Greek & Latin Verse
Translated into English Verse
by Students at the University of Dallas
P i n d a r, Nemean V, first 2 triads
by
Fred Fraser (for Greek Lyric, May 2004)
by Tyler Travillian (for Greek Lyric,
May 2004)
by Abi King (for Senior Project, May 2001)
S o p h o c l e s, Oedipus, 380-411
by
Luke Culley (for Greek Tragedy, May 2002)
S o p h o c l e s, Oedipus,
464-511
by Stephen Little (Greek Tragedy, May 2002)
S i m o n i d e s, Danaë and Perseus
(fr. 543)
by Kristen Killingsworth (Poets on Poetry,
Spring 2002)
H o m e r, 'Odysseus
Puts To Sea', Odyssey 5.262-494
by
Karl Maurer, William Turnage, Timothy Dean, Hans Decker, William McGowan, B. J.
Schaefer, Mary Tetzlaff, Joseph Lacey, and David Ring (Homer course of Fall
2007)
P r o p e r t i u s,
IV, 3 (transl. & text)
by
Elizabeth Malone (for Senior Project, May 2008)
* * *
HOW THESE TRANSLATIONS CAME TO EXIST.
In Greek or
Latin translation courses at U.D., you can sometimes make an
"artistic" verse translation instead of a term paper, if you agree to
the following rather strict rules:
(I) If the
original is in hexameters, elegiacs, iambs, etc., then: (A) The English to
be in clear pure blank verse (no clots of extra syllables, over-abrupt
enjambements, etc.); (B) each Greek verse to be rendered by one English verse,
so that the lineation is identical; (C)
the English to be naked and simple, imitating the speaking voice (no stilted
inversions, etc.); yet (D) every important image, or even word, must be kept,
as exactly as possible, and the grammar and even the word order imitated,
wherever possible.
(II) If
the original is "lyric" verse in stanzas, rules A and B do not
apply; instead you invent some "equivalent" English stanza-form:
rhymless, like the original, and having varied line-lengths, yet sonorous and
pretty. Of course, varied line-lengths
without rhyme can seem like free verse; you must guard against that carefully. (But 'stanzas' may now and then be looser, if
you invent a good enough alternative -- as here Stephen Little's rendering of
Sophocles, where he charmingly used the alliterative verse of Old English epic.)
Naturally we
now and then had to break these rules; and naturally one pays a heavy price for
each of them; but usually we try hard to keep them; for the results tend to
seem more accurate, and more musical, than the far looser rules usually used by
translators.
* * *
* * *
(first two triads)
Transl. Fred Fraser, 11 May 2004
Strophe A
I am no
sculptor crafting
calm statues soon to
stand on their own step,
but on
each boat in tow
and on each fleeting
skiff, depart, Sweet Song,
fly from Aigina,
telling that young Pytheas,
the strongest son of
Lampon, won a wreath,
Pankratium’s
reward,
before he came to ripeness,
the dear mother
to tender
grape-leaf down.
Ant. A
He graced
the Aiakidai,
those spearmen heroes
sprung from Zeus and Kronos,
and the gold
Nereids
and his own
mother-city, dear to strangers.
The famous sons of
Endais and Lord Phokos
once prayed while
standing near a cairn to Zeus:
“May she
be doubly famous:
renowned for men on
foot, and ships at sea”
As they
outstretched their arms.
Epode A
Lord
Phokos, goddess’s son!
she bore him where the
breakers meet the sand.
I am ashamed to boast,
and justly so,
a weird
rash feat;
and how the brilliant
island was abandoned
and how some god sped
stout men from Oenona.
I stop – not every
naked truth is gain,
often the finest skill for man is silence.
Strophe B
If someone
deemed it good
to praise hands’
blessed strength or iron war,
let
someone dig for me
a long-jump: nimble lightness holds my knees
and high above the
ocean eagles soar
and what’s more, Muses
sing in Palion,
a chorus fair and eager:
Apollo with his golden
pick is hunting
the
seven-tongued lyre for them.
Ant. B
He leads
the varied hymns:
then praising Zeus, they next remember Thetis
and also
Peleus,
whom soft Hippolyta wanted to beguile
when having won her husband to her plots,
her lord and ally to Magnesia,
she framed
a lying story,
and that man Peleus was tried by marriage
and
at Akastos’s bed.
Epode B
Now all
this was reversed,
for having spoken to
his heart she lunged.
the lovely stories had
aroused his passion:
yet he
declined,
while fearful of the
ire of his guest-father:
and he well-counseled
won a smile from Zeus,
who then permitted him to quickly marry
an ocean Nereid with golden hair[.]
* * *
* * *
P i n d a r, I
s t h m i a n 7
Transl. Tyler Travillian, May 2004
O blessed Thebes, which old, indigenous
joys most delight your heart? Was it the time
when you gave birth to long-tressed Dionysus
to sit in state beside Demeter,
whose brazen cymbals clatter 5
or when you lodged the strongest god,
who snowed with gold at midnight,
who stopped before Amphitryon’s front-door
and wooed his wife, to father Hercules?
Or in Teiresias’ well-crafted counsels? 10
Or in the Spartoi’s tireless spear,
or horse-wise Ioláos?
