning angers,

And their breasts catch fire, and they have more vigor.

But the fearful enemy, at the sight of the soldier, turns his cowardly back,

And wearies his retreating horses with his spur.

Dust is raised to the sky in dense darkness,

And the earth trembles, struck by the running of steeds.

Soon the righteous old men return, and the fearful girls,

Whether the grove or the tall grain gave them hiding places.

And they look upon the smoking roofs of their homestead,

But even then trembling dread beats upon their hearts.

And as if tears could quench the fires,

They flow from their eyes over their faces without end.

After all things, this alone remains as a pleasure for the wretched:

to complain of the enemy's inhuman cruelty.

Hence mangled limbs, and bodies found scattered across the fields,

are buried in their native earth.

Happy souls, peace having now been won, they rest

in the fatherland for which they did not fear to die.

As for us, an uncertain fear of the future, while the war hangs in the balance,

still torments us in our doubt, and hope is lesser than fear.

Meanwhile, our happier age likewise turns its back,

and the day flees away without fruit, never to be recalled.

Therefore Aonian laurels will not wreathe my temples,

nor shall I sing songs equal to the learned bards.

This too, O Muses, we shall owe to savage arms,

if only heavier fates do not await us in war.

Ah me! What voice, struck against the hard hills, echoes back?

What sad word do the hollow rocks repeat? "They await."

Nothing joyful remains, all things portend grief;

some disaster comes, late but vast.

This was what the troubled vision of yesterday's night meant;

this is why you, ill-omened birds, gave sorrowful signs.

Moreover, when it climbed the heavens, the orb of the sun

was smeared with blood (I am terrified by the warning).

But you, O tree, preserve these monuments of our grief,

and grow to be seen with these carved marks.

Looking at them upon your green bark, may someone be able

to know the lamentable time of my campaigning.

And, reminded of my present lot, may he himself also sprinkle

with his own tears the grass often sprinkled by mine.

Why do I complain, wretch that I am? The weightless words of my complaining

the Elbe carries down into the sea with its rapid waters.

Thus again, thus often, however, it is pleasing to pour forth complaints;

One day will bring an end to them for me, along with the war.