The Greek Anthology, Volume II: Books 7–8

by William Roger Paton (Translator), Various

"The Greek Anthology" ('Gathering of Flowers') is the name given to a collection of about 4500 short Greek poems (called epigrams but usually not epigrammatic) by about 300 composers. To the collection (called 'Stephanus', wreath or garland) made and contributed to by Meleager of Gadara (1st century BCE) was added another by Philippus of Thessalonica (late 1st century CE), a third by Diogenianus (2nd century), and much later a fourth, called the 'Circle', by Agathias of Myrina. These (lost) and others (also lost) were partly incorporated, arranged according to contents, by Constantinus Cephalas (early 10th century?) into fifteen books now preserved in a single manuscript of the Palatine Library at Heidelberg. The grand collection was rearranged and revised by the monk Maximus Planudes (14th century) who also added epigrams lost from Cephalas's compilation.

The fifteen books of the Palatine Anthology are: I, Christian Epigrams; II, Descriptions of Statues; III, Inscriptions in a temple at Cyzicus; IV, Prefaces of Meleager, Philippus, and Agathias; V, Amatory Epigrams; VI, Dedicatory; VII, Sepulchral; VIII, Epigrams of St. Gregory; IX, Declamatory; X, Hortatory and Admonitory; XI, Convivial and Satirical; XII, Strato's 'Musa Puerilis'; XIII, Metrical curiosities; XIV, Problems, Riddles, and Oracles; XV, Miscellanies. Book XVI is the Planudean Appendix: Epigrams on works of art.

Outstanding among the poets are Meleager, Antipater of Sidon, Crinagoras, Palladas, Agathias, Paulus Silentiarius.

The Loeb Classical Library edition is in five volumes. Volume I contains Books I-VI; Volume II, Books VII-VIII; Volume III, Book IX; Volume IV, Books X-XII; Volume V, Books XIII-XVI.

Genres: Classics

528 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1917

About the author

William Roger Paton, usually cited as W. R. Paton, was a Scottish author and translator of ancient Greek texts, mostly known for his translation of the Greek Anthology.

Reviews

[Unknown]

The end of all wisdom is in me . . . In speaking thus I do not lie. (Book VII, 93)
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I reached the limits of wisdom . . . What more could I desire? (Booko VIII, 83, 17)
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For thou alone didst exhibit a life equal to thy words and words equal to thy life. (Book VIII, 4)
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I did not work for you, but for those who understand me. (Book VII, 128)
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A. “My name is ———"
B. “What does it matter?”
A. “My country is ———“
B. “And what does that matter.”
A. “I am of noble race.”
B. “And if you were of the very dregs?”
A. “I quitted life with a good reputation.”
B. “And had it been a bad one?”
A. “And I now lie here.”
B. “Who are you and to whom are you telling this?” (Book VII, 307)

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These books comprise ~1000 epitaphs, both real and fictional.
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Book VII - Sepulchral Epigrams
Blessed among the islands in the sea is Ios, for small though she be, she covers the star of the Muses and Graces. (1)

For I hold divine Homer the poet of the epic, honoured exceedingly by the Pierian Muses. (2b)

O stranger, the sea-beat earth covers Homer, the herald of the heroes’ valour, the spokesman of the gods, a second sun to the life of the Greeks, the light of the Muses, the mouth that growth not old of the whole world. (6)

Giving birth to the spring of they honeyed hymns . . . (12)

. . . was gathering the flowers of the Muses . . . (13)

. . . who with the immortal Muses is celebrated as the mortal Muse; whom Cypris and Eros together reared . . . (14)

. . . her skilled words are immortal. (16)

. . . no sun shall dawn and set without memory of lyric Sappho. (17)

. . . possessed by the nine Muses. (18)

Thy light is out, aged Sophocles, flower of poets, crowned with the purple clusters of Bacchus. (20)

Thy exquisite life shines yet in thy immortal pages. (21)

O ivy, flinging forth thy green curls, and all about let the petals of the rose bloom . . . (22)

Let the four-clustered ivy, Anacreon, flourish around thee, and the tender flowers of the purple meadows, and let fountains of white milk bubble up, and sweet-smelling wine gush from the earth, so that thy ashes and bones may have joy, if indeed any delight toucheth the dead. (23)