Or when you sent Adrastus forth,
away from mighty battle,
lacking ten-thousand friends, to horse-filled Argos? 15
Or when you stood the Doric colony
of Spartan men on sturdy feet,
so that your seed, the Aigeids, took Amyclae,
as Pythian prophecies foretold?
For ancient radiance 20
sleeps, mortal men forget
what does not reach the highest bloom of skill
yoked to the splendor of a story’s stream.
With sweet-themed song adore Strepsiades:
he brings the Isthmus victory 25
in the Pancration:
a shapely sight, his strength is striking:
both girth and virtue equal.
The violet-plaited Muses light him up:
he shared his glory with his like-named uncle, 30
with whom bronze-shielded Ares mixed his doom.
And honor waits for noble men.
But let him clearly know,
who in this murk from dearest country
holds back the hail of bloodshed, 35
while bringing doom against the other army,
augments the greatest glory of his people,
of both the living and the dead.
And you, Diodótus’ son, while praising spear-
strong Meleager, Hector too, 40
and Amphiaraus,
expired still young and strong
among the rush of fighters, where the best
with their last hopes had gripped the strife of war.
And they endured a grief unspeakable; 45
but now Poseidon sends me clear-skies:
The winter storms are gone;
I sing and plait my hair with wreathes.
Let no god’s envy worry,
while I pursue whatever day-long pleasure 50
and go to quiet age, my fated life-span.
The same death comes to all, but our fates differ:
a man who sets his sights too far
is still too
short to reach
the bronze-floored seat of deathless gods, 55
whence winged Pegasus
cast down indeed his lord Bellerophon
the one who longed to reach the doors of heaven
to gain the company of Zeus.
A thing too sweet awaits a bitter end. 60
O Loxias, whose hair flows golden,
present us from your games
a flowering wreath from Pytho.
* * *
* * *
P i n d a r, P y t h i a n E i g h t.
For Aristomenes of Aegina.
transl. Abi King, May 2001
I
Kind Quietness, who make a city great,
Justice’s child, who keep the master keys
Of counsels, wars, receive this Pythian song
For
Aristomenes. For you know how
And
with unerring tact
To
practice gentleness
And
suffer it, in turn.
Whenever
someone drives relentless wrath
Into
a heart, you meet it harsh with force,
You
cast his hubris in a stagnant bilge. 10
Porphyrion,
too, when he forgot his place,
Provoked you unawares.
A gain is best when borne
From one who freely gives.
But
force trips up a braggart in due time. 15
Kilician
Typho of the hundred heads
Did
not escape, nor did the Giant King:
He
was defeated by the thunderbolt
And
arrows of Apollo, who received
Xenarchos’
son from Kirra graciously, 20
Crowned with Parnassian leaf and Doric song.
II
This
island with its justice-loving cities,
Fell
not far from the Graces, having reached
Famed
excellence of great Aiakos’ sons.
It
held its perfect glory from the start, 25
And shaping heroes great,
Is sung in many games
And in the battles swift.
For warriors, too, the island is renowned.
But I am not at leisure to relate 30
The whole long-winded story with the lyre
and sweet young voice, lest surfeit come and chafe.
Child,
on my rapid path
Must go
your fair new deeds,
Your debt, winged with my skill. 35
Treading
your uncles’ tracks in wrestling rings,
You did not shame Theognetos at Olympia
Nor
Cleitomachos’ strong-limbed Isthmian win.
You
increase the fame of the Meidylidai,
Of you the son of Oikleos prophesied
When he perceived the sons with
battle spears 40
As
they stood fast at Seven-Gated Thebes,
III
And when the Epígoni arrived from Argos,
Their second expedition. Thus he spoke,
While they fought on:
“Innate nobility 45
Marks sons of noble fathers. So I see
Alkmaon
grip his shield,
That
flashes with its dragon.
The
first in Cadmus’ door.
Hero Adrastos, worn out by his grief, 50
Is now caught up by news of better omen,
Though
his affairs at home will end for worse.
The
lone survivor of the Danaan troops,
He will collect the bones
Of his dead son. The gods’ 55
Own chance will lead him home
To
Abas’ wide streets, with his people safe.”
Thus
Amphiaraos spoke. I too, rejoice,
And
wreathing Alkmaon, I sprinkle him
With
song. My neighbor, he protects my
wealth. 60
He
met me as I went to Pytho once,
The
celebrated navel of the earth.
By
birth he practiced arts of prophecy.
IV
But
you, Apollo, casting arrows far,
Dwell in the famous temple in the glens 65
At
Pytho, where you gave this greatest joy;
Before,
at home, you gave the pleasing gift
of a Pentathlon prize,
You led him to your feasts.
Lord, graciously now grant 70
That
I keep harmony with every step.
Justice
directs the sweet procession song;
I
beg ungrudging favor from the gods,
Xenarkes,
for your future. When a man
Has gained good things with ease, 75
He seems like he is wise
Among the crowd of fools
At arming life with clever stratagems;
But this lies not with men. A god bestows it;
He steps into the ring, his timing right, 80
He tosses one man in the air, then hurls
Another down.
Megara’s prize is yours,
And Marathon’s, and Hera’s games at home,
You tame your rivals with three victories.
