A Roman Bard lies on the Euxine's side,
Barbarian earth a Roman poet holds,
Barbarian earth, wash'd by cold Isther's tide,
The poet of the tender loves infolds.
Excites not this, O Rome! a blush in thee,
That to so great a nursling, harsh of mood,
Reserv'st a bosom steel'd in cruelty,
Surpassing the inhuman Getic brood?
Had Scythian fields, ye muses, one to chase,
His weary minutes of disease away,
His frigid limbs upon the couch to place,
Or with sweet converse to beguile the day.
One who would mark the throbbing of his veins,
The lotion's aid with ready hand apply,
Would close his eyes 'midst dissolution's pains,
Or with fond lips inhale his latest sigh.
None could be found, not one, for warlike Rome,
From Pontus far detains his early friends,
Far stands his wife's and young descendants' home,
Nor on her exil'd sire his daughter tends.
But the wild Bessi of enormous limb,
And the Coralli yellow hair'd, are there;
Or, clad in skins, the Getic people grim,
Whose bosoms hearts of flint within them bear.
Yes, the Sarmatian boor, with aspect dread,
His savage succours on the bard bestow'd;
The fierce Sarmatian, from debauch oft led,
Borne to his horse's back a reeling load.
The fierce Sarmatian boor, with piercing eye
Deep prison'd in his rugged forehead's bound,
Whose temples, shiv'ring 'neath th' inclement sky,
With clatt'rings of his frost-wrapp'd hair resound.
Yes; for the bard immers'd in death's long sleep,
The Bessic plund'rers bid their tears to flow,
The rough Coralli and Sarmatian weep,
And cruel Getic strikes his face the blow.
Hills, woods, and savage beasts his death deplore,
And Ister wails amid his waters' bed,
And Pontus, chill'd with ice incrusted o'er,
Warms with the tears the sorrowing Nereids shed.
There with the Paphian mother in swift haste,
The light-winged Doves through airy regions came,
With pious care the blazing torches plac'd
Beneath the pyre prepar'd to feed the flame.
Soon as the rapid fires with wasteful sway
Consum'd whate'er their greedy rage could burn,
His cherish'd relics they collect, and lay
In decent order in the cover'd urn.
With this short verse the stone they next impress:
(The treasur'd dust placed to denote above,)
"He who sepulchred lies in this recess,
Was teacher of the tender art of love."
Here Cytherea's self, with snow-white hand,
Sheds sacred dews in seven free sprinklings round,
And for the Bard remov'd, the Muse's band
Pour strains my lays may not attempt to sound.