III
Hellenistic Period
Age of Alexander, c. 323–100 BCE

 

Of the many surviving tombstone verses composed before the late fourth century BCE, a great majority are serviceable, sentimental, nothing special. Beginning early in the third century, however, the epigram, and so the epitaph, were rapidly refined into a sophisticated literary form capable of depicting contemporary Alexandrian life in all its physical, social, and emotional complexity.

Three poets led this transformation: Leonidas of Tarentum, Anyte of Tegea, and Nossis of Locri. Working independently, this trio and their many contemporaries wrenched the epigram away from its time-honored topics of military prowess, elite social values, and male dominion. They personalized its voice, diversified its rhetorical style, and expanded its social range.

Significantly, two of these innovators, Anyte and Nossis, were women. Their distance from the centers of power is telling. Leonidas and Nossis lived in the rural south of Italy, within a hundred miles of each other, while Anyte wrote from a remote part of the Peloponnese. Together, these provincials relocated the epigram in pastoral settings, feminine values, and a celebration of life among common, nonheroic Greeks. Both women were aristocrats. Leonidas also may have been well born. They wrote with sophistication, yet their shared vision is plainly democratic.

Leonidas was the widest ranging and most prolific epigrammatist of the period. His one hundred surviving poems stand at the opposite end of a spectrum from the noble simplicity of Simonides. His generous epitaphs for fishermen, farmers, and ascetics form a representative album of lower-class Greeks, many of whom led hard lives near the bottom of the social ladder. Although they have the feel of true memorials, his epitaphs are largely literary inventions. Like the work of the early-twentieth-century American poet Edgar Lee Masters in his Spoon River Anthology, the epigrams of Leonidas may be read as a literary project that collectively portrays the common man.

Nossis, Leonidas’s neighbor, quietly glorified the social lives of contemporary women. Her choice of themes, including lesbian allusions harking back to Sappho, threw open the doors of the male-dominated epigram. Greeks prized her for her lyric sweetness (melopoiea). Unfortunately, only two epitaphs by Nossis survive. One is a message across the centuries to Sappho (page 72). The other (page 73) celebrates the work of a local playwright, Rhinthon, whose satires of Classical tragedy she admired.

Anyte wrote like a Spartan, chastely, often on rural themes. With twenty-five entries to her name in the Greek Anthology, we have more complete poems by Anyte than by any other woman of ancient Greece. A number of these are epitaphs, some for women and some for domestic animals, including dogs, cats, roosters, and even a child’s pet cricket and cicada. As with Nossis, Anyte’s works made important departures from conventional subject matter. Like Sappho, she harmonized strong feelings with a delicate verbal music.

Callimachus, her near contemporary, may be the most polished epigrammatist of this or any period. A Libyan from Cyrene, resident in Egypt, he was the complete Hellenic man of letters — scholar, sophisticate, courtier and, not incidentally, closely associated with the ancient world’s most respected library. The American poet Kenneth Rexroth called him an Alexandrian Voltaire. Callimachus wrote in many forms, but the wit and succinctness of the epigram suited him perfectly. Brevity and compression were his ideals — “Big book, bad book” he quipped, dismissing the epic. In the epitaph on page 77, he associates the reticence of a laconic Cretan with his own passion for economy. Callimachus’s many epitaphs display a genius for blending character and aesthetics, distilling to luminous essentials the lives of men and women of every class.

These poets of the Hellenistic Period expressed the societal sea-change of their times. In the previous, Classical period of Periclean Athens (circa 495–429 BCE), a community-minded dedication to one’s city-state frequently muted expressions of personal emotion, while a passion for logic and metaphysics overshadowed verse. (The quintessential Athenian philosopher, Plato, banished poets from his imaginary utopia.) In the next century, however, with the decline of mainland city-states and the breathtaking spread of Greek culture throughout Asia, the Nile Valley, and the Mediterranean, this age of local, public values receded. In its place a cosmopolitan period of more diverse concerns began that included fresh interest in the personal themes of family life and intimacy. Something like the Romantic Age emerged, in which pastoral beauty was elevated and the lyric and epigram entered a heyday. In philosophy, the schools of Stoicism, Skepticism, and Epicureanism emerged, expressing distinct versions of the individualist’s creed.