V
With
ill intent you fell upon four foes, 85
To
whom no sweet return home is awarded,
At
Pytho, as to you. Nor when they came
Before
their mothers did sweet laughter stir
Delight. They skulk down alleys,
Unseen by enemies 90
Hard-bitten by their grief.
But
he who gets by lot some fair new thing,
He
flies with grace on strong wings of great hope,
Preoccupied
by greater things than wealth.
Delight
of mortal men so briefly blooms, 95
And just as quickly falls
Down to the ground, when shaken
By some opposing will.
Day-creatures. What is man?
What is he not?
We
are a shadow’s dream. When radiance
comes, 100
Gift
of the gods, there lingers brilliant light,
A
lifetime is imbued with gentleness.
Dear Mother, Aegina, on
her path of freedom
Protect
this city; Zeus too, strong Aiakos,
And
Peleus, and good Telamon, and Achilles. 105
* * *
INTRODUCTION TO PYTHIAN VIII (by
Abi King). The victory ode, as
Pindar wrote and intended to be performed, remains fundamentally foreign to
us. This kind of commission, a poem sung
and danced after an athletic victory, has not existed for thousands of years. Carne- Ross describes it as “a literary
oddity the like of which the world has not seen again.” Nisetich, quoting Conrad, laments the loss of
such a distinctive art form: “History
repeats itself, but the special call of an art which has passed away is never
reproduced. It is as utterly gone out of
the world as the song of a destroyed wild bird”. There is no English equivalent, in fact, for
the Greek κῶμος, the post-victory festival
procession in which the ode was sung and danced. Its archaic strangeness confronts the reader,
often leaving him with the feeling that Pindar’s genre is hopelessly removed
from the modern understanding of poetry.
Yet while the ode’s choreography and accompanying melodies have passed
out of existence, Pindar’s words remain intact.
They still retain, in archaic fusion, the glory of victory and
transience of human life. Nisetich
explains:
If the only strength of Pindar’s
odes lay in their instrumentation or in their choreography, they would not have
survived. We may feel nostalgia for the
missing dance and musical accompaniment, but the essential power of the poetry
is still there, in the words.
Pindar’s poetry is, therefore,
still accessible, and essential to an understanding of the archaic world.
To aid the reader in reading Pindar in translation, one must consider
the best way to make the stanzas sing as they once did.
A
student new to Pindar also encounters an apparent lack of structure in the
ode. Pindar seems to move quickly from
invocation, to myth, to words of wisdom, with no logical continuity. One is tempted to devise a framework to
categorize the parts of the ode, and to apply this template to the poem. This
approach simply does not work. Pindar is
more subtle and free than an outline structure permits, and this imposition
would blind the reader to the ode’s refinement.
One can be sure that the following basic elements are present in an ode. The poet begins with an invocation to the
gods or some kind of abstract divinity.
The next elements proceed in varying order for every ode: maxims, wise sayings that often “overlap” in
theme with the other sections of the ode; myths, which are “somehow
illustrative of the nature of the victor’s deed, city, or ancestors;” an
address to the victor, and a description of his, or his ancestors’,
victories. The poet also includes
comments about himself, his art or his relation to his patrons. With this basic structure one better
understands the continuity of Pindar’s ode.
Bowra issues one caveat, however, to reading Pindar with a set structure
in mind:
The foundations are the plan of
the poem, including the metrical scheme, which holds the words, but the words
themselves, though cunningly fitted to it, are not to be explained by it… each
phrase is fresh and individual and different from what has gone before, and in
the separate growth of each theme and its relation to the next we must find the
internal artistry of the ode.
One should therefore not focus on
the structure of the poem, but on the way that each section freely relates to
the next, and to the whole.
While
Pindar freely employs structure to convey the ode’s themes, he uses meter to
give rhythm to the ode itself. It is
rhythm that gives the ode its choral nature; it reminds the reader that this
poetry, like no other, was sung and danced.
Most translations of Pythian VΙΙΙ exist in prose form. While some
attempt to maintain the structure of Pindar’s original text, many lose the
choral sense. This translation, though
not in Pindar’s “logaeoedic rhythm,” strives to keep the lyrical aspect. Each stanza begins in iambic pentameter,
which establishes a strong rhythm and commands the listener’s attention to the
theme, myth or invocation at hand: “Kind
Quietness, who make a city great”. The
strophe and antistrophe continue with four lines in pentameter, and then
conclude with three lines in iambic trimeter.
The shorter lines present maxims well, draw the theme or myth to a quiet
close, or serve as a swift transition to the next stanza. The epode is composed entirely in iambic
pentameter for variation and a sense of conclusion to the triad, even though
the tale or theme often continues to the next strophe. This metrical variation between strophe and
antistrophe with epode follows typical Greek choral structure: “The first two [strophe and antistrophe],
showing two large movements of the chorus, have an identical metrical pattern;
the epode- sung by the chorus standing still- has its own meter, the same in
each epode”. The meter attempts to
follow the sense of the original Greek as closely as possible.
The
structure of the translation also maintains closeness to the original
text. The triads contain strophes and
antistrophes each seven lines in length.
