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War
I
Stone, who was his
father that lies beneath you?
What was his name? His country? What was his death?
His
father was Priam. Ilion his country. His name
Was Hektor. He met death fighting for his land.
—
Archius the Macedon
II
My name is—What
does it matter?.—My
Country was—Why speak of it?—I
Was of noble birth—Indeed?—And if
You had been of the lowest?—Moreover,
my life
Was decorous—And if it had been so,
What then?
—and I lie here now beneath you
Who are you that speak?
To whom do you speak?
—
Paulus Silentiarius
III
Here lies Timokritos: soldier: valiant in battle.
Ares spares not the brave man, but the coward.
—
Anakreon
IV
Idle now in Athene’s shining house,
Brass tip no longer red with enemy blood,
Stand, lance of Echekratidas,
a witness
To all men that this soldier of Crete was brave.
—
Anyte
V
Diophon was crucified:
But, seeing beside him another on a loftier cross,
He died of envy.
—
Lucilius
VI
Praise, of course, is best: plain speech breeds hate.
But ah the attic honey
Of telling a man exactly what you think of him!
—
Palladas
VII
Tears were for Hekabe, friend, and for Ilion’s women,
Spun into the dark Web on the day of their birth,
But for you our hopes were great, and great the triumph,
Canceled alike by the gods at the point of glory.
Now you lie in your own land, now all men honor you—
But I loved you, O Dion!
—
Plato
Love
VIII
Reader, here is no Priam
Slain at the altar,
here are no fine tales
Of Medea, of weeping Niobe,
here you will find
No mention of Itys in his chamber
And never a word about nightingales in the trees.
Earlier poets have left
full accounts of these matters.
I sing of Love and the
Graces, I sing of Wine:
What have they in common with Tragedy’s cosmic scowl?
—
Strato of Sardi
IX
Stranger by the roadside, do not smile
When you see this grave, though it is only a dog’s.
My master wept when I died, and his own hand
Laid me in earth and wrote these lines on my tomb.
— Anonymous
X
Musa the blue–eyed,
the sweetly singing nightingale,
Lies here suddenly mute in this little grave,
Still as a stone, who was once so witty, so much loved:
Pretty Musa, may this
dust rest lightly upon you.
—
Anonymous
XI
You deny me: and to
what end?
There are no lovers, dear, in the under world,
No love but here: only the living know
The sweetness of Aphrodite–
but below,
But in Acheron, careful virgin, dust and ashes
Will be our only lying down together.
—
Asklepiades
XII
Green grape, and you refused me.
Ripe grape, and you sent me packing.
Must you deny me a bite of your raisin?
—
Anonymous
XIII
Squealshrilling Mosquitoes, fraternity lost to shame,
Obscene vampires, chittering riders of the night:
Let her sleep, I beg you! and come
(If you must come) feed on this flesh of mine.
(Oh useless prayer!
Must not her body charm
The wildest, most heartless, most insensate beasts?)
Yet hear me, devils, I
have warned you:
No more of your daring,
Or you shall smart from the strength of my jealous hands!
—
Meleagros
XIV
Mouth to mouth joined we lie, her naked breasts
Curved to my fingers, my fury grazing deep
On the silvery plain of her throat,
and then: no more.
She denies me her bed. Half of her body to Love
She has given, half to Prudence:
I die between.
— Paulus Silentiarus
XV
At the bridal bed of
star–crossed Petale
Hades, not Hymen, stood:
for as she fled
Alone through the night, dreading Love’s first stroke
(As virgins will), the brutal watch-dogs seized her.
And we, whose morning
hope had been a wife,
Found scarce enough of her body for burial.
—
Antiphanes the Macedonian
Gods
XVI
I swear it, by Love I swear it!
More sweet to me is
Heliodora’s voice
Than the holy harp of Leto’s golden Son.
— Meleagros
XVII
This is Eurotas, the Lakoniall river, and this
Is Leda, nearly naked, and the Swan you see
Conceals great Zeus.
O little Loves,
You that lead me so unwillingly to love,
What bird can I be?
If Zeus is a Swan,
I must be, I suppose, a Goose.
— Antiphilos of Byzantium
XVIII
Gnaw me down to the ground, O Goat:
Nevertheless my fruit shall survive
To make libation at your sacrifice.
— Eunos of Askalon
History
XIX
Lately thumbing the pages of Works
and Days,
I saw my Pyrrhe coming.
Goodby book!
‘Why in the world should I cobweb my days,’ I cried,
‘With the works of Old Man Hesiod?’
— Marcus Argentarius
XX
Hail me Diogenes underground, O Stranger, and pass by:
Go where you will, and fairest fortune go with you.
In my nineteenth year the darkness drew me down—
And ah, the sweet sun!
— Anonymous
XXI
His father Philip laid here the twelve-year-old boy
Nikoteles:
his dearest hope.
— Kallimachos
XXII
Alive, this man was Manes the slave: but dead,
He is the peer of Dareios, that great king.
— Anyte
Navigation
XXIII
Remember Euboulos the sober, you who pass by,
And drink: there is one Hades for all men.
— Leonidas of Tarentum
XXIV
And Thymodes also, lamenting a death unforeseen,
Raised up this empty tomb for Lykos his son:
For him there is no
grave, not even in a far land:
Some Thynian beach or Pontine island holds him,
And there, cheated of
all the rites of burial,
His bones gleam naked on an unfriendly shore.
— Damagetos
XXV
Quietly O Stranger pass by:
here sleeps an old man
Cradled with the holy dead in the common silence:
Meleagros: Eukrates’ son: who joined in song
Sweetcrying Love with the Muses and smiling Graces.
Him divine Tyre and Gadara’s sacred land
Sheltered till manhood: but his old age was nursed
By lovely Kos of the Meropes.
And now O friend
Shalam if you are a Syrian:
if Phoinikian, Naidos:
But if Greek, Fare Well!
— Meleagros
XXVI
I am the tomb of a
mariner shipwrecked.
Sail on:
Even while we died the others rode out the storm.
— Theodoridas of Syracuse
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