IV
The Millennium
Pagan Roman Empire, 100 BCE–99 CE

 

In the centuries flanking the millennium, writing Greek epigrams became a well-established profession. The form served widespread public needs and in some cases even supported its practitioners. A prolific epigrammatist might earn a living composing dedications for fountains, stairs, walls, temples and public buildings, and by supplying epitaphs to families of deceased Greeks. Some of these poets gained positions at court or were appointed as salaried scholars or librarians. Already in the third century BCE, Posidippus could write that his calling produced the wherewithal to leave “both home and wealth” to his descendants.

Anthologists flourished too, gathering selected verses from the ephemeral collections of poetry past and present. Epigrams of all sorts were popular, and selections on scrolls for the personal library were a natural development. Among these early anthologies, the most influential by far was Meleager’s Garland. Over the next thousand years, subsequent editors drew on this work above all others to develop the Greek Anthology we read today.

Born in Gadara in Palestine, raised in Syrian Tyre, later a citizen of the Phoenician community on Kos, Meleager was both an inspired poet and a first-rate editor. His 134 extant epigrams display a comprehensive knowledge of the tradition his anthology preserved. Arranging earlier poets’ works by theme and subtheme, he often rounded off a selection with epigrams of his own that occasionally outshone his predecessors’. Meleager’s best epigrams strike a personal, confiding tone that communicates easily to modern readers. The direction he took defined the form’s course for centuries.

The Roman Empire’s rapid expansion in this period subsumed and refigured the spirit of ancient Greece. The reading of Greek remained a hallmark of cultured Romans, and good Greek literature continued to be made. The epigram was advanced in fresh, new ways. Lucilius, for example, introduced the use of hyperbolic humor, employing exaggeration to sharpen the form’s satiric edge. Nicarchus, a contemporary, followed suit. The incompetent physician on page 140, whose examination precipitates the death of a statue, is typical. This accent on acerbic wit opened new terrain for the epigram and influenced the Latin satirist Martial.

Anonymous

After what happened to you, Theogenes,

Men should swear off seafaring forever.

The Libyan deep became your grave

When a thousand cranes, searching for land,

Found your loaded ship instead

And, settling in the rigging wing to wing,

Sent it to the bottom of the ocean.

Πντα τις ρσαιτο φυγεν πλον, ππτε κα σ,

Θεγενες, ν Λιβυκ τμβον θευ πελγει,

νκα σοι κεκμης ππτατο φορτδι νη

ολον νηρθμων κενο νφος γερνων.

Meleager

My father was Eucrates.

Meleager is my name.

Born in Gadara, Palestine

I came of age in Tyre.

A Syrian?

Don’t be surprised.

All men share one homeland

Called the World.

If you’re Syrian, Salam!

If Phoenician, Haudoni!

If Greek, then Chaîre!

Hail! And wish

The ancient babbler well.

May you

When you grow old

Be this loquacious!

(I wrote these lines in my notebook

Before they buried me.

Old age and death

Are next-door neighbors.)

Νσος μ θρπτειρα Τρος· πτρα δ με τεκνο

τθς ν σσυροις ναιομνα, Γδαρα·

Εκρτεω δ’ βλαστον σν Μοσαις Μελαγρος

πρτα Μενιππεοις συντροχσας Χρισιν.

ε δ Σρος, τ τ θαμα; μαν, ξνε, πατρδα κσμον

ναομεν· ν θνατος πντας τικτε Χος.

πουλυετς δ χραξα τδ ν δλτοισι πρ τμβου·

γρως γρ γετων γγθεν δεω.

λλ με τν λαλιν κα πρεσβτην προτιειπν

χαρειν, ες γρας κατς κοιο λλον.

Meleager

In place of a husband Clearista met

The god of death on her wedding night

Just as she was loosening her clothes.

The chamber doors had just banged shut.

The bedtime flutes rang through the house.

The same flutes raised a wail at sunrise.

The dampened wedding song turned to a groan.

Then torches that had flared around the

bedroom

Lit her way on the downward-running road.

Ο γμον, λλ’ δαν πινυμφδιον Κλεαρστα

δξατο, παρθενας μματα λυομνα.

ρτι γρ σπριοι νμφας π δικλσιν χευν

λωτο, κα θαλμων πλαταγεντο θραι·

οι δ λολυγμν νκραγον, κ δ μναιος

σιγαθες γοερν φθγμα μεθαρμσατο·

α δ ατα κα φγγος δδοχουν παρ παστ

πεκαι, κα φθιμν νρθεν φαινον δν.

Anonymous

Cleo, your hair was never cut

Nor had the moon run down

The sky three dozen times,

When your mother and father

Leaned above you,

Howling over your coffin.

You will reach your prime in unknown Acheron.

You will never come back here.

Οπω τοι πλκαμοι τετμημνοι, οδ σελνας

το τριετες μηνν νιοχεντο δρμοι,

Κλεδικε, Νικασς τε σν περ λρνακα μτηρ,

τλμον, π’ αακτ πλλ’ βα στεφν,

κα γεντας Περκλειτος· π’ γντ δ’ χροντι

βσεις βαν, Κλεδικ’, νοστοτταν.

Zonas of Sardis

Charon, cloaked in darkness,

Before you row death’s ship

Through the reeds to Hades,

Steady the ladder.

Reach out a hand for the son of Cinyras.

Help him aboard.

He is too young to walk well in sandals

And frightened to touch the sand with his

bare feet.

δ ς τατης καλαμδεος δατι λμνης

κωπεεις νεκων βριν, †λν δνην,

τ Κινρου τν χερα βατηρδος μβανοντι

κλμακος κτενας, δξο, κελαιν Χρον·

πλζει γρ τν παδα τ σνδαλα· γυμν δ θεναι

χνια δειμανει ψμμον π’ ονην.

Nicomachus

This (why bother to call it ‘this’)

Was once the town of Plataea,

Before a sudden quake

Knocked it all down.

Scarcely anyone was left:

Only a little rise, and we, the dead,

With the place we loved

Laid on top of us.

δ’ σθ’– δε Πλταια τ τοι λγω;– ν ποτε

σεισμς

λθν ξαπνας κββαλε πανσυδ·

λεφθη δ’α μονον τυτθν γνος· ο δ θανντες

σμ’ ρατν πτραν κεμεθ’ φεσσμενοι.

Tymnes

This headstone marks a white Maltese.

All his life they called him Bull.

He guarded Eumelus faithfully.

Now, night’s silent roads

Have swallowed up his barking.

Τδε τν κ Μελτης ργν κνα φησν πτρος

σχειν, Εμλου πισττατον φλακα.

Ταρν μιν καλεσκον, τ’ ν τι· νν δ τ κενου

φθγμα σιωπηρα νυκτς χουσιν δο.

Serapion of Alexandria

This bone was part of a working man:

You either sold goods in the market

Or fished on dark, uncertain seas.

Tell those to come

How, chasing other prospects,

Everyone will be reduced to this.

Τοτ’ στεν φωτς πολυεργος. τις σθα

μπορος, τυφλο κματος χθυβλος.

γγειλον θνητοσιν τι σπεδοντες ς λλας

λπδας ες τοην λπδα λυμεθα.

Antiphilus of Byzantium

Old Philo bent to lift a corpse

(He earned his living doing this)

And missed a step and fell and died.

Well, he was ready. Old age

And death lay in wait for him.

The same pallet that bore so many others

He shouldered without knowing for himself.

Νεκροδκον κλιντρα Φλων πρσβυς ερων

γκλιδν, φρα λβοι μισθν φημριον,

σφλματος ξ λγοιο πεσν θνεν· ν γρ τοιμος

ες δην, κλει δ’ πολι πρφασιν·

ν δ’λλοις φρει νεκυοστλον, ατς φ’ ατ

σκντην γρων χθοφορν λαθεν.

Antiphilus of Byzantium

These two sons of Oedipus —

Heap their tombs up far apart.

Even death can’t end their disagreements.

They refused to share a boat to Acheron.

Though they are dead

The god of war burns bright in them.

See how even the flame of their pyre

Breaks into a pair of bickering tongues!

Τηλοττω χεασθαι δει τφον Οδιπδαο

παισν π’ λλλων, ος πρας ο δ’ δας·

λλ κα ες χροντος να πλον ρνσαντο,

χ στυγερς ζει κν φθιμνοισιν ρης.

νδε πυρκας νισον φλγα· δαιομνα γρ

ξ νς ες δισσν δριν ποστρφεται.

Ariston

Old Ampelis, who loved her wine

Came leaning on a wooden cane

To sneak a drink from this year’s vat.

She filled a cup fit for a Cyclops,

But before she could raise it

She lost her grip. Then like a ship

Swallowed by waves, she dropped

Into the wine-dark sea and vanished.

Euterpe set this stone up on her grave,

Near where the grape mash lies drying in the

sun.

μπελς φιλκρητος π σκπωνος δηγο

δη τ σφαλερν γρας ρειδομνη,

λαθριδη Βκχοιο νεοθλιβς ρ’ π ληνο

πμα Κυκλωπεην πλησομνη κλικα·

πρν δ’ ρσαι μογερν καμεν χρα· γρας δ

παλαι,

νας θ’ ποβρχιος ζωρν δυ πλαγος.

Ετρπη δ’ π τμβ ποφθιμνης θτο σμα

λνον, ονηρν γετονα θειλοπδων.

Crinagoras

Wretched to be snared this way,

Reckless, self-certain,

Ignoring the trickster Death:

Take Seleucus, perfect in word and deed,

Who after a short-lived burst of youth

Lies estranged at the world’s edge,

Here on the unmapped Spanish coast

Far from his native Lesbos.

Δελαιοι, τ κενασιν λμεθα θαρσσαντες

λπσιν, τηρο ληθμενοι θαντου;

ν δε κα μθοισι κα θεσι πντα Σλευκος

ρτιος, λλ’ βης βαιν παυρμενος,

στατοις ν βηρσι, τσον δχα τηλθι Λσβου,

κεται μετρτων ξενος π’ αγιαλν.

Anonymous: A Field

Once I was the field of Achaemenides.

Now I belong to Menippus.

I will keep moving forever

From one man’s hand to the next.

Achaemenides thought he owned me.

Now Menippus thinks the same.

I don’t belong to anyone but Fortune.

γρς χαιμενδου γενμην ποτ, νν δ Μενππου·

κα πλιν ξ τρου βσομαι ες τερον.

κα γρ κενος χειν μ ποτ’ ετο, κα πλιν οτος

οεται· εμ δ’ λως οδενς, λλ Τχης.

Antipater of Thessalonica

Don’t judge a man by his headstone.

This one may not look like much,

But it marks a great man’s bones.

Remember Alcman, master lyrist,

Ranked first by all nine Muses?

Here he lies,

A point of contention between two continents —

Claimed by Greece as Spartan, by Asia as Lydian.

Lyric poets may have many mothers.

νρα μ πτρ τεκμαρεο. λιτς τμβος

φθναι, μεγλου δ’ στα φωτς χει.

εδσεις λκμνα, λρης λατρα Λακανης

ξοχον, ν Μουσων νν’ ριθμς χει·

κεται δ’ περοις διδμοις ρις, εθ’ γε Λυδς,

ετε Λκων· πολλα μητρες μνοπλων.

Antipater of Thessalonica

I’m not sure which to blame,

The god of wine or god of rain.

Either one may trip you up.

This tomb holds Polyxenus.

Returning from a banquet in the country,

He tumbled to his death down a slick hill.

He lies a long way from Smyrna now.

Let every drunk on the road after dark

Avoid the rain-soaked trail.

Οκ οδ’ ε Δινυσον νσσομαι, Δις μβρον

μμψομ’· λσθηρο δ’ ες πδας μφτεροι.

γρθε γρ κατιντα Πολξενον κ ποτε δαιτς

τμβος χει γλσχρων ξεριπντα λφων·

κεται δ’ ολδος Σμρνης κς. λλ τις ρφνης

δειμανοι μεθων τραπν ετην.

Antipater of Thessalonica

All seas are the same. We’re fools

To blame the Cyclades,

The Hellespont or Bay of Locri.

They don’t deserve it.

How else could I escape them all

Before Scarfea Harbor’s water

Closed over my head?

Pray for fair weather if you want.

The sea will be the sea.

Aristagoras, buried here, knows that.

Πσα θλασσα θλασσα· τ Κυκλδας στενν

λλης

κμα κα ξεας λε μεμφμεθα;

λλως τονομ’ χουσιν· πε τ με, τν προφυγντα

κενα, Σκαρφαιες μφεκλυψε λιμν;

νστιμον επλοην ρτ τις· ς τ γε πντου

πντος, τυμβευθες οδεν ρισταγρης.

Antipater of Thessalonica

Melting snow up on the roof

Caved it in and killed old Lysidice.

Her neighbors didn’t dig a grave. Instead,

They made the house her mausoleum.

Χειμερου νιφετοο περ θριγκοσι τακντος

δμα πεσν τν γραν κτανε Λυσιδκην·

σμα δ ο κωμται μλακες οκ π’ ρυκτς

γαης, λλ’ ατν πργον θεντο τφον.

Apollonides

I am a pile of pebbles on the shore,

Covering the skeleton of Glenis.

He stood fishing from an outcrop

When a rogue wave swept him off.