Recent scholarship suggests that Anyte may have composed and circulated the first personal collection of epigrams in Greek. If so, she initiated a trend that moved the epigram from the margins of an inscriptional tradition to a central place in written literature. Today, we take for granted the slim collection of poetry by one author. In the third century BCE this was still an emerging form, one that encouraged the poet to shape a personal voice while providing the reader a place to find and hear it. The individual scrolls of epigrams by Leonidas, Nossis, Anyte, and Callimachus may just constitute the first contemporary poetry books in Western literature.

Leonidas of Tarentum

Old Theris lived by his fish traps.

He spent more time at sea than any gull.

A seine net pirate, a cave diver
He probed the rocks for eel and crab
And never sailed on show boats.

Despite so many years at sea
He didn’t drown in an autumn squall
Or see his life cut short by a storm.

He died at home in a reed hut,
Going out like a lamp
Because he was ancient.

No wife or son set up this tomb
But his friends in the divers’ union.

Θριν τν τριγροντα, τν εγρων π κρτων

ζντα, τν αθυης πλεονα νηξμενον,

χθυσιληστρα, σαγηνα, χηραμοδτην,

οχ πολυσκλμου πλτορα ναυτιλης,

μπης οτ’ ρκτορος πλεσεν, οτε καταιγς

λασε τς πολλς τν των δεκδας·

λλ’ θαν’ ν καλβ σχοιντιδι, λχνος ποα,

τ μακρ σβεσθες ν χρν ατματος.

σμα δ τοτ’ ο παδες φρμοσαν, οδ’

μλεκτρος,

λλ συνεργατνης χθυβλων θασος.

Leonidas of Tarentum

Don’t trust too much in the length or draft of

your vessel.

One gust is all it takes to sink a ship,

As when a single blast destroyed Promachus.

One tall wave sent him to the bottom.

Still, fate was not entirely unkind.

A rough sea pitched his body on the beach.

There he received a funeral in his homeland,
A tomb and burial by his countrymen.

Μτε μακρ θαρσων ναυτλλεο μτε βαθε

νη· κρατε παντς δορατος ες νεμος.

λεσε κα Πρμαχον πνοι μα, κμα δ’ ν ατως

θρον ς κολην στυφλιξεν λα.

ο μν ο δαμων πντη κακς· λλ’ ν γα

πατρδι κα τμβου κα κτερων λαχεν

κηδεμνων ν χερσν, πε τρηχεα θλασσα

νεκρν πεπταμνους θκεν π’ αγιαλος.

Leonidas of Tarentum

This shed where Kleito lived is cramped,
His seed patch just a tiny strip,
His vineyard scant, his woodland scrubby.
Yet Kleito lasted eighty years here.

Τοτ’ [λγον] Κλετωνος παλιον, τ’ λιγλαξ

σπερεσθαι, λιτς θ’ σχεδν μπελεν,

τοτ τε †ωπεον λιγξυλον· λλ’ π τοτοις

Κλετων γδκοντ’ ξεπρησ’ τεα.

Leonidas of Tarentum

I am a stone on top of Kretho,
Declaring the man’s name.

Kretho is the ashes underneath me.

He once matched Gyges in his wealth,
He once owned countless herds,
He once — but why repeat things?

He was everybody’s envy.

What a small patch of that great estate
Is his.

Ατα π Κρθωνος γ λθος, ονομα κενου

δηλοσα· Κρθων δ’ ν χθονοις σποδι.

πρν κα Γγ παρισεμενος λβον, τ πρν

βουπμων, πρν πλοσιος απολοις,

πρν — τ πλεω μυθεμαι; πσι μακαρτς,

φε, γαης σσης σσον χει μριον.

Leonidas of Tarentum

Like a vine on a stake I lean on this stick.

When death calls out, I won’t play deaf.

What pleasure can sunbathing hold for me
For three or four more summers?

Speaking quiet words like these,
Ancient Gorgos cast off life, moving on
To the place of the great majority.

“ μπελος ς δη κμακι στηρζομαι ατ

σκηπαν· καλει μ’ ες δην θνατος.

δυσκφει μ Γργε· τ τοι χαριστερον, τρες

πσυρας ποας θλψαι π’ ελ;”

δ’ επας ο κμπ, π ζων παλαις

σατο, κς πλενων λθε μετοικεσην.

Leonidas of Tarentum

A light dusting of earth is fine for me.

Let the lavish, high-priced stone
Crush some other man at rest —

A hard burden for the dead to bear.

Now that I’ve died,
How should being noticed matter
To Alcander, son of Calliteles?

