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"Sparta,
the shining city by the reedy banks of Eurotas"
Theognis of Megara
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Time's
cruel ravages have not been kind to the Greeks. War, pillage,
fire, earthquake, theft, and religious zealotry have conspired
with the normal decay of the centuries to rob us of most of
what was written by the ancients, and poetry has not escaped
this fate. We have very little left, sometimes only fragments
of longer works. Sparta is not remembered for its literature,
unlike Athens, but it was by no means as culturally backwards
as it has been portrayed. There was a certain flowering of
the arts, as fine as any in Greece, before the sternness of
the Lycurgan system and its attendant conservatism wilted
Sparta's native creativity and discouraged wandering poets
seeking patronage. And even so, the Spartans learned their
Homer, cherished Tyrtaeus' soldierly verses, and were praised
by contemporaries for the beauty of their religious hymns
and choral songs. If more of these survived, our view of the
Spartans might be softened considerably.
The
selections below are drawn from works by known or probable
Laconian poets, or were written around Spartan themes. The
translations come from various sources, particularly Barnstone
and Lattimore (see the Book List).
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THE
PERSIAN WARS
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Simonides
of Creos
c.
battle of Thermopylae
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Epitaph
for the Spartan Dead at Thermopylae
(There is a
possibility of this being incorrectly attributed to Simonides.)
Go, stranger, and to the Spartans tell
That here, obedient to their word, we fell.
Epitaph
for Megistias
The great Megistias'
tomb,
you here may view,
Who slew the Medes, fresh
from Sperchius' fords.
Well the wise seer the coming
death foreknew,
Yet scorned he to forsake
his Spartan lords.
On
those Who Died with Leonidas
Leonidas, king
of the open fields of Sparta,
those slain with you lie famous in their graves,
For they attacked absorbing the head-long assault
of endless Persian men, arrows and swift horse.
Epitaph
for the Tomb of Leonidas
(In Sparta,
on which stood a stone lion.)
I am the most valiant of beasts,
and most valiant of men is he
Whom I guard standing on this stone tomb.
On
those Who Died at Thermopylae
Of those who perished
at the Hot Gates,
all glorious is the fortune, fair the doom;
Their grave's an altar, ceaseless memory's theirs
instead of lamentation, and their fate
Is chant of praise. Such winding sheet as this
no mould nor all-consuming time shall waste.
This sepulchre of valiant men has taken
the fair renown of Hellas for its inmate.
And witness is Leonidas, once king
of Sparta, who hath left behind a crown
Of valour mighty and undying fame.
On
the Spartans Fallen at Plataea
These men left
an altar of glory on their land,
shining in all weather,
When they were enveloped by the black mists of
death.
But though they died
They are not dead, for their courage raises them
in glory
From the rooms of Hell.
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The
Oracle of Delphi
c.
battle of Thermopylae
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The
Pythoness' Reply to the Spartans
O ye men who dwell
in the streets
of broad Lacedaemon!
Either your glorious city shall be sacked
by the children of Persia,
Or, in exchange, all Laconia must mourn for
the loss of a king,
A descendant of great Heracles.
For Xerxes, mighty as Zeus, cannot be withstood
by the courage of bulls nor of lions;
Strive as you may, there is naught that
can stay him,
Till he has got for his prey:
your king, or your city.
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OTHER
WORKS
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Tyrtaeus
of Sparta
c.
630 BC
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Frontiers
You should reach
the limits of virtue
before you cross the border of death.
Courage
For no man ever
proves himself a good man in war
unless he can endure to face the blood and the slaughter,
go close against the enemy and fight with his hands.
Here
is courage, mankind's finest possession, here is
the noblest prize that a young man can endeavor to win,
and it is a good thing his city and all the people share with
him
when a man plants his feet and stands in the foremost spears
relentlessly, all thought of foul flight completely forgotten,
and has well trained his heart to be steadfast and to endure,
and with words encourages the man who is stationed beside
him.
Here
is a man who proves himself to be valiant in war.
With a sudden rush he turns to flight the rugged battalions
of the enemy, and sustains the beating waves of assault.
And he who so falls among the champions and loses his sweet
life,
so blessing with honor his city, his father, and all his people,
with wounds in his chest, where the spear that he was facing
has transfixed
that massive guard of his shield, and gone through his breastplate
as well,
why, such a man is lamented alike by the young and the elders,
and all his city goes into mourning and grieves for his loss.
His tomb is pointed to with pride, and so are his children,
and his children's children, and afterward all the race that
is his.
His
shining glory is never forgotten, his name is remembered,
and he becomes an immortal, though he lies under the ground,
when one who was a brave man has been killed by the furious
War God
standing his ground and fighting hard for his children and
land.
But
if he escapes the doom of death, the destroyer of bodies,
and wins his battle, and bright renown for the work of his
spear,
all men give place to him like, the youth and the elders,
and much joy comes his way before he goes down to the dead.
Aging,
he has reputation among his citizens. No one
tries to interfere with his honors or all he deserves;
all men withdraw before his presence, and yield their seats
to him,
the youth, and the men his age, and even those older than
he.
Thus
a man should endeavor to reach this high place of courage
with all his heart, and, so trying, never be backward in war.
To
the Soldiers; after a defeat
Now, since you
are the seed of Heracles the invincible,
courage! Zeus has not yet turned away from us. Do not
fear the multitude of their men, nor run away from them.
Each man should bear his shield straight at the foremost ranks
and make his heart a thing full of hate, and hold the black
flying
spirits of death as dear as he holds the flash of the sun.
You
know what havoc is the work of the painful War God,
you have learned well how things go in exhausting war,
for you have been with those who ran and with the pursuers,
O young men, you have had as much of both as you want.
Those
who, standing their ground and closing their ranks together,
endure the onset at close quarters and fight in the front,
they lose fewer men. They also protect the army behind them.
Once they flinch, the spirit of the whole army falls apart.
And no man could count over and tell all the number of evils,
all that can come to a man, once he gives way to disgrace.
For once a man reverses and runs in the terror of battle,
he offers his back, a tempting mark to spear from behind,
and it is a shameful sight when a dead man lies in the dust
there,
driven through from behind by the stroke of an enemy spear.
No,
no, let him take a wide stance and stand up strongly against
them,
digging both heels in the ground, biting his lip with his
teeth,
covering thighs and legs beneath, his chest and his shoulders
under the hollowed-out protection of his broad shield,
while in his right hand he brandishes the powerful war-spear,
and shakes terribly the crest high above his helm.
Our man should be disciplined in the work of the heavy fighter,
and not stand out from the missiles when he carries a shield,
but go right up and fight at close quarters and, with his
long spear
or short sword, thrust home and strike his enemy down.
Let him fight toe to toe and shield against shield hard driven,
crest against crest and helmet on helmet, chest against chest;
let him close hard and fight it out with his opposite foeman,
holding tight to the hilt of his sword, or to his long spear.
And you, O light-armed fighters, from shield to shield of
your fellows,
dodge for protection and keep steadily throwing great stones,
and keep on pelting the enemy with your javelins, only
remember always to stand near your own heavy-armed men.
Spartan
Soldier
It is beautiful
when a brave man of the front ranks,
falls and dies, battling for his homeland,
and ghastly when a man flees planted fields and city
and wanders begging with his dear mother,
aging father, little children and true wife.
He will be scorned in every new village,
reduced to want and loathsome poverty; and shame
will brand his family line, his noble
figure. Derision and disaster will hound him.
A turncoat gets no respect or pity;
so let us battle for our country and freely give
our lives to save our darling children.
Young
men, fight shield to shield and never succumb
to panic or miserable flight,
but steel the heart in your chests with magnificence
and courage. Forget your own life
when you grapple with the enemy. Never run
and let an old soldier collapse
whose legs have lost their power. It is shocking when
an old man lies on the front line
before a youth: an old warrior whose head is white
and beard gray, exhaling his strong soul
into the dust, clutching his bloody genitals
into his hands: an abominable vision,
foul to see: his flesh naked. But in a young man
all is beautiful when he still
possesses the shining flower of lovely youth.
Alive he is adored by men,
desired by women, and finest to look upon
when he falls dead in the forward clash.
Let
each man spread his legs, rooting them in the ground,
bite his teeth into his lips, and hold.
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Terpander
of Antissa
c.
650 B.C.
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Sparta
There flowers the
battle-spear of young men,
there the Muse is eloquent,
there Justice in the wide ways lends force to
actions of honor.
Hymn
to Zeus
Zeus, inceptor
of all,
of all things the commander,
Zeus, I bring you this gift:
the beginning of song.
To Apollo
and the Muses
Let us pour a libation
to the Muses, daughters
of Memory, and to Leto's
son, their lord Apollo.
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Alcaeus
of Mytilene
c.
575 B.C.
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Prayer
for Safety at Sea
(Invocation
to the Dioscuri.)
Be with me now, leaving the Isle of Pelops,
mighty sons of Zeus and of Leda, now in
kindliness of heart appear to me, Castor
and Polydeuces:
you
who wander over the wide earth, over
all the sea's domain on your flying horses,
easily delivering mortal men from
death and terror:
swept
in far descent to the strong-built vessel's
masthead, you ride shining upon the cables,
through the weariness of the dark night bringing
light to the black ship.
Aristodamus
This was the word
of Aristodamus in Sparta, and not so badly phrased at all.
He said: "Money's the man." It's true. There's no poor man
who's known as good or valued much.
Things
of War
The great house
glitters with bronze. War has patterned
the roof with shining helmets,
their horsehair plumes waving in the wind, headdress
of fighting men. And pegs
are concealed under bright greaves of brass which
block the iron-tipped arrows. Many
fresh-linen corselets are hanging and hollow shields
are heaped about the floor,
and standing in rows are swords of Chalcidian steel,
belt-knives and warriors' kilts.
We cannot forget our arms and armor when soon
our dreadful duties begin.
Walls
and the City
Not homes with
beautiful roofs,
nor walls of permanent stone,
nor canals and piers for ships
make the city — but men of strength.
Not
stone and timber, nor skill
of carpenter — but men brave
who will handle sword and spear.
With
these you have: city and walls.
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Pindar
of Thebes
c.
480 B.C.
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Sparta
There are councils
of Elders,
And young men's conquering spears,
And dances, the Muse, and joyousness.
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Ibycus
of Samos
c.
550 B.C.
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On
Feminine Nature and Public Decency
Spartan girls
are naked-thighed and man-crazy.
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Alcman
of Sparta
c.
625 B.C.
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On
His Poetry
Muse of the round sky, daughter
of Zeus,
I sing my poems loud and clear
to you.
Man's
Lessons
Experience and suffering
are the mother of wisdom.
Ars
Poetica
I know the tunes
of every bird,
but I, Alcman, found my words and song
in the tongue of the strident partridge.
Rest
Now chasms and mountain
summits are asleep,
and sierra slopes and ravines;
creeping things nourished by the dark earth,
hillside beasts and generations of bees,
monsters in the depths of the purple brine,
all lie asleep,
and also tribes of flying birds.
On
a Poetess
Aphrodite commands and love
rains
upon my body and melts my heart
for Megalostrata, to whom the sweet Muse
gave the gift of poetry.
O happy girl of the goldenrod hair!
The
Journey
Narrow is our way of life
and necessity is pitiless.
To
the Moon Goddess
I am your servant, Artemis.
You draw your long bow at night,
clothed in the skins of wild beasts.
Now hear our beautiful singing.
I
Am Old
O girls of honey-sweet voices,
my limbs are weak.
They will not bear me. I wish, ah, I wish I were
a carefree kingfisher flying over flowering foam
with the halcyons — sea-blue holy birds of Spring.
Maiden
Song (excerpt of a fragment)
There is vengeance from
the gods;
but blessed is he who blithely
winds out all his day of life
without tears. But I must sing the
light of Agido. I see
her like the sun, whose shining
on us is witnessed through Agido.
But our lovely choir leader
will not let me praise her, nor
say she is not fair.
She knows well that she herself is
something dazzling,
just as if among a herd of
cattle one should set a racehorse,
sinewy, swift, and with feet full of thunder,
creature out of a dream with wings.
Is
not Hagesichora
of the lovely step here beside us?
Does she wait with Agido,
and with her commend our performance?
But you Gods, accept their prayers,
for the end and the achievement
come from God. My chorus leader,
maiden as I am, I say
I have only shrilled in vain
from the roof tops
like an owl; yet I would also
please our Lady
of the Dawn; for it was she who
came to heal us of our trouble.
Maidens, we have come to the peace desired,
all through Hagesichora's grace.
All
the chariot's course is swung
to the running of the trace-horse,
all the ship must come to heel,
swiftly to the captain's handling.
She has sung her song today
not more sweetly than the Sirens
(they are gods). But how we sang,
we ten girls instead of the Eleven!
One is trilling like a swan by
Xanthus river,
one with splendid tawny hair....
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Aristophanes
(Athenian
dramatist,
c. 450BC-c.388BC.) |
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"Spartan
Choral Dance" no.1
(from
Lysistrata)
Memory,
send me
your Muse,
who knows
our glory,
knows Athens’ --
Tell the story:
At Artemisium
like gods, they stampeded
the hulks of the Medes, and beat them.
And Leonidas
leading us --
the wild boars
whetting their tusks.
And the foam flowered,
flowered and flowed,
down our cheeks
to our knees below.
The Persians there
like the sands of the sea --
Hither, huntress,
virgin, goddess,
tracker, slayer,
to our truce!
Hold us ever
fast together;
bring our pledges
love and increase;
wean us from the fox’s wiles --
Hither, huntress!
Virgin, hither!
"Spartan
Choral Dance" no.2
Leave darling Taygetus,
Spartan Muse! Come to us
once more, flying
and glorifying
Spartan themes:
the god at Amyclae,
bronze-house Athena,
Tyndarus’ twins,
the valiant ones,
playing still by Eurotas’ streams.
Up! Advance!
Leap to the dance!
Help us hymn Sparta,
lover of dancing,
lover of footfalls,
where girls go prancing
like fillies along Eurotas’ banks,
whirling the dust, twinkling their shanks,
shaking their hair
like Maenads playing
and juggling the thyrsis,
in frenzy obeying
Leda’s daughter, the fair, the pure
Helen, the mistress of the choir.
Here, Muse, here!
Bind up your hair!
Stamp like a deer! Pound your feet!
Clap your hands! Give us a beat!
Sing the greatest,
sing the mightiest,
sing the conqueror,
sing to honor her --
Athena of the Bronze House!
Sing Athena!
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MODERN
POETRY
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C.P.
Cavafy
1863-1933
(Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)
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Thermopylae
Honor to those who in the life they lead
define and guard a Thermopylae.
Never betraying what is right,
consistent and just in all they do
but showing pity also, and compassion;
generous when they're rich, and when they're poor,
still
generous in small ways,
still helping as much as they can;
always speaking the truth,
yet without hating those who lie.
And
even more honor is due to them
when they foresee (as many do foresee)
that Ephialtes will turn up in the end,
that the Medes will break through after all.
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The
Oracles
'Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain
When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,
And mute's the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,
And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.
I
took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,
The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice
as plain;
And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking
That she and I should surely die and never live again.
Oh
priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think
it;
But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no
more.
'Tis true there's better boose than brine, but he that drowns
must drink it;
And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.
The
King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;
Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the
air.
And he that stands will die for naught, and home there's no
returning.
The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their
hair.
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The
Isles of Greece
The isles of Greece!
the isles of Greece
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The
Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse:
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."
The
mountains look on Marathon -
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A
king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations; - all were his!
He counted them at break of day -
And when the sun set, where were they?
And
where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now -
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
'Tis
something in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush - for Greece a tear.
Must
we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? - Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
What,
silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no; - the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head,
But one, arise, - we come, we come!"
'Tis but the living who are dumb.
In
vain - in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call -
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You
have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave -
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill
high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine:
He served - but served Polycrates -
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The
tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
O that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind,
Fill
high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust
not for freedom to the Franks -
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords and native ranks
The only hope of courage dwells:
But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill
high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade -
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place
me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine -
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
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 Kevin
Marshall
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