Ovid is describing the geography of Mount Tmolus, and its relation to the cities of Sardis and Hypaepa.
Nam freta prospiciens late riget arduus alto
Tmolus in adscensu, clivoque extensus utroque
Sardibus hinc, illinc parvis finitur Hypaepis.
Translation:
Broadly surveying the seas, steep Tmolus stands up stiff in high ascending
and sloping [down] and spreading
is bounded on one side by Sardis and on the other by little Hypaepa.
The ablatives were difficult: late, alto, adscensu, clivo.
I read late as modifying prospiciens, telling how, while reading alto as modifying adscensu.
I read clivo as a noun, as joint object with adscensu of the preposition in.
I Imagine a mountain tall and quite steep in its heights, but lower down sloping more gently outward until it reaches the two cities that bound it. Thus the center of the geographical description is a contrast between Tmolus up high, and Tmolus lower down.
I’m not entirely sure, but I’m inclined to read this as the mountain presenting a wide, precipitous face to the sea, but sloping more gradually on both sides down to the cities. The mountain is viewed from the sea.
In my reading:
. . . clivoque extensus utroque . . . – “. . . and stretched out with a slope on both sides . . .”
-que joins arduus and extensus
utroque is an adverb, “on both sides”, not an adjective modifying clivo.
See Lewis and Short uterque:
A ŭtrōquĕ, adv.
1 Lit., of place, to both places, parts, or sides, in both directions: utroque citius quam vellemus, cursum confecimus, Cic. Att. 5, 12, 1: exercitus utroque ducti, Liv. 8, 29, 7: jactantem utroque caput, Verg. A. 5, 469: nunc huc, nunc illuc et utroque sine ordine curro, Ov. H. 10, 19: nescit, utro potius ruat, et ruere ardet utroque, id. M. 5, 166.
I’m not sure to what extent we can say precisely what goes with what. But I’d definitely take late with prospiciens. He has a sweeping prospect over the sea. (I thought Catullus had something like this, but that must be Ariadne on the shore, prospicit eheu; I’m thinking of someone on a mountain top?, other than stout Cortez I hope.)
He can see out over the sea because he’s so very tall, arduus alto in ascensu, arduus a nicely multivalent word, steep and hard to climb (which Pan & Apollo are doing, no?).
I take the perspective as being from the mountain, not from the sea.
Well, yes, but the description is pretty accurate isn’t it? I don’t know whether you can look out over the ocean far and wide from the top of Tmolus, but I wouldn’t be surprised; and the cities do lie at its foot, and in that direction at either side, don’t they? That’s not to say it’s a first-hand description; it could be taken from some hellenistic poet who either lived there or did his homework (though Tmolus’ sitting down on himself is pure Ovid). There are those who say (absurdly) that he never went to Tomis.
There are those who say (absurdly) that he never went to Tomis.
Yes, it was just a literary device, a fiction invented for a new kind of elegy–not a lament but a whine.
I don’t see how anyone who has read the Tristia and ex Ponto could ever fall for this. The progression from cautious optimism to deeper and deeper despair and gloom (and the decline of inspiration and invention) is so palpable. No poet, especially one endowed with Ovid’s immense gifts, would ever end his career this way.
Of course, Ovid was a master of fiction–the Amores are largely fictional, and one of the wonderful things about the Metamorphoses (and why it has been so popular throughout the ages) is how he endows the myths with living and breathing life, but still . . .
In light of the sad story of Ovid’s later years in exile, the very end of the Metamorphoses (XVI 871 ff.), and in particular the last line, and the last word, uiuam, is so overwhelmingly powerful.