Enjambment between the stanzas and triads has also been preserved. Pindar does not always neatly come to the end
of a thought at the stanza’s end; he links it to the next theme by starting the
next section with its conclusion. This
technique creates continuity within the ode, a graceful flow that connects
myth, maxim and invocation.
Understanding of the ode, however, does not exist in its genre,
structure or meter alone; to grasp its meaning, one must turn to the context in
which the ode was commissioned, and then to the text itself.
Historical
context of the Ode. Pindar composed this ode for
Aristomenes, a young man from Aegina who won in wrestling at the Pythian games
of 446 BC. Most agree that this was
Pindar’s last ode, composed when he was 72; his career as a poet, then, lasted
over fifty years. The boy for whom he
wrote was from an aristocratic Aeginetan clan, the Meidylidai, and held
previous victories at Megara, Marathon and at Aegina. Two of his uncles also won in wrestling, in
the Olympian and Isthmian games; the theme of inherited greatness therefore
figures strongly in the poem. This kind
of greatness distinguishes Aegina; while Pindar finds it a reason for praise,
the island itself faced great hardship because of its ideals.
Aegina
could be seen from Athens’ Piraeus; its close physical proximity to Athens, as
well as its reliance on sea trade, is probably the only quality that the island
held in common with the city. The two
held a rivalry, and later enmity, that existed on two levels. Wealthy Aegina
was Athens’ only close naval competition.
Athenian concern for Aegina’s naval threat evidently existed as early as
492, when Themistocles began fortifying the Piraeus harbor. Secondly, as an
ancient aristocracy Aegina ideologically opposed Athens’ democracy. She was an aristocracy par excellence, as
Nisetich explains, one that “was ruled by a small number of ancient noble
families whose claims to power were hereditary and who traced their ancestry
back to the great heroes of the Trojan war, and beyond them to Zeus
himself.” Aegina’s unwilling involvement
in the Delian League also increased the tension between the two powers. They clashed on and off for seventy years
until 458, when Athens took away Aegina’s independence.
Pindar
wrote Pythian Eight in the context of Aegina’s subjugation. It is, “the only poem, so far as we know,
that Pindar wrote for Aegina after she had lost her independence.” Years later, Athens would put an end to
Aegina’s insurrection for good, by forcibly removing the Aeginetans from their
island home and importing a new, harmless population. While Pindar may or may not predict this
event in the invocation at the end of Pythian Eight, he does convey a sense of
foreboding about her future. He calls
upon not only “Mother Aegina” and Zeus himself, but also the greatest Aeginetan
heroes of all time. His request for aid in Aegina’s struggle for freedom must
have been an anxious and serious one.
The
Myth in Pythian Eight. The reader has now seen the
influence and significance of Pindar’s genre, structure, meter and historical
context on his ode. One final and
essential subject should be understood:
the main myths, and their significance in this poem. Pindar’s myths may overwhelm the modern
reader with sometime obscure references. With Pythian Eight, however, the
reader fortunately encounters myths that are widely known or, with some
background, are easily understood.
Linking the myth to the theme of the passage also presents
difficulties. To understand Pindar’s
mythical element, the reader should recall the myths intertwined in Homer’s
epics and their metaphoric purposes.
Pindar employs myth in much the same way as Homer, linking the account
with either a person or a theme to imply a greater truth. The major myth in Pythian Eight will be
discussed in this introduction; the shorter ones will be explained later in the
commentary.
In
Epode B Pindar turns the narration of the ode over to “the son of Oikleos,” the
Theban seer Amphiaraos. He relates a
myth that goes back to the sons of Oedipus and Jocasta, Eteocles and
Polyneices. Theses were two of the Seven
against Thebes, joined by Adrastos, the King of Argos, Tydeus, Amphiaraos, and
others. Invading Thebes “in order to put
Polyneices on the throne,” the Seven were defeated. All died except Adrastos and Amphiaraos. Adrastos made a second attempt on Thebes,
with the Epigonoi, the sons of the Seven; Amphiaraos’ own son, Alkmaon, was
with them. Adrastos and the Epigonoi took Thebes, but Adrastos lost his son in
the battle. Heartbroken, Adrastos returned home.
One
wonders what connection this myth has to the young Aeginetan victor. Burton explains its influence: “[Aristomenes] gives proof of inherited skill
at wrestling and increases the fame of the family clan (vv.35-38). The point of the myth is the force of
heredity, stated in the first words of Amphiaraos’ vision.” This theme of hereditary greatness prevails throughout
Pythian Eight, and is a cause of Aeginetan glory. Burton also considers it possible that the
Epigoni myth represents Pindar’s hopes for the island’s future happiness and
freedom. The myth elevates the events of
the games beyond the human and transient and establishes them in relation to
the immortal and eternal world of the gods.
Pindar’s
odes are unlike any other literature that a student encounters. Some dismiss his work as too lofty and
difficult to understand. The odes also
have the reputation of filling Greek students with trepidation and
bewilderment. Though Pindar’s Greek is
difficult at times, it is hardly ever incomprehensible; the parts of his odes
that do present difficulties challenge the reader to enter the archaic world
and see humanity through ancient and Pindaric eyes. They strike the modern
reader with imagery that is bold, grand, and demanding. But they are, as Carne-Ross said quoting Ben
Jonson, “ramm’d with life.”
* * *
* * *
S o p h o c l e s, O e d i p u s R e x, 3 8 0 - 4 1 1
Transl.
Luke Culley, May 2002
OE.
O wealth, O rule, O skill that conquers skill 380
In
life that swarms with jealous rivalries,
How
great a store of envy is saved for you
If
for a crown, a gift from Thebes, a thing
She
put into my hands — I didn’t seek it —
For
this, good Creon, friend to me at first, 385
Now
creeps in secret, longing to overthrow me.
He
plants this holy fool who stitches schemes,
A
crafty beggar whose eyes are bright for money,
Whose
expertise is to be blind by nature.
So
tell us, when were you so sharp a prophet? 390
Yes,
when that dog who chanted verse was here
Why
didn’t you speak up to save these people?
Her
riddle wasn’t for just anyone
Who
happened by to solve. It needed prophecy.
But
you so plainly had none! Not from birds, 395
Nor
any god. Then I, Know-nothing Oedipus,
I
stopped her. Not because I questioned birds!
I
hit the truth by thinking. So you’re
trying
To
get me exiled now, because you think
That
that way you’ll stand nearer Creon’s throne. 400
You
may drive out the curse with your accomplice
But
you’ll be crying. If you weren’t so old
You’d
suffer for the kinds of things you’re thinking.
CH.
In our opinion this man’s words were angry,
And
Oedipus, it seems that yours were too. 405
This
isn’t what we need. We need to learn
How
we can best resolve God's prophecy.
TE. Though you are king, I have an equal right
To
answer. Even I am lord of this.
I'm
not your slave but Loxias' alone 410
And
don't stand under Creon's patronage.
* * *
* * *
S
o p h o c l e s, O e d i p u s R e x, 4 6 4 - 5 1 1
Transl.
Stephen Little, May 6, 2002
CHORUS:
Who was it whom the Oracle, (Str. A)
Rock of Delphi, deemed the doer
Of this slaying so unspeakable, 465
Bathing both of his hands in blood?
Come is the time for the killer to
flee
Swifter than horses with speed of the
storm.
With lightning and fire leaps the
lord,
From Zeus descended, down on the
doer; 470
Winging with him, at once follow
The deadly, unerring Drawers of Doom.
From snow-showered slopes of Parnasus
shines (Ant. A)
The order to all to hunt for the
hidden. 475
Wandering down to the wild woods,
Up to the caverns, crag-encrusted,
A wretch bereaved, with wretched feet
Flees the oracles of Apollo. 480
But they round him ring forever.
Now a soothsayer skilled unsettles
me:
Dark words I dare not to doubt nor
confirm. 485 ( Str. B)
Wondering, I wait for the words I
will utter;
High on the wings of Hope I hover,
Blind looking back, and after blind.
What was the war between these two,
Polybus’ lineage, Labdakos’ line? 490
Never before nor now have I known
A test by which to attack the
towering 495
Pride the people place in Oedipus,
Man avenging the mystery murder.
Anyway, all-wise Zeus and Apollo (Ant. B)
Know the matter of mortal men;
But might a man measure if more were
achieved 500
By me or the prophet through mere
human means?
One may wax too wise with skill;
But till I know these tales are true, 505
I cannot blame the king in kind.
One time when the winged maiden
Full of fame against him fought
Cunning and dear we came to call him
Since he trod the trial true.
So shall he never in my heart seem 510
To bear the blame of being base.
* * *
* * *
S i m o n i d e s: Danaë and Perseus (fr. 543)
Transl.
Kristin Killingsworth, Spring 2002
When
in a curiously wrought ark
a
blasting wind and
a
roused sea with fear
cast
her down, not with unwetted cheeks
around
Perseus she put a loving arm 5
and
said, “Oh child, such trouble I have,
but
you sleep well with tender
heart.
You slumber
in
a joyless plank
stretched
out out in the dark gloom 10
of
the unlit night bolted in bronze.*
You
have no care of the deep brine of the sea
as
the wave passes above your hair,
nor
of the wind’s
voice,
your beautiful face sleeping on the crimson shawl. 15
Surely
if to you this danger was danger
then
to my words
your
tiny ears would turn.
I
urge you; sleep, baby
and
sleep sea and sleep measureless misery. 20
I
wish some change would appear,
Father
Zeus, from you,
but
if my words that I pray are bold,
or
apart from right,
forgive
me. 25
* * *
NOTE TO SIMONIDES
FR. 543 (by Karl Maurer). The Greek text
is corrupt and hard in places. Here is
the text as given by Campbell in his Greek Lyric Poetry; the apparatus
taken mostly (but not wholly) from his:
ὅτε
λάρνακι
ἐν δαιδαλέᾳ
ἄνεμός τέ
μιν πνέων
κινειθεῖσά τε λίμνα δείματι
ἔρειπεν, οὐκ
ἀδιάντοισι παρείαις 5
ἀμφί τε
Περσέι βάλλε φίλαν
χέρα
εἶπέν τ'. 'ὦ τέκος,
οἷον ἔχω πόνον·
σὺ δ' ἀωτεῖς,
γαλαθηνῷ
δ' ἤθε-ι κνοώσσεις
ἐν ἀτερπέι
δούρατι
χαλκεογόμφῳ 10
<τῷ>δε
νυκτιλαμπεῖ
κυανέῳ δνόφῳ
ταθείς·
ἁλμαν δ' ὕπερθε
τεᾶν κομᾶν
βαθεῖαν,
παρίοντος
κύματος, οὐκ
ἀλέγεις οὐδ' ἀνέμου 15
φθόγγον,
πορφυρέᾳ
κείμενος ἐν
χλανίδι, πρόσωπον
καλόν.
εἰ δέ τοι
δεινὸν τό γε
δεινὸν ἦν,
καί κεν ἐμῶν
ῥημάτων
λεπτὸν ὑπεῖχες
οὖας. 20
κέλομαι δ',
εὗδε βρέφος,
εὑδέτω δὲ
πόντος, εὑδέτω
δ'ἄμετρον κακόν·
μεταβουλία
δέ τις φανείη,
Ζεῦ πάτερ, ἐκ
σέο·
ὅττι δὲ
θαρσαλέον ἔπος
εὔχομαι 25
ἢ νόσφι
δίκας
σύγγνωθί
μοι.
3 τε
μὴν P: τ' ἐμῆι V:
τέ μιν Schneidwin.
4 δὲ codd.: τε Brunck.
δείματι V: δεῖ
ματι P: δεῖμα Μ. 5 ἔρειπεν MV:
ἔριπεν P. 7 τέκος
Ath.: τέκνον Dion. 8 σὺ δ' αὖτε
εἰς γαλαθηνῶι
δ' ἤτορι Ath., Bergk: σὺ
δ' αὐταῖς ἀγαλαθηνώδει Μ:
σὺ δ' αυταις ἐγαλαθηνωδει
θει PV. 9
κνοώσσεις PV Dion: κνώσσεις
M Ath. Dion. 10 -γόμφω δε
codd: suppl. Page. 11 νυκτὶ
λάμπει(ς) Lattimore legere videtur ('in the
bronze-bolted night you shine)'. 11 κυανέῳ
δνόφῳ ταθείς: ταδ' εις codd.:
em. Shneidewin. 13 αὐλέαν
PV: αὐλαίαν M: ἅλμαν
Bergk: ἄχναν Page. 17 πρ. κ. πρόσωπον
P: πρ. κ. προφαίνων
Ahrens.
* * *
* * *
Odyssey 5.262-494, translated in
fall 2007, by
Karl Maurer (262-312),
William Turnage (312-332),
Timothy Dean (333-355),
Hans Decker (356-76),
William McGowan (377-399),
B. J. Schaefer (400-423),
Mary Tetzlaff (424-450),
Joseph Lacey (451-73),
and David Ring (474 - 93).
The fourth
day came and all his tasks were finished.
On the fifth
day divine Calypso sent him
from the isle
bathed and wearing fragrant clothes,
and put on
board a wine-skin of dark wine 265
and a big
skin of water. On board also
she put a
knapsack full of much good food,
then poured
him out a stern-wind, safe and warm.
With joy in
the wind astern, godlike Odysseus
set sails,
but guided skillfully with the rudder. 270
And as he sat
no sleep fell on his eyelids.
He watched
the Pleiads and Boötes setting
and the Great
Bear, that men nickname the Wain,
who turns in
circles as she eyes Orion,
and alone has
no share of the Ocean stream. 275
For so
Calypso, the divine goddess, told him:
to voyage
with the Bear on his left hand.
Seventeen
days he sailed thus over the sea.
On the
eighteenth appeared the shadowy hills
of the
Phaiakian land, which, as it loomed, 280
seemed like a
shield in shape in the misty sea.
But great
Poseidon, back from the Ethiopians,
from hills of
the Solymoi sighted him
sailing the
sea! and with a heart still angrier
he shook his
head and said to his own heart: 285
"Bad news! The gods made new plans for Odysseus
when I was
away with the Ethiopians. Now
he's near
Phaiakian country, where he's fated
to escape his
web of pains, that still enmesh him.
I swear I'll
plunge him into griefs enough!" 290
He crowded clouds together, churned the
sea
with the
trident in his hands, roused every gust
of every kind
of wind. With clouds he hid
both land and
sea, and night woke in the sky.
East Wind,
and South, and gusty West Wind struck, 295
and
ether-born North Wind that spun huge waves.
Odysseus'
heart and knees went slack with fear
and stunned
he spoke to his own lofty heart.
"How wretched I am! Now what must happen to me?
I fear the
goddess said all this unerringly 300
that on the
deep before I reached my country
I'd have one
pain too many: now it's happening.
With what
strange clouds Zeus shuts the wide sky up,
and makes the
sea heave. Round me rush the gusts
of all the
winds. Now my steep death is near. 305
Thrice, four
times blest, the Greeks who perished then,
in wide Troy,
doing a favor to the Atreidai!
Yes, I, too,
should have died and met my doom
on that day
when the bronze-tipped spears were thickest,
when Trojans
shot at Achilles as he died. 310
I would have
got death-rites and good Greek fame.
And now my
lot is a more dreadful death."
He spoke ; a huge wave
struck him from above,
a fearful rush, and spun the boat around.
Far from his boat he fell, the steering oar 315
shot from his hands ; his mast was snapped in two
amid a dreadful blast of mingled winds.
His sail and yard shot far off to the sea.
Submerged for a long time, he lacked the strength
to crest the rush of the mighty wave : the clothes 320
divine Calypso gave him weighed him down.
At last he rose, and from his mouth spat brine
that rippled in bitter currents from his head.
Though battered he did not forget his boat,
but lunging in the waves, took hold of her 325
and sat inside, and so escaped his death.
A great wave bore him back, forth, in its stream.
As when late-summer North-Wind carries thistles
across the plain, which densely cling together,
so winds on the ocean tossed her back and forth: 330
now South Wind tosses her to North Wind to carry,
now East Wind hands her over to the West Wind.
Then Cadmus' daughter saw
him, lovely Ino,
Leucothea, who once had a mortal voice,
but now as a god is honored in the sea, 335
Odysseus' painful wandering Ino pitied.
Ascending like a marsh-bird she appeared,
perched on the raft and said these words to him:
"Poor thing, why does Poseidon,
the dread earth-shaker,
so hate you that he buries you with evils? 340
He will not kill you, though he's dearly eager.
Do this -- you seem to have a little sense --
Discard your clothes and boat; the winds can hurl them.
But swim, and with your hands grope for a landing
in Phaiakia. For there you will escape him. 345
Tie this veil round your chest; it's magical,
and wearing it you cannot die, or suffer.
But when your hands catch hold of solid shore,
then fling it far into the wine-dark sea
far from the land and turn your face away." 350
She finished speaking, handed him the
veil,
and slipped once more into the surging sea,
like a marsh-bird, and so a black wave hid her.
Much-suffering and divine Odysseus pondered,
and in great pain he spoke to his proud heart: 355
“Again! But someone plays a
trick on me
One of the gods, who tells me: leave the raft!
I won’t obey, since with my eyes I saw
How far the land is, which she called my haven.
But here’s what I will do—it seems the best: 360
As long as all the boat-beams hold together
I’m staying here to wait, enduring pain,
But if the waves come crashing on my boat,
I'll swim -- since nothing better comes to mind.”
And while he pondered this
in mind and heart, 365
A great wave rose from earth-shaking Poseidon.
Severe, dire, and cascading battered him,
As stormy wind stirs up a heap of chaff
And scatters the dry pieces to and fro,
So the long timbers scattered. But Odysseus 370
Straddled a beam, as if he raced a horse;
And stripped the clothes divine Kalypso gave him.
At once he tied the veil beneath his chest;
And dived into the brine with outstretched hands,
And swam like mad. Divine Earth-Shaker watched him, 375
Shaking his head, he spoke to his own heart.
“Now bearing many evils,
roam the sea
Before you join with men whom Zeus has raised.
Yet I expect you won’t belittle this pain.”
And then he lashed his
steeds, whose manes are lovely, 380
And came to Aigai, where his great house is.
Athena daughter of Zeus had other plans;
She held the winds at bay, except the North Wind,
Told them to stop and put them all to sleep,
Woke the North Wind and smoothed the waves before him 385
So he could come to the long-oared Phaiakians,
Zeus-born Odysseus, and ward off his death.
Two nights, two days, he tossed through salty waves
And many times his heart foresaw his death.
But when rose-fingered dawn brought the fourth day 390
At last the wind sank and the sea was calm
And suddenly he saw the nearby land,
A quick glimpse, as a great wave lifted him.
As children see with joy their father's life
Returning, when he has long lain near death, 395
All gaunt with pain — for some bad demon hurts him,
Yet gods release him sweetly from the evil—
So sweet the land and woods seemed to Odysseus.
Who swam on, trying to find land with his feet.
But now as near as
human shout can fly, 400
the rumble came to him of sea on rock:
for a great wave was roaring toward dry land
with dreadful moaning, spinning round it foam.
There was no place to anchor nor to beach,
but only jutting headlands, reefs, and cliffs. 405
Odysseus' knees dissolved, his dear heart, too,
and troubled, he addressed his haughty heart:
"Ah me! Though Zeus has let me see this land
unhoped-for, and though I've crossed the gulf,
nowhere do I see escape from briny sea. 410
Out here are sharp rocks, over which the waves
roar foaming; but near land is only a crag-face
and there the water's deep, and my two feet
won't find a footing, nor will I escape.
As I climb out, a monstrous wave might whack me 415
against the rocks, and make my struggle nothing.
But if I swim out farther, looking landwards
for sloping shores and harbors from the sea,
I fear a sudden gust may snatch me up
and bear me sobbing on the fish-full deep; 420
or some great monster from the sea rush at me—
such beasts does Amphitrete nurse in hordes.
Oh! I know how Lord Poseidon hates me."
And as he pondered in his
mind and heart
a great wave bore him toward the craggy cliffs, 425
that would have stripped his skin and smashed his bones,
but for a plan green-eyed Athena gave him:
with both hands lunging out, he grasped the rock
and held it, moaning, as a great wave passed.
So he escaped that one, but lunging back 430
Again it struck—far-flung him to the deep.
