The Slave

I, naked, squalid, loathsome, vilely fed,

A slave - see how this flesh still bears the signs -

Was free-born on that bay of noble lines 

Where honeyed Hybla preens her purple head. 

I left the happy isle! If ever, sir,

Chasing the swans on their spring odysseys, 

You come to Syracuse, her vines and bees, 

Pray you, take note of her who was my dear.

O shall I see those pure and violet eyes 

Reflect, and smile upon, their native skies,

’Neath the black eyebrows’ arch of victory? 

For pity’s sake, go tell Clearete

I live to see her. You will recognize 

My darling by her endless misery.

Translated from the French by © Timothy Ades