ρκε μοι γαης μικρ κνις· δ περισσ

λλον πιθλβοι πλοσια κεκλιμνον

στλη, τ σκληρν νεκρν βρος· ι με θανντα

γνσοντ’, λκνδρ τοτο τ Καλλιτλευς;

Leonidas of Tarentum

A headlong savage southeastern squall
And night and the waves Orion whips up
When it sets in dark November
Were my downfall.

I, Callaiskhros, slipped out of life
Sailing the deep-sea shelf off Libya.
Now I am lost, swirled here and there,
A miserable prey to the fishes.

The stone on my grave claims
Callaiskhros lies here.
What a liar.

Ερου με τρηχεα κα απεσσα καταιγς,

κα νξ, κα δνοφερς κματα πανδυσης

βλαψ’ ρωνος· πλισθον δ βοιο

Κλλαισχρος, Λιβυκο μσσα θων πελγευς.

κγ μν πντ δινεμενος, χθσι κρμα,

οχημαι· ψεστης δ’ οτος πεστι λθος.

Leonidas of Tarentum

Sea in an uproar,
When I met my end
Why didn’t you spit me out
Far from this beach,

So that even shrouded in hellish fog
Phyleus, son of Amphimenes,
Would not have to lie
Next to you forever.

Τετρηχυα θλασσα, τ μ’ οκ οζυρ παθντα

τηλσ’ π ψιλς πτυσας νος;

ς σε μηδ’ δαο κακν πιειμνος χλν

Φυλες μφιμνευς σσον γειτνεον.

Leonidas of Tarentum

A wallet, a goatskin hard as rock,
A walking stick, a grimy flask,
A purse with nothing in it and
This hat to shade his Cynic’s head
Were all Sochares had. The day he died,
Starvation hung them in the bushes for him.

Πρην, κδψητον πεσκληρυμμνον αγς

στρφος, κα βκτρον τοτ γ’ δοιπορικν,

κλπαν στλγγιστον, χλκωτν τε κυνοχον,

κα πλον κεφαλς οχ σας σκπανον·

τατα καταφθιμνοιο μυρικνεον περ θμνον

σκλ’ π Σωχρεος Λιμς νεκρμασεν.

Leonidas of Tarentum

Step softly past this poet’s grave.

Don’t stir the freshly burrowed wasp asleep here.

Hipponax tormented his own parents.

Be careful.

Forged in fire, his words still sting,
Even in Hades.

’Ατρμα τν τμβον παραμεβετε, μ τν ν πν

πικρν γερητε σφκ’ ναπαυμενον.

ρτι γρ ππνακτος κα τοκωνε βαξας

ρτι κεκομηται θυμς ν συχ.

λλ προμηθσασθε· τ γρ πεπυρωμνα κενου

ηματα πημανειν οδε κα εν δ.

Leonidas of Tarentum

Passing here
Recall Eubulus,
who never drank a drop.

Then, let’s drink.

All people share one port—
The underworld.

Μμνησθ’ Εβολοιο σαφρονος, παριντες.

πνωμεν· κοινς πσι λιμν δης.

Leonidas of Tarentum

Maronis the wino, who drained dry every glass,
Lies in this tomb topped by an Attic cup.

Deep in the bowels of Earth she sheds a tear,
Not for the husband and children

She drank out of house and home,
but rather For the cup — seeing it’s empty.

Μαρωνς φλοινος, πθων σποδς,

νταθα κεται γρς, ς πρ τφου

γνωστν πρκειται πσιν ττικ κλιξ.

στνει δ κα γς νρθεν, οχ πρ τκνων,

οδ’ νδρς, ος λλοιπεν νδεες βου·

ν δ’ ντ πντων, ονεχ’ κλιξ κεν.

Posidippus

Three-year-old Archianax, playing near a well,
Was drawn down by his own silent reflection.

His mother, afraid he had no breath left,
Hauled him back up wringing wet. He had a

little.

He didn’t taint the nymphs’ deep home.
He dozed off in her lap. He’s sleeping still.

Τν τριετ παζοντα περ φραρ ρχινακτα

εδωλον μορφς κωφν πεσπσατο·

κ δ’ δατος τν παδα διβροχον ρπασε μτηρ

σκεπτομνα ζως ε τινα μοραν χει·

Νμφας δ’οκ μηνεν νπιος, λλ’ π γονων

ματρς κοιμαθες τν βαθν πνον χει.

Anyte

All his life this man was a slave named Prince.
Dead, he is the equal of King Darius.

Μνης οτος νρ ν ζν ποτ· νν δ τεθνηκς

σον Δαρε τ μεγλ δναται.

