Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori.--HORACE.
GREECE was the land of poetry. Endowed with a language, of all
others adapted to every variation of feeling, from the deepest
pathos or boldest heroism, to the lightest mirth, and gifted with
the most exquisite sensibility to all the charms of poetry, it
is not surprising that her inhabitants carried it to a height
beyond any thing that the world has seen, before or since. It was
intermingled with their daily life, it formed a portion of their
very being, and constituted the chief source of their highest
enjoyment. All Athens rushed daily to the theatre, to exult or weep
as the genius of the poet directed them; and the people who could
fine their greatest tragedian for harrowing their feelings beyond
endurance, must have been differently formed from those of the
present day. The well-known saying of old Fletcher of Saltoun, is
not now true; but we can readily believe it, with such a race, when
songs, like the glorious ode of Callistratus,
Εν μυρτω κλαδι το ξιφος φορησω. κ. τ. λ.
were daily sung, while the lyre and myrtle-branch passed from hand
to hand.
With the Greeks, poetry seemed to enter into the character of every
man. It was cultivated by the annual contests between its highest
professors; and the honor which awaited the victor was an inducement
to exertion of the noblest kind. It was the surest road to the favor
and patronage of the great. Not the cold and chilling assistance
which the Medici held out to the genius of their land, and which
seemed to calculate the least expense with which the credit of a
protector of learning could be bought, but the ready and regal
munificence of a man who regards the gifts of genius as the highest
with which a mortal can be favored. He who could enchant such a
people need take no care for the future. Kings disputed for the
honor of his presence, and states were overjoyed to support him. Let
not the example of Homer be brought to controvert this. He lived
long before poetry thus became the delight of the people; and, after
all, to say that he 'begged his bread' is but a bold poetic license.
Beside, the eagerness with which the 'Seven Cities' disputed for the
Mœonian, show what would have been his fate had he not 'fallen on
evil days.' In after ages he was honored, and ranked all but with
the gods.
In the same mood, the highest reward, the fullest honor, that could
be given to the rescuer of his country was to have his name inserted
in the inscription that marked the scene of his victories.[A] In
this spirit, no national event took place, no great battle was won,
no instance of heroic self-devotion occurred, that the genius of
the highest poets was not called upon to commemorate it in some
noble or pathetic inscription, which, in after ages, calls forth
as much admiration as the deed which originated it. The glorious
death of the three-hundred takes place at Thermopylæ; the Athenians
propose a contest for the honor of placing an inscription to mark
the spot; and crowds are gathered to adjudge the prize; for, in
those days, crowds were judges. Among the competitors are Æschylus
and Simonides; and, amid the roar of that immense multitude, the
victor-palm is awarded to Simonides, for two lines which will live
to the end of time:
Ω ξειν' αγγειλον Λακεδαιμονιοις ὁτι τηδε
Κειμεθα, τοις κεινων ῥημασι πειθομενοι.
[A] See Plutarch, Vit. Cimon.
Their noble simplicity is almost untranslatable, yet we will attempt
it:
Ye who see this! to Lacedemon tell
Here, honoring her sacred laws, we fell!
Or, more literally:
Stranger! tell Sparta that one common grave
Here holds our dust, who kept the laws she gave!
The few of these majestic inscriptions which yet remain to us, all
bear the same imprint of lofty poetic feeling. Expressed with the
utmost simplicity, they would seem bald, were it not for the skill
of the poet, and the glorious associations that they call up around
us.
The subject of Thermopylæ appears to have been a favorite with
Simonides. Here is another which breathes the same spirit:
Ει το καλως θνησκειν αρετης μερος εστι μεγιστον,
Ἡμιν εκ παντων τουτ' απενειμε Τυχη·
Ἑλλαδι γαρ σπευδοντες ελευθεριαν περιθειναι
Κειμεθ' αγηραντω χρωμενοι ευλογιη.
We have endeavored to render it into the English as literally as
possible:
If to die well be Virtue's highest bliss,
To us, o'er all, the Fates have given this,
We fell that Greece might liberty obtain,
And thus undying glory do we gain!
And yet another, a glorious eulogy:
Των εν Θερμοπυλαις θανοντων. κ. τ. λ.
Oh! sacred be the memory of the brave,
Who in Thermopylæ's deep bosom lie,
Their country's honor! Let each hero's grave
Become an altar for the gods on high.
Their fittest praise is their unconquered death!
Not even Time's rude hand and wasting breath,
From those dear tombs, can snatch one wreath away
Which Greece delights o'er heroes still to lay.
And here, again, is another, from the same, beautiful in its
simplicity, on the heroes who fell in one of Greece's glorious
victories; which one is not known:
Ασβεστον κλεος ὁιδε φιλη περι πατριδι θεντες
Κυανεον θανατου αμφεβαλοντο νεφος.
Ουδε τεθνασι θανοντες, επει σφ' αρετη καθυπερθεν
Κυδαινους' αναγει δωματος εξ Αιδεω.
Or thus:
Undying fame for their loved native land
They won, then sank beneath Death's iron hand;
But yet, though fallen, they ne'er can die, for lo!
Glory recalls them from the shades below.
