When once again the mind is filled with shades
Of my final night in dear sweet Rome,
Recalling the night I gave up so much I cherished,
A tear even now begins to flow.
Dawn was at hand. By Caesar's fiat I had to
Depart for the frontier, come day.
I'd found no time to prepare, nor inclination,
My will was lulled by long delays.
I had not bothered with slaves, or choice of attendants,
Nor clothes, nor the gear an exile needs,
Stunned as one struck by a bolt of Jove's own thunder
Who survives, unconscious that he still breathes.
But when sheer force of grief blew that fog off my spirit
And at last my stricken senses returned,
Before leaving, I had last words with the grieving few
Friends I still had of the many that were.
I wept in the arms of my wife who wept still harder.
Tears streaked those cheeks that didn't deserve this.
My daughter, faraway in Africa couldn't
Be told what fate I would now endure.
Wherever I turned: more moaning, mourning. It seemed
A funeral with no moment of silence.
My wife, my son and slaves all grieved my pa**ing.
Each nook had its tears. A house fell crying.
To gloss the small with the grand: Troy looked like this
When it fell that night in Aeneas' eyes.
Now all was still. Not a stir of dog or man,
As Lady Moon rode her nightly way.
And in her beams I watched the Capitoline
So near my home, but near in vain,
And cried "High Powers who dwell in that citadel,
Temples I'll see no more with my eyes,
Gods of my Rome that I must now abandon,
Farewell now and for all of time!
Though I now take up the shield while already wounded
Yet lift hate's burden from this exile.
And tell that Godly Man what error snared me,
That he not think my failing a crime,
That my exile's architect feel all that you know.
With godhead appeased, no grief is mine."
Such was my prayer to the gods. My wife's were many,
Sobs choking her every word apart.
Disheveled she fell before our family shrine,
Pressed trembling lips to the cold dead hearth,
And poured great prayer to no avail for her husband.
For our household gods were no longer ours.
The fast-ebbing night left no time for further delay.
The Star-bear was wheeling round his axis.
What could I do? I'd held off for love of my country,
But this night had been decreed my last.
Oh the times I told my friends "Why hurry? Think
Where to, and where from you're rushing me!"
The times I lied to myself and others, swearing
I'd picked a proper hour to leave.
Thrice did I cross the threshold, thrice turned back,
The power of intention slowing my feet.
Often I'd say goodbye and go back to talking,
Then once again kiss all goodbye.
Often I'd give the same self-deluded instructions,
Then back to my loved ones turned my eyes.
At last I said "Why rush? It's Scythia I leave for,
And Rome I leave. Two reasons to stay.
I live, yet my living wife is denied me forever
With my sweet household, its loyal members,
And all the attendants I loved as would a brother,
Hearts bound to mine in a Thesean faith!
This may be my last chance to embrace them ever.
Best make the most of what remains."
Then I turned and left my words unfinished to hug
Each of my loved ones. No delay.
But as I spoke and we wept, the Star of Morrow
Had risen bright, but boding bane.
I was ripped asunder as if I'd lost a limb.
Something of me was torn away,
As Mettus when steeds avenging his betrayal
Were driven apart, and tore him in half.
My kinfolk then in a climax of clamorous weeping
Beat bare breasts with grieving hands.
And when at last I was leaving, my poor wife clasped me
With one last desperate, tear-drenched plea:
"They can't tear you away. Let us go together,
As exile and exile's wife. Take me!
Your journey is mine. There's room for me at an outpost.
I'll make small weight on your ship at sea,
You, exiled by Caesar's wrath, and I by loyal
Love. Let love be a Caesar to me."
So she tried as she had tried before to convince me,
And yielded only to practical need.
I went a corpse without procession, in rags,
Hair strewn about my unshaven cheeks.
I'm told she fainted from grief, mind plunged in dark,
And fell half-dead right there in our house.
When she came round, with disheveled dust-fouled hair,
Staggering up from the cold hard ground,
She wept for herself, for a house abandoned, screaming
Her stolen man's name time after time,
Wailing as though she'd witnessed our daughter's body
Or mine, upon the high-stacked pyre;
And longed for d**h, to k** the horror and hardship,
Yet out of regard for me she lived.
Long may she live! And in life give aid to her absent
Love, whose exile the Fates have willed.