Anyte:
To a Rooster

You will never waken me again
Rising early, flapping those quick wings.

While you dozed, a trespasser stole in
Ripping out your throat with lightning claws.

Οκτι μ’ ς τ προς πυκινας πτεργεσσιν

ρσσων

ρσεις ξ ενς ρθριος γρμενος·

γρ σ’ πνοντα σνις λαθρηδν πελθν

κτεινεν λαιμ μφα καθες νυχα.

Anyte

For the locust caught in a wheat field
With its nightingale voice,
And for the cicada she found clinging to a tree
Myra has set up a single tomb,
Shedding the tear of a young girl,
For implacable death has carried off her

playmates.

κρδι τ κατ’ ρουραν ηδνι, κα δρυοκοτ

τττιγι ξυνν τμβον τευξε Μυρ,

παρθνιον στξασα κρα δκρυ· δισσ γρ ατς

παγνι’ δυσπειθς χετ’ χων δας.

Anyte:
A Dolphin

I will never again delight in buoyant seas,
Rocketing up from the depths, neck thrust out

of the water,

Nor circle an oarlocked ship, long lips grinning,
Pleased to find my own bust carved on the bow.

Dark waters dashed me to the land.
I lie here on a narrow strip of sand.

Οκτι δ πλωτοσιν γαλλμενος πελγεσσιν

αχν’ ναρρψω βυσσθεν ρνμενος,

οδ περ †σκαλμοισι νες περικαλλα χελη

ποιφσσω, τμ τερπμενος προτομ·

λλ με πορφυρα πντου νοτς σ’ π χρσον,

κεμαι δ †αδινν τνδε παρ’ να.

Anyte:
A Horse

Damis raised this stone for his staunch
Horse, after the war-god pierced its sorrel
Chest and black blood gushed through its thick
Hide, soaking the earth in its death-throes.

Μνμα τδε φθιμνου μενεδαου εσατο Δμις

ππου, πε στρνον τοδε δαφοινς ρης

τψε· μλαν δ ο αμα ταλαυρνου δι χρωτς

ζσσ’, π δ’ ργαλ βλον δευσε φον.

Mnasalcas

Stranger, spread the news:

This tomb holds a mare named Seagull.

Fastest creature on dry land,
Her feet ran like the wind.

Racing cross-country,
She covered as much ground

As those sailing ships

The seabirds chase across the sound.

Αθυας, ξνε, τνδε ποδηνμου ννεπε τμβον,

τς ποτ’ λαφρτατον χρσος θρεψε γνυ·

πολλκι γρ νεσσιν σδρομον νυσε μκος,

ρνις πως δολιχν κπονουσα τρβον.

Nossis of Locri

Stranger, if you sail to Lesbos,
Where gorgeous dancers
Once set Sappho,
The Graces’ flower, on fire

Tell them: the land of Locri too
Bore one the Muses loved
Who was her equal.

My name is Nossis. Go!

ξεν’, ε τ γε πλες ποτ καλλχορον Μυτιλναν,

τν Σαπφ χαρτων νθος ναυσαμναν,

επεν, ς Μοσαισι φλαν τν τε Λοκρς γ

τκτεν σαν τι θ’ ο τονομα Νοσσς· θι.

Nossis of Locri

Laugh out loud as you pass here, Stranger.
Speak a word of kindness over me.

I’m Rhinthon of Syracuse,
One of the Muses’ lesser songbirds.

Satirizing tragedies,
I earned a crown of laurel all my own.

Κα καπυρν γελσας παραμεβεο, κα φλον επν

μ’ π’ μο. νθων ιμ’ Συρακσιος,

Μουσων λγη τις ηδονς· λλ φλυκων

κ τραγικν διον κισσν δρεψμεθα.

Phalaecus

Avoid working at sea.

Take up the ox-drawn plow if you want a long

life.

On land old age is possible.

At sea it’s hard to find a grey-haired man.

Φεγε θαλσσια ργα, βον δ’ πιβλλευ χτλ,

ε τ τοι δ μακρς περατ’ δεν βιοτς·

περ γρ νεστι μακρς βος· εν λ δ’ ο πως

εμαρς ες πολιν νδρς δεν κεφαλν.

Callimachus

This tomb you are passing holds Callimachus.

He wrote good poems,

And timed his jokes at parties so

That everybody laughed.

Βαττιδεω παρ σμα φρεις πδας, ε μν οιδν

εδτος, ε δ’ ον καρια συγγελσαι.

Callimachus

Here sleeps Saon from Acanthus, Dicon’s son.

Don’t say good men are dead.

Τδε Σων Δκωνος κνθιος ερν πνον

κοιμται. θνσκειν μ λγε τος γαθος.

Callimachus

This stranger was cut short. So is my song,

No lengthy oration: “Theris Aristaides, of

Crete” —

To me that’s long.

Σντομος ν ξενος· κα στχος· ο μακρ λξω·

“Θρις ρισταου, Κρς” π’ μο δλιχος.

Callimachus

Here Phillip, a father, laid down his highest hope:

A twelve-year-old son, Nicoteles.

Δωδεκτη τν παδα πατρ πθηκε Φλιππος

νθδε, τν πολλν λπδα, Νικοτλην.

Callimachus

“Farewell, Sun,” young Cleombrotus cried

And leapt from a high wall straight down into

Hades,

Not because he had seen things that called for

suicide

But because he had read Plato’s treatise on the

soul.

Επας “λιε, χαρε” Κλεμβροτος μβρακιτης

λατ’ φ’ ψηλο τεχεος ες δαν,

ξιον οδν δν θαντου κακν, λλ Πλτωνος

ν τ περ ψυχς γρμμ’ ναλεξμενος.

Callimachus

A brimming bowl of straight red wine

Knocked back twice without a pause

Has carried off Erasixenos, the binge drinker.

Τν βαθν ονοπτην ρασξενον δς φεξς

κρτου προποθεσ’χετ’ χουσα κλιξ.

Callimachus: A Conversation

— Is Charidas beneath this stone?

STONE: If you mean the son of Arimmas the Libyan,

yes.

— Charidas, what is down there?

Great darkness.

— Any way back up?

All lies.

— And Pluto?

A myth.

— Then we really perish!

I’m just stating facts. If it’s good news you’re

after,

A large ox costs a dime in the land of the dead.

α. ’ π σο Χαρδας ναπαεται; β. Ε τν ρμμα

το Κυρηναου παδα λγεις, π’ μο.

β. Χαρδα, τ τ νρθε; γ. Πολς σκτος. α. Α δ’

    νοδοι τ;

γ. Ψεδος. α. δ Πλοτων; γ. Μθος. α. πωλμεθα.

γ. Οτος μς λγος μμιν ληθινς· ε δ τν δν

βολει, πελλαου βος μγας εν δ.

Callimachus

If you come to Hades

Looking for Timarchus,

To learn about the soul

Or how things may go

After you die,

Ask for the son of Pausanias,

Clan of Ptolemy.

You will find him

With the reverent people.

ν δζ Τμαρχον ν δος, φρα πθηαι

τι περ ψυχς, πλι πς σεαι,

δζεσθαι φυλς Πτολεμαδος, υα πατρς

Παυσανου· δεις δ’ατν ν εσεβων.

Callimachus

I was Demeter’s priestess, then the Cabiris’, then

Cybele’s.

A crone now ash and dust, I say farewell.

Back then I oversaw the schooling of all the new

young girls.

I bore two sons. I closed my eyes in old age in

their arms.

ερη Δμητρος γ ποτε, κα πλιν Καβερων,

νερ, κα μετπειτα Δινδυμνης,

γρς γενμην, νν κνις, νο...

πολλν προσταση νων γυναικν.

κα μοι τκν’ γνοντο δ’ ρσενα, κπμυσ’

κενων

εγρως ν χερσν. ρπε χαρων.

Callimachus

I wish fast ships had never been invented.

We wouldn’t be standing here now

Mourning Sopolis, Diokleides’ son.

His homeless corpse floats lost at sea

While we bow our heads in passing,

Not to him — to a name on an empty tomb.

φελε μηδ’ γνοντο θοα νες· ο γρ ν μες

παδα Διοκλεδου Σπολιν στνομεν·

νν δ’ μν εν λ που φρεται νκυς· ντ δ’

κενου

ονομα κα κενεν σμα παρερχμεθα.

Callimachus

Who are you, shipwrecked stranger?

Leontichus found you dead here on the beach

And heaped earth into a tomb this way

Shedding tears for his own short life,

Because he also never rests,

Ranging on the ocean like a seagull.

Τς, ξνος ναυηγ; Λεντιχος νθδε νεκρν

ερ σ’ π’ αγιαλο, χσε δ τδε τφ,

δακρσας πκηρον ν βον· οδ γρ ατς

συχος, αθυ δ’ σα θαλασσοπορε.