And, as it was with these monuments of national glory, so was
it with the bounties of nature, the lesser tokens of love and
affection, and the humble demonstrations of piety. No fountain
leaped forth from the way-side to greet and refresh the weary
traveller; no lone tomb was raised among its grove of gloomy
cypresses, that some Meleager, some Anyte was not at hand to adorn
it with a few lines, simple indeed, but beautiful and appropriate,
and which still live, long after the names of those who called them
forth have been forgotten. Then every rustic image, erected by the
peasants in honor of some sylvan deity, was sure to have some little
inscription, graceful, and conceived in the happiest mood. Thus,
in the Greek Anthology, there are preserved nearly eight hundred
epitaphs, most of them touching from their natural and exquisite
simplicity. They generally indicate deep and quiet feeling, rarely
indulging in the little epigrammatic points that so mar the effect
of almost all modern epitaphs. What can be more beautiful than
Meleager's Lament over the grave of Heliodora?
Δακρυα σοι και νερθε δια χθονος, Ἡλιοδωρα,
Δωρουμαι, στοργας λειψανον εις Αιδαν,
Δακρυα δυσδακρυτα· πολυκλαυτω δ' επι τυμβω
Σπενδω ναμα ποθων, μναμα φιλοφροσυνας.
Οικτρα γαρ, οικτρα φιλαν σε και εν φθιμενοις Μελεαγρος
Αιαζω, κενεαν εις Αχεροντα χαριν.
Αι, Αι, που το ποθεινον εμοι θαλος; ἁρπασεν Αιδας,
Ἁρπασεν· ακμαιον δ' ανθος εφυρε κονις.
Αλλα σε γουνουμαι, γα παντροφε, ταν πανοδυρτον
Ηρεμα σοις κολποις, ματερ, εναγκαλισαι.
This has little of the charming simplicity which usually marks these
beautiful poems, but it is an exquisite and touching lament. We have
endeavored to render it into English, although we fear
'That every touch which wooed its stay,
Hath brushed a thousand charms away.'
I give, O Heliodora! tears to thee,
Ah, bitter tears! the relics of a love
Unchanged by Death. And, o'er thy sepulchre,
I pour this passionate flood, which shows my love
Still unabated. But, 'tis vain! 'tis vain!
Since thou, adored one! art among the dead,
A boon by them unprized. Ah! lovely flower,
Now seized by Death, I view thy silken leaves
All trampled in the dust. Ah! then to thee,
O friendly Earth! I pray, that to thy bosom
Thou should'st receive her with maternal care!
And the following shows the hand of genius, guided by love. The name
of its author is unfortunately unknown.
Ουκ εθανες, Πρωτη. κ. τ. λ.
Proté! thou art not dead. Thou hast but gone
To dwell in some far happier land than ours:
Perchance thou hast the blessed islands won,
Where Spring eternal reigns, adorned with flowers.
Or, in the Elysian Fields, thy joyous path
Is strown with opening blossoms; far above
All earthly ills, thou feelest not winter's wrath,
Nor summer's heat, nor care, nor hopeless love.
In blest tranquillity, thy moments fly,
Illumed by beams from Heaven's own cloudless sky.
Both of these are almost perfect, each in its own way. One
contemplates the survivor, and paints his grief at the loss of an
adored object; the other, in a more resigned mood, observes the
felicity which that object should experience in the land of spirits.
Both are somewhat wanting in the tender simplicity which is the
usual charm and characteristic of the Greek epitaph. But properly
speaking, they are not epitaphs; they are addresses to the dead. We
will give a few specimens of the inscription over the dead in its
true form.
Here is a beautiful one, by Lucian, on a child:
Παιδα με πενταετηρον, ακηδεα θυμον εχοντα,
Νηλειης Αιδης ἡρπασε, καλλιμαχον.
Αλλα με μη κλαιοις· και γαρ βιοτοιο μετεσχον
Παυρον, και παυρων των βιοτοιο κακων.
While yet a tender child, the hand of Death
Deprived me, young Callimachus, of breath.
Oh! mourn me not! my years were few, and I
Saw little of Life's care and misery.
This one, by Erinna the Lesbian, was inscribed on the tomb of a
bride who died on the marriage night.
Σταλαι και σειρηνες εμαι. κ. τ. λ.
Ye pillars! satued syrens! and thou urn!
Sad relics, that hold these my cold remains,
Say to each traveller who may hither turn
His footsteps, whether native of these plains,
Or stranger, that within this tomb there lie
The ashes of a bride; and also say
My name was Lyde, of a lineage high,
And sad Erinna graved this o'er my clay.
Callimachus, too, has given us a noble one in a single distich:
Τηδε Σαων ὁ Δικωνος Ακανθιος ἱερον ὑπνον
Κοιμαται. θνασκειν μη λεγε τους αγαθους.
Here Saon the Acanthian _slumbering_ lies;
Oh! say not that a virtuous man e'er _dies_!
And here is an exquisite little one by Tymneus, on an Egyptian who
died in Crete:
Μησοι τουτο, Φιλαινι. κ. τ. λ.
Grieve not, dear lost one! that thou find'st a grave
In Crete, far from thy native Nile's dark wave.
Alas! hell's gloomy portals open wide
To all who seek them, upon every side.
This touching one, by Callimachus, is for the cenotaph of a friend
who was shipwrecked:
Ωφελε μηδ' εγενοντο. κ. τ. λ.
I would that swift-winged ships had ne'er been made to cleave
the billow.
O Sopolis! we should not then deplore thy watery pillow:
Thou liest 'neath the heaving waves, and of thee naught we claim
Save this poor, empty sepulchre, and thy beloved name.
When a man died at sea, and his corpse was not recovered, to
receive the usual funeral honors, he was refused admittance into
Charon's boat, unless his friends erected a cenotaph and performed
the accustomed rites over it. The above appears to have been an
inscription designed for such an occasion.
Simonides does not forget his fire in commemorating the exploits of
a friend who fell in one of the battles against the Persians: