V 
Late Antiquity
Christian Roman Empire, 200–599 CE
V
The Roman Emperor Constantine yoked the Classical world to Christianity early in the fourth century. In time, the imperial educational curriculum passed into theologians’ hands. Under the double weight of religion and empire, the delicate epigram began to buckle. Its defining characteristics — independent vision and a passionate frankness concerning life’s joys and sorrows—gave way to the churchly emphasis on renunciation and salvation. The effect, especially on the epitaph, proved fatal.
Everything did not collapse at once. Originality remained possible. Good epitaphs continued to be written for several more centuries, at times with flair, as this final section shows. Even late in the sixth century, a poem by Agathias (page 156), could successfully adopt the voice of a great house mourning its builder’s death. Around the same time, Damaskios managed a convincing, two-line meditation on the death of a slave (page 160), but instances like these were growing rare.
Among resolutely pagan poets, effete refinement begins to replace compression. Among new Christians, heavy-handed moralizing more often stands in for real emotion, and conventional tropes supplant fresh similes. Palladas the Alexandrian, author of more than 150 epigrams, raises one of the last clear voices in Classicism’s struggle with the Church. His art when compared to Callimachus’s may seem crude, but his melancholy candor is impressive. Palladas earned his living as a professional teacher of Greek and Latin literature. In old age, he lost his livelihood to a series of Christian reforms and anti-pagan laws. Though he never embraced Christianity, he considered opposition to it futile. A truth-telling poet, he predicts the demise of the classical world, even penning its epitaph:
Latter-day Greeks, are we not dead
And only seem to be alive …?
The closing of Plato’s Academy in Athens in 529 marks the official end of Greek pedagogy. A center of learning for a thousand years, the Academy stood for a method of uncovering truth through logical disputation that the new theology rejected. Fittingly, the Academy’s last director was the epigrammatist Damaskios. He fled to Persia after Emperor Justinian closed the school.
The work of the scholar Agathias (536–582) marks a dividing line in quality and subject matter. With few exceptions, the writing of first-rate elegiac epigrams ends with him in the late sixth century. After Agathias, most surviving examples are exercises in rhetoric or predictable formulations on conventional Christian themes.
If you notice this tomb at all as you pass,
Don’t smirk because it only holds a dog.
I was wept for.
My master’s hands heaped up this dirt,
Then cut these words into my stone.
Τ
ν τρ
βον 
ς παρ
γεις, 
ν πως τ
δε σ
μα νο
σ
ς
μ, δ
ομαι, γελσς ε
κυνς 
στι τφος·
κλα
σθην· χε
ρες δ
κνιν συνθηκαν νακτος
ς μου κα
στλ τ
νδ’ χραξε λγον.
Socrates, now you may drink in Zeus’s house.
The oracle was right to call you wise.
Wisdom itself is a goddess.
All you got from the people of Athens was
hemlock.
They swallowed it themselves when it touched
your lips.
Πν νυν ν Δις 
ν, 
Σ
κρατες· 
σε γ
ρ 
ντως
κα σοφν ε
πε θες, κα θες 
σοφα.
πρς γρ 
θηναων κνειον 
πλ
ς σ
δξω,
α
το δ’ ξπιον το
το τε
στματι.
Eudoxus discovered his fate in Memphis.
A bull with pretty horns informed him.
It didn’t speak—
How could it?
Cattle don’t talk with their tongues.
It licked his robe instead, as if to say,
Your life is about to be stripped away.
He died soon after — fifty-three years old.
ν Μμφει λγος στ μαθεν δην ποτ μορην
Ε
δοξον παρ το καλλκερω ταρου·
κοδν 
λεξε· πθεν; βο
γρ λγον ο πρε φτλη,
οδ λλον μσχ
πιδι στμα·
λλ παρ’ ατν λχριος στς λιχμσατο στλον,
προφανς τοτο διδσκων· “ποδσ βιοτν
σσον οπω.” δι κα ο
ταχως λθε μρος, δεκκις
πντε κα τρες εσιδντα ποας.
Psullo, getting old, begrudged her heirs
And made herself sole beneficiary.
She stepped off to Hades in one quick leap,
Expending life and wealth at once.
She sank the estate and went down with it.
She jumped to her death
After spending the last penny.
Ψυλλ
πρεσβυγενς τος κληρονμοις φθονσασα,
ατ κληρονμος τν δων γγονεν·
λλομνη δ τχος κατβη δμον ες 
δαο,
τας δαπναις τ ζν σμμετρον ε
ρομνη.
πντα φαγοσα βον συναπλετο τας δαπναισιν·
λατο δ’ ες δην, 
ς πεκερμτισεν.
Latter-day Greeks, are we not dead
And only seem to be alive,
Having fallen on hard times,
Mistaking a dream for existence?
Or are we alive,
While our way of life has perished?
ρα μ θανντες τ δοκεν ζμεν μνον,
λληνες νδρες, συμφορ
πεπτωκτες
νειρον εκζοντες εναι τν βον;
ζμεν μες, το βου τεθνηκτος;
Greetings, shipwrecked sailor: When you arrive
in Hades
Don’t blame ocean waves for what the wind did.
Wind
Overwhelmed you. The gentle waters washed
you back
On shore, where your father and your
grandfathers lie buried.
Χαρ μοι, ναυηγ, κα ες δαο περσας
μμφεο μ πντου κμασιν, λλ’ νμοις.
κενοι μν σ’ δμασσαν· λς δ σε μελιχον 
δωρ
ς χθνα κα πατρων ξεκλισε τφους.
Neither the sea nor wild winds destroyed you.
It was your insatiable need to race around on
business.
Give me a modest living on dry land.
Let others wring big profits from the sea, battling
whirlwinds.
Οτι σε πντος λεσσε κα ο πνεοντες ται,
λλ’ κρητος ρως φοιτδος μπορης.
ε
η μοι γαης 
λγος βος· κ δ θαλσσης
λλοισιν μελτω κρδος ελλομχον.
Pyrro the skeptic, are you really dead?
I doubt it.
After facing your fate, you still say this?
I doubt it.
Well, your tomb has laid to rest your doubts.
α. Κτθανες, Πρρων; β. πχω. α. Πυμτην μετ
μοραν
φς πχειν; β. πχω. α. Σκψιν παυσε τφος.
Though the painter caught her looks perfectly,
It would be better if his skill had failed,
Letting us forget her face
Who still mourn Theodosia.
Ατν Θειοδτην 
ζωγρφος. αθε δ τχνης
μβροτε, κα λθην δκεν δυρομνοις.
Musonius worked hard to put me up —
A big house and impressive too,
Built in the teeth of a harsh north wind. Still,
He could not escape fate’s lightless room.
Abandoning me, he rests underground
Reclining on a narrow strip of earth,
While I, where he found joy,
Am home to strangers.
Τεξ με πολλ καμν Μουσνιος οκον γητν
τηλκον, ρκτ
οις σθμασι βαλλμενον.
μπης οκ πειπεν φεγγα δματα Μορης,
λλ με καλλεψας ν χθον ναιετει.
κα 
’ μν ες λγην κεται κνιν· δ περισσ
τρψις π ξενοις νδρσιν κκχυμαι.
This tomb holds no body.
This corpse has no grave.
It is its own corpse.
It is its own gravestone.
τμβος ο
τος νδον οκ χει νεκρν·
νεκρς οτος κτς οκ χει τφον,
λλ’ατς ατο νεκρς στι κα τφος.
All night I weep alone in bed.
As I fall asleep at dawn,
The swallows stir. They wake me,
And I start to cry again.
I shut my eyes,
But Rhoda’s features haunt me.
Birds, be quiet. I didn’t stop
A dead young woman’s tongue.
Cry for a nephew in the hills.
Cry for a nest among the rocks.
Let me sleep, and maybe dream
Of Rhoda’s arms around me.
Π
σαν γ τν νκτα κινρομαι· ε
τε δ’ πλθ
ρθρος λινσαι μικρ χαριζμενος,
μφιπεριτρζουσι χελιδνες, ς δ με δκρυ
βλλουσιν, γλυκερν κμα παρωσμεναι.
μματα δ’ ο λοντα φυλσσεται· δ 
οδνθης
αθις μος στρνοις φροντς ναστρφεται.
φθονερα πασασθε λαλητρδες· ο γρ γωγε
τν Φιλομηλεην γλσσαν πεθρισμην·
λλ’ 
τυλον κλαοιτε κατ’ ορεα, κα γοοιτε
ες ποπος κραναν αλιν φεζμεναι,
βαιν 
να κνσσοιμεν· σως δ τις ξει νειρος,
ς με οδανθεοις πχεσιν μφιβλοι.
Zozime was a slave in body only.
Now, she has freed her body too.
Ζωσμη, πρν οσα μν τ σματι δολη,
κα τ σματι νν ερεν λευθερην.
The musician Terpis met his end
Singing at banquets in Sparta.
No sword slew him, no flying rock.
As he sang, a fig in a food fight
Passed his lips and choked him.
Death never fails to find a way.
Τρπης εφρμιγγα κρκων σκιδεσσιν οιδν
κτθαν’ †ενοστησας ν Λακεδαιμονοις,
οκ ορι πληγες, οδ’ ν βλει, λλ’ ν σκ
χελεα. φε· προφσεων οκ πορε θνατος.
Those cut off from sweet daylight I mourn no
longer.
I weep for those living in constant fear of death.
Τος καταλεψαντας γλυκερν φος οκτι θρην,
τος δ’ π προσδοκ ζντας ε θαντου.