Callimachus

Someone mentioned your death today,

Heracleitus, and it brought me to tears,

Remembering how often we used to watch

The sun go down while we sat talking.

Now, old friend, you lie somewhere

Turned years ago to dust. Yet your verse

Lives on. And the god of death,

Who seizes everything, will never touch it!

Επ τς, ρκλειτε, τεν μρον, ς δ με δκρυ

γαγεν, μνσθην δ’ σσκις μφτεροι

λιον ν λσχ κατεδσαμεν· λλ σ μν που,

ξεν’ λικαρνησε, τετρπαλαι σποδι·

α δ τεα ζουσιν ηδνες, σιν πντων

ρπακτς δης οκ π χερα βαλε.

Anonymous Inscription Third Century BCE

Stranger, should you reach Phthia one day

With its fine vineyards,

And come to old Thaumakia, my town,

Tell them there that climbing the desolate

Forests of Malea

You saw the grave of Derxias, Lampon’s son,

Who, hurrying through here on his own,

Was tricked by thieves and jumped

From behind on his way to law-abiding Sparta.

Επ, ποτ Φθαν εμπελον ν ποθ’ κηαι

κα πλιν ρχααν, ξνε, Θαυμακαν.

ς δρυμν Μαλεαον ναστεβων ποτ’ ρημον

εδες Λμπωνος τνδ’ π παιδ τφον

Δερξ, ν ποτε μονον λον δλ, οδ’ ναφανδν,

κλπες π Σπρταν δαν πειγμενον.

Philetas of Samos

This stone weighed down with grief describes

How Death has dragged off little Theodotia.

One line below, the short-lived daughter speaks:

Father, don’t weep. Humans are prone to misfortune.

στλα βαρθουσα λγει τδε· “Τν μινωρον,

τν μικκν δας ρπασε Θειοδταν.”

χ μικκ τδε πατρ λγει πλιν· “ σχεο λπας,

Θειδοτε· θνατο πολλκι δυστυχες.”

Damagetus

Phokaia, splendid city,

Here is the last thing Theano said

As she stepped back into the barren night:

“Darling Apellichus, I am so unhappy.

What sea are you crossing now in your swift

ship, Love?

Death stands by me.

I really should have died holding your hand.”

σττιον, Φκαια, κλυτ πλι, τοτο Θεαν

επεν ς τργετον νκτα κατερχομνη·

“Ομοι γ δστηνος· πλλιχε, ποον, μευνε,

ποον π’κε νη περς πλαγος;

ατρ με σχεδθεν μρος σταται. ς φελν γε

χειρ φλην τν σν χερα λαβοσα θανεν.”

Dioscorides

I, Thespis, gave tragic plays their shape,

Inventing a new diversion for my neighbors

Back in the days when, every third autumn

The god of wine led the chorus in

And the prize was a goat

And a basket of figs from Attica.

Now, young men reshape these things

And each new age will dream up more.

What’s mine is mine.

Θσπις δε, τραγικν ς νπλασε πρτος οιδν

κωμταις νεαρς καινοτομν χριτας,

Βκχος τε τριετ κατγοι χορν, τργος θλων

χττικς ν σκων ρριχος θλον τι.

ο δ μεταπλσσουσι νοι τδε· μυρος αν

πολλ προσευρσει χτερα· τμ δ μ.

Hegesippus

Some fishermen hauled up a half-eaten

Man, caught in a net full of flounder —

Wept-for remains of a lost voyage.

Rather than profit from ruin,

They buried the man and the fish in shallow

sand.

Earth, here you have the whole shipwrecked man

Though, in place of the rest of his flesh,

You have those that ate it.

ξ λς μβρωτον νηνγκαντο σαγηνες

νδρα, πολκλαυτον ναυτιλης σκβαλον·

κρδεα δ’ οκ δωξαν μ θμις· λλ σν ατος

χθσι τδ’ λγ θκαν π ψαμθ.

χθν, τν ναυηγν χεις λον· ντ δ λοιπς

σαρκς τος σαρκν γευσαμνους πχεις.

Hegesippus

They say that Hermes

Leads good men

From the funeral pyre

To the underworld,

Past Rhadamanthys

Judge of the Dead,

Taking the path

On the right-hand side

By which Aristonous,

The son

Chaerestratus wept for,

Went down to

The house of Hades,

Commander of the dead.