. . . he may be ever steeped in the dew that scented the old man’s tender lips so sweetly. (24)

In this tomb of Teos, his home, was Anacreon laid, the singer whom the Muses made deathless, who set to the sweet love of lads measures breathing of the Graces, breathing of Love. (25)

Shaking the entwined flowers that rest on thy essenced hair . . . (27)

Spouting sweet wine, thy robe drenched with the juice of the grape, wringing untempered nectar from its folds. (27)

For all thy life, O old man, was poured out as an offering to these three, the Muses, Bacchus, and Love. (27)

The spring-tide of the Loves , to whom, striking the lyre, thou modest music like unto nectar. (29)

Not even death has quenched thy loves, and in the house of Acheron thou sufferest all through thee the pangs of the fever of Cypris. (30)

O Anacreon, delight of the Muses, lord of all revels of the night, thou who wast melted to the marrow of thy bones for Thracian Smerdies, O thou who often bending o’er the cup didst shed warm tears for Bathyllus, may founts of wine bubble up for thee unbidden, and streams of ambrosial nectar from the gods; unbidden may the gardens bring thee violets, the flowers that love the evening, and myrtles grow for thee nourished by tender dew, so that even in the house of Demeter thou mayest dance delicately in thy cups, holding golden Eurypyle in thy arms. (31)

Congenial to strangers and dear to his countrymen was this man, Pindar, the servant of the sweet-voiced Muses. (35)

. . . wrought me into a creature of gold and clothed me in fine purple. (37)

Hail, Euripides, dwelling in the chamber of eternal night in the dark-robed valleys of Pieria! Know, though thou art under earth, that thy renown shall be everlasting, equal to the perennial charm of Homer. (43)

His country was Athens, the Hellas of Hellas, and as by his verse he gave exceeding delight, so from many he receiveth praise. (45)

I hold Hesiod of Ascra the glory of spacious Hellas and the ornament of Poesy. (52)

Hesiod dedicated this to the Heliconian Muses, having conquered divine Homer in the hymn contest at Chalcis. (53)

I am Hesiod, the most glorious in the eyes of the world of men who are judged by the test of wisdom. (54)

And on it the goat-herds poured librations of milk mixed with golden honey. For even such was the song the old man breathed who had tasted the pure fountain of the nine Muses. (55)

. . . whom every good man, even if he dwells in a far land, honours in that he saw the divine life. (61)

O ferryman of the dead, receive the Dog Diogenes who laid bare the whole pretentiousness of life. (63)

But turn aside from this tomb, all ye fools; for he of Sinope, even in Hades, hates every mean man. (65)

All that was mine in life I bring with me to Hades, and have left nothing beneath the sun. (67)

His head white with the snows of age. (91)

. . . he was persuading them all to live in the Greek manner. (92)

Stumbling once over a brazen cauldron and hitting his forehead Xenocrates, who in all matters and everywhere had shown himself to be a man, called out Oh! sharply and died. (102)

Arcesilaus, why did you drink so much wine, and so unsparingly as to slip out of your senses? I am not so sorry for you because you died as because you did violence to the Muses by using immoderate cups. (104)

Zeno, revered grey-browed sage, thou didst found the self-sufficient life, abandoning the pursuit of vainglorious wealth. (117)

They say that once he passed by as a dog was being beaten, and pitying it spoke as follows, “Stop, and beat it not for the soul is that of a friend; I know it, for I heard it speak.” (120)

The Iliad, Homer himself, Greece, the Achaeans in flight—these are my tomb. (137)

I often died, but never yet just in this way. (155)

And to thee, stranger, may Fortune give all good things. (163)

The fire of heaven laid him to rest. (173)

Hades is not grievous to me. I shall dwell under thy sun. (180)

. . . cherished and reared me in her bosom, feeding me on flowers of spring. (207)

No longer exulting in the sea that carries me, shall I lift up my neck as I rush from the depths. (215)

I contain her who in Love’s company luxuriated in gold and purple, more delicate than tender Cypris . . . that mortal Cytherea, who had more noble suites than the daughter of Tyndareus, all plucking her mercenary favours. Her very tomb smells of sweet-scented saffron; her bones are still soaked with fragrant ointment, and her anointed locks still breathe a perfume as of frankincense. For her Aphrodite tore her lovely cheeks, and solving Love grand and wailed. (218)