Those he worked with placed me here.

Protect them, Poseidon.

Give all who cast their lines a quiet shore.

Γλνιν παροντις μφχω χερμς,

πικρ κατασπασθντα κματος δν,

τ’ χθυζετ’ ξ κρης πορργος·

χσαν δ μ’ σσος λας ν συνεργτης,

Πσειδον, ος σ σζε, κα γαληναην

αν διδοης ρμιηβλοις θνα.

Apollonides

Heliodorus went first. An hour later

His wife Diogenia followed.

They lived together.

Now they lie beneath one stone.

Once they gladly shared a bed.

Now they share this tomb.

φθανεν λιδωρος, φσπετο δ’, οδ’ σον ρ

στερον, νδρ φλ Διογνεια δμαρ.

μφω δ’, ς μ’ ναιον, π πλακ τυμβεονται,

ξυνν γαλλμενοι κα τφον ς θλαμον.

Anonymous

I, Callicrateia, bore twenty-nine children.

Not one son or daughter died before me.

I lived to be a hundred and five and

Never set a shaking hand upon a cane.

Εκοσι Καλλικρτεια κα ννα τκνα τεκοσα,

οδ’ νς οδ μις δρακμην θνατον·

λλ’κατν κα πντε διηνυσμην νιαυτος,

σκπωνι τρομερν οκ πιθεσα χρα.

Etruscus of Messene

The same boat, doing double duty,

Ferried Hieroclides to work

And down to Hades. It brought him fish

And served him as a pyre.

It sailed with him on the chase

And accompanied him to Hades.

Fortunate angler,

He cruised the sea in his own vessel

And then raced off

To the underworld in it.

μα κα βιτοιο κα δος γαγεν εσω

νας εροκλεδην, κοιν λαχοσα τλη.

τρεφεν χθυβολεντα, κατφλεγε τεθνειτα,

σμπλοος ες γρην, σμπλοος ες δην.

λβιος γριπες δ κα πντον ππλει

νη, κα ξ δης δραμεν ες δην.

Leonidas of Alexandria

“Who is the Argive spirit in this tomb?

Is he a brother of Dikaeoteles?”

— A brother of Dikaeoteles.

“Was that an echo, or the real voice of the man?”

— The real voice of the man.

α. Τς Δαμων ργεος π’ ρ; ρα σναιμος

στ Δικαιοτλους; β. στ Δικαιοτλους.

α. χ τοτ’ λλησε πανστατον, τδ’ ληθς,

κενος δ’ στν νρ; β. Κενος δ’ στν νρ.

Lucilius

A chorus of astrologers confirmed it:

My uncle would live to old age.

Only Hermoclides foresaw an early death,

But by then the corpse was laid out

And the family in mourning.

Τ πατρ μου τν δελφν ο στρολγοι

μακργη ρων

πντες μαντεσανθ’ ς φ’ νς στματος·

λλ’ ρμοκλεδης ατν μνος επε πρμοιρον·

επε δ’, τ’ ατν σω νεκρν κοπτμεθα.

Lucilius

Seeing beside him

A man hung on a higher cross than he,

Diophon the envious

Began to pine.

Μακροτρ σταυρ σταυρομενον λλον αυτο

φθονερς Διοφν γγς δν τκη.

Lucilius

Hermon the miser hanged himself,

Wracked with grief that in his sleep

He dreamed he had spent some money.

Ποισας δαπνην ν πνοις φιλργυρος ρμων

κ περιωδυνας ατν πηγχνισεν.

Nicarchus

Yesterday, Dr. Markos checked the pulse of Zeus.

Today, though made of marble and king of the

gods,

Zeus is being carted to the graveyard.

Το λιθνου Δις χθς κλινικς ψατο Μρκος·

κα λθος ν κα Ζες, σμερον κφρεται.

Philip of Thessalonica: A Millstone

This miller owned me while he lived.

All through life I ground his wheat —

Demeter’s servant, groaning as I turned.

When he died they set me on his tomb,

A sign of his guild and a weight to feel forever —

At work while he lived, and on his bones in

death.

Πυρηφτον Δματρος εκρπου λτριν,

κα κατθανν στλωσε τδ’ π’ ρ,

σνθημα τχνας· ς χει μ’ ε βαρν,

κα ζν ν ργοις, κα θανν π’ στοις.

Anonymous Inscription

Here lies a woman famed throughout the land:

I only took my clothes off for one man.

δ’ γ περβωτος π πλακ τδε τθαμμαι,

μον ν ζναν νρι λυσαμνα.