Τν π πυρκας νδξια φασ κλευθον

ρμν τος γαθος ες αδμανθυν γειν,

κα ριστνοος, Χαιρεστρτου οκ δκρυτος

πας, γησλεω δμ’ δος κατβη.

Theaetetus

Flames (and no alarm) one winter night

Consumed the great house of Antagoras

While everyone inside lay drunk on wine.

Free men and servants, eighty souls in all

Died in the fire.

Their kinsmen couldn’t tell the bones apart.

They had one urn, one funeral, one headstone.

Even so, the King of the Dead

Will pick out each of them among the ashes.

Χεματος ονωθντα τν νταγρεω μγαν οκον

κ νυκτν λαθεν πρ πονειμμενον·

γδκοντα δ’ ριθμν λεθεροι μμιγα δολοις

τς χθρς τατης πυρκας τυχον.

οκ εχον διελεν προσκηδες στα χωρς·

ξυν δ’ ν κλπις, ξυν δ τ κτρεα·

ες κα τμβος νστη· τρ τν καστον κενων

οδε κα ν τφρ ηδως δης.

Theaetetus

Sailors on the open sea,

Ariston of Cyrene asks

You, in the name of Zeus,

Guardian of strangers,

To tell my father Menon

That his son

Gave up the ghost

On the Aegean

And lies buried near the rocks

In Icaria.

Ναυτλοι πλοντες, Κυρηναος ρστων

πντας πρ Ξενου λσσεται μμε Δις,

επεν πατρ Μνωνι, παρ’ καραις τι πτραις

κεται, ν Αγα θυμν φες πελγει.

Heracleitus

The earth is fresh. Wilting garlands

Flutter on the faces of these gravestones.

Decipher the letters, Traveler.

Let’s see whose bones these were:

Stranger, I am Aretemias from Nidus,

Wife of Euphron.

I did not survive my labor.

Bearing twins, I left one son

To guide my husband through old age

And took one with me to remind me of him.

κνις ρτσκαπτος, π στλας δ μετπων

σεονται φλλων μιθαλες στφανοι·

γρμμα διακρναντες, δοιπρε, πτρον δωμεν,

λευρ περιστλλειν στα φατ τνος.––

“Ξεν’, ρετημις εμι· πτρα Κνδος· Εφρονος

λθον

ες λχος· δνων οκ μορος γενμαν·

δισσ δ’ μο τκτουσα, τ μν λπον νδρ ποδηγν

γρως· ν δ’ πγω μναμσυνον πσιος.”

Rhianus

Dust, send up a thorn tree to entwine me

Or raise a bramble’s twisting arms,

So even springtime sparrows

Can’t set their tiny feet on me.

Leave me in peace and quiet:

I, Timon, man with a bitter tongue,

Disliked by my neighbors, am cast out

Even here among the dead.

Τρηχεαν κατ’ με, ψαφαρ κνι, μνον λσσοις

πντοθεν, σκολις γρια κλα βτου,

ς π’ μο μηδ’ ρνις ν εαρι κοφον ρεδοι

χνος, ρημζω δ’ συχα κεκλιμνος.

γρ μισνθρωπος, μηδ’ στοσι φιληθες

Τμων οδ’ δ γνσις εμι νκυς.

Theodoridas: A Marker on a Rocky Point

I am the grave of a shipwrecked man.

Stranger, sail away from me.

The day we died, the other boats

Stayed safely out to sea.

Ναυηγο τφος εμ· σ δ πλε· κα γρ θ’ μες

λλμεθ’, α λοιπα νες ποντοπρουν.

Anonymous

Ariston eked out his living with a sling,

Stoning geese by stealing up

As they pecked his scattered seed

With sidelong glances.

Now he lies in the underworld.

Without a hand to whirl and make it sing,

The sling lies silent.

The geese fly south over his tomb.

Εχε κορωνοβλον πενης λιμηρν ρστων

ργανον, πτηνς κροβλιζε χνας,

κα παραστεχων δολην δν, οος κενας

ψεσασθαι λοξος μμασι ϕερβομνας.

νν δ’ μν εν δ· τ δ ο βλος ρφανν χου

κα χερς· δ’ γρη τμβον περπταται.

Carphyllides

Stranger, don’t mourn me. Pass by this tomb.

Even dead, I have nothing worth lamenting.

I enjoyed one woman, who grew old with me.

We had three children. They married. More

Young ones arrived as time went on. I rocked

them

To sleep on my lap, never losing one

To grief or illness. When my own end came,

The whole clan poured libations over me,

Sending me off on a painless journey. Now,

I sleep a sweet sleep in hallowed ground.