Hath Cypris maddened thee too? (221)

Give birth, thou holy soil, round the. Grave-stone of the maenad not to brambles but to the soft petals of white violets. (222)

It lies low, the holy head that was covered erst by garlands of flowers. (223)

. . . to sleep the sweet sleep. (260)

. . . ever wretched that I am, even among the dead the hateful roar of the billows sound in my ears. (278)

I Dionysius, lie here, sixty years old. I am of Tarsus; I never married and I wish my father never had. (309)

Therefore lie gently on his grey temples and clothe thee with many flowers in spring. (321)

Beneath this stone I lie, the celebrated woman who loosed my zone to one man alone. (324)

I have all. Got by study and by thought and the grave things I learnt with the Muses, but all my many and rich possessions Vanity seized on. (326)

So far gone was he in madness that he called the Odyssey mud and the Iliad a bramble. Therefore he is bound by the dark Furies in the middle of Cocytus, with a dog-collar that chokes him round his neck. [Thiis Parthenius, who lived in the time of Hadran, was known as the “scourge of Homer.” (377)

Praise the sturdy verse of tireless Antimachus, worthy of the majesty of the demigods of old, beaten on the anvil of the Muses, if thou art gifted with a keen ear, if thou aspires to gravity of words, if thou wouldst pursue a path untrodden and unapproached by others. (409)

. . . who mixed the sweet-spoken Graves with Love and the Muses. (416)

Hail, even among the dead, thou who didst fit together into one work of wisdom, Love, the Muses and the Graces. (421)

He deserves praise, the man who made this puzzle out of two letters, a light to the intelligent and darkness to the unintelligent. (429)

May the earth that rests on thee be light, for the life thou didst lead was in accordance with wisdom and reason. (470)

Enquire of thyself at the dawn of every day, O man, what thy strength is and learn to lie low, content with a simple life. (472)

It is no great marvel that I slipped when soaked by Zeus [rain] and Bacchus. It was two to one, and gods against a mortal. (533)

For in thy mind and in thy fingers there yet survived some little fragment at least of ancient music. (571)

Yet blest was he in fading young and escaping early the iniquity of life. (574)

We never feel we have enough of the good. (575)

Virtue is stronger than death. (590)

. . . supreme in wealth and wisdom. (619)

. . . having drunk the water of the Aegean Sea. (631)

Never go out drunk on a winter night. (660)

A stranger in a strange land . . . (661)

Thou lookest on the stars, my Star. Would I were heaven, to look on thee with many eyes. (669)

This is the tomb of Archilochus, whom the Muse, out of kindness to Homer, guided to furious iambics. (674)

O race of men vain minded, angry with themselves, knowing nothing even until the end of life. (688)

When I am dead may earth be mingled with fire. It matters not to me, for with me all is well. [Said to have been a favourite quotation of both Tiberius and Nero.] (704)
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Book VIII - The Epigrams of Saint Gregory the Theologian
. . . a youth excelling in holy and profane learning. (15)

. . . full of earthly and heavenly years. (19)

I have a reward greater than all my many labours. (70)

. . . widely famous, who hadst attained to the height of all wisdom . . . (93)

But he too wing from life, like a rose from the flowers, like dew from the leaves. (98)

. . . supreme in sacred wisdom. (111)

Rome . . . which time shall not destroy. (115)

. . . still shining with the flower of youth. (119)

The faultless blossom, the. Son of the. Muses, the spring of his comrades, the golden chaplet of the violet-crowned Graces . . . (127)

My heart trembles as it writes thy name . . . (160)

All other things are second to gold in the eyes of the wicked. (209)

What is worse than gold? (222)

Often gold is but a dream. (241)

[C. Çevik · Rating 5 out of 5]

Mezar taşı yazıları muazzamdır; bir kültürün yaşam anlayışını biraz da ölüme bakışından anlamaya çalışmak gerek.

[Michael P. · Rating 5 out of 5]

Some of the great poetry of ancient Greece preserved. The Loeb Classics present these texts in both Greek and English translation.