Μ μμψ παριν τ μνματ μου, παροδτα·

οδν χω θρνων ξιον οδ θανν.

τκνων τκνα λλοιπα· μις πλαυσα γυναικς

συγγρου· τρισσος παισν δωκα γμους,

ξ ν πολλκι παδας μος νεκομισα κλποις,

οδενς ομξας ο νσον, ο θνατον,

ο με κατασπεσαντες πμονα, τν γλυκν πνον

κοιμσθαι, χρην πμψαν π’ εσεβων.

Dionysius of Andros

Drenched with rain by Zeus

And soaked by Bacchus,

No wonder I took a spill and died.

It was two against one,

A man versus the gods.

Κα Δι κα Βρομ με διβροχον ο μγ’ λισθεν,

κα μνον κ δοιν, κα βροτν κ μακρων.

Chaeremon

Eubolus, Athanagoras’s son:

Least fortunate of men,

Most widely praised.

Εβουλον τκνωσεν θηναγρης περ πντων

σσονα μν μορ, κρσσονα δ’ ελογ.

Chaeremon

We Spartans fought the Argives here, matching

them man

For man and spear to spear for the prize of

Thyreae.

Since both sides freely gave up all hope of going

home,

We leave the job of reporting our death to the

crows.

Τος ργει Σπρτηθεν σαι χρες, σα δ τεχη

συμβλομεν· Θυραι δ’ σαν εθλα δορς.

μφω δ’ προφσιστα τν οκαδε νστον φντες

οωνος θαντου λεπομεν γγελαν.

Antipater of Sidon

This patch of ground in Asia holds Phillip’s son,

Amyntor,

A soldier made tough by iron war.

No painful sickness dragged him down to the

house of darkness.

He died holding his shield over a friend.

Λδιον οδας χει τδ’ μντορα, παδα Φιλππου,

πολλ σιδηρεης χερσ θιγντα μχης·

οδ μιν λγινεσσα νσος δμον γαγε Νυκτς,

λλ’ λετ’ μφ’ τρ σχν κυκλεσσαν τυν.

Antipater of Sidon

Orpheus, you will never guide

The spellbound oaks and rocks again,

Or herd wild beasts foraging on their own.

Nor will you still another wind

Howling with hail and slantwise snow,

Or calm another roaring sea.

You are dead and gone

And the Muses mourn you,

Led by great Calliope, your mother.

Why do we cry for our lost sons,

When even the gods can’t

Save their own from dying?

Οκτι θελγομνας, ρφε, δρας, οκτι πτρας

ξεις, ο θηρν ατονμους γλας·

οκτι κοιμσεις νμων βρμον, οχ χλαζαν,

ο νιφετν συρμος, ο παταγεσαν λα.

λεο γρ· σ δ πολλ κατωδραντο θγατρες

Μναμοσνας, μτηρ δ’ ξοχα Καλλιπα.

τ φθιμνοις στοναχεμεν φ’ υσιν, νκ’ λαλκεν

τν παδων δην οδ θεος δναμις;

Antipater of Sidon

Hipparchia chose the hard life of the Cynics

Over a woman’s work in flowing robes.

No tunics pinned with brooches, no soft

slippers,

No hair net with slick pomade for me.

I’ll take a sack and a walking stick,

A thick cloak, a bedroll on the ground.

My legacy will outstrip swift Atalanta,

As wisdom beats racing through the hills.

Οχ βαθυστλμων ππαρχα ργα γυναικν,

τν δ Κυνν λμαν ωμαλον βοτον·

οδ μοι μπεχναι περοντιδες, ο βαθπελμος

εμαρς, ο λιπων εαδε κεκρφαλος·

ολς δ σκπωνι συνμπορος, τε συνδς

δπλαξ, κα κοτας βλμα χαμαιλεχος.

μμι δ Μαιναλας κρρων †μιν ταλντας

τσσον, σον σοφα κρσσον ριδρομας.

Diotimos

The cows came down on their own tonight,

Trudging along through heavy snow,

While up on the summit, Therimachus

Lies stretched under the oaks,

Laid out by a lightning bolt from heaven.

Ατμαται δελ ποτ ταλιον α βες λθον

ξ ρεος, πολλ νιφμεναι χονι·

αα, Θηρμαχος δ παρ δρυ τν μακρν εδει

πνον· κοιμθη δ’ κ πυρς ορανου.