As when an octopus dragged from its hole
has on its suckers pebble-clusters clinging,
so on the rocks the skin of his stout hands
was stripped; and then a great wave covered him, 435
and there the poor wretch would have died untimely,
had not bright-eyed Athena given a plan:
he got clear of the wave as it spewed shoreward,
and swam outside it, eyes to land, in hope
of slanting shores and harbors from the sea. 440
And as he swam he reached a river’s mouth,
fair-flowing, seeming like the best of spots,
devoid of rocks and sheltered from the wind.
He saw it flowing forth and prayed in his heart:
“Whoever you are, Lord, hear
me; I have reached you 445
At long last, fleeing from Poseidon’s threats;
the immortal gods have awe of him and men
who come as wanderers, as now I do.
I've reached your stream, and knees. I have suffered much.
Have pity, Lord; I pray as your suppliant.” 450
He spoke and
the god restrained the rush and wave,
in front of him he calmed the sea and bore him
safe to the river’s mouth; he bent his knees
and mighty hands; the sea had tamed his heart.
His skin was swollen, sea poured from his mouth 455
and nostrils; lacking breath and speech he lay,
exhausted, for a great fatigue had come.
But when he breathed and roused his heart to strength,
he then indeed removed the goddess’ veil,
and threw it to the seaward-flowing stream, 460
where a great wave received it.
Quickly Ino
snatched it with loving hands.
He left the stream
and lay in the reeds, and kissed the fertile land,
and racked with pain he told his haughty heart,
“What's happening to me
now? And what is next? 465
If I keep watch beside the river tonight,
a harmful frost and also gentle dew
will overcome my heart, that's faint and gasping;
a chilly river wind blows forth at dawn.
But, going past the hill and shady woods, 470
if I take sleep in cozy shrubs, if cold
and weakness leave, and pleasant sleep arrive,
I fear I might become a catch for beasts."
And as he pondered, this way
seemed the best:
to find the woods. He found them near the river 475
but on high ground; he crept beneath twin shrubs
of olive, wild and tame, from one spot grown,
which no wet force of seething wind could pierce,
nor ever shining sun beat with its rays,
nor ever ceaseless rain break wholly through, 480
so intertwined and thickly set they grew.
He crept inside; and with his hands he heaped
a bed of leaves, for piles of them were near.
The bush could safely keep two men (or three!)
in winter time, however fierce the storm. 485
He looked with joy, much-grieved, divine Odysseus,
and hid himself beneath the heaps of leaves.
As when one hides a brand beneath black ash
in distant field, out where no neighbors are,
and saves a seed of fire where none else is, 490
just so Odysseus hid beneath the leaves.
Athene then poured sleep into his eyes
to stop his pain, and his dear lids she veiled.
* * *
* *
*
transl.
Elizabeth Malone, May 2008
To her Lycotas: Arethusa's orders
(If
you are mine when you're so often gone).
Still, if some part is smeared when you are reading,
My
tears will be to blame – they make those smudges.
Or if the writing in some place is shaky, 5
That
is a signal my right hand is dying.
First through the whizzing bowstrings
Bactra saw you,
Then
a mailed Chinaman on an armored horse,
Then wintry Getae, Britain in bright chariots,
And
Indians dark, burned by the eastern wave. 10
Is this, then, married faith?
The oath we swore
When
a raw girl surrendered as you pressed her?
The torch that led me on my wedding night
Had
drawn its black light from a toppled pyre.
I was sprinkled with the Styx; the bridal veil 15
Hung
crooked, and no wedding god was there.
My prayer-slips hang from every gate,
all useless.
This
is the fourth camp-cloak that I have woven.
Whoever first pulled stakes from some
poor tree
And
made a trumpet rasp in hollow bones, 20
He, not the lazing Sluggard, should
plait rope
And,
little ass, forever feed your hunger.
But does the breastplate chafe your
tender arms?
A
great spear callous your unwarlike hands?
I’d rather those hurt you than
some girl’s teeth 25
Give
your neck bite-marks that would make me cry.
They say you’re thin from
hunger: but I hope
That
gaunt look only comes from missing me.
But when the evening star brings
bitter nights,
I
kiss your armor, if any lies around. 30
I hate how the bedspread bunches to
one side,
How
slow the roosters are to sing of dawn.
These winter nights, I spin wool for
the camps,
Or
for your cloaks I cut the Tyrian fleeces;
I learn which way your foe, the
Araxes, flows, 35
How
far a Parthian horse runs without water;
I learn by heart the map with its
bright pictures,
What
learned god arranged the world this way,
Where it is frozen stiff, and where
heat-cracked,
And
what wind blows the sails to Italy. 40
Only my sister sits here. Pale with worry,
Nurse
says your lateness is from winter weather.
Lucky Hippolyte got to fight,
bare-breasted;
Her
soft head hid beneath a savage helmet.
I wish they’d open camps to Roman
girls! 45
I’d
be a trusty backpack for you, soldier.
Not even Scythian crags could slow me
down,
When
Jove with ice imprisons deepest streams.
All love is great but married love is
greatest,
Venus
herself fans this flame into life. 50
The doorsill’s gone to sleep. Only on Kalends 53
A
single girl unlocks the locked-up Lares.
I like it when my puppy, Yapper,
whines, 55
And
she alone claims your side of the bed.
I put flowers in the shrines, vervain
at crossroads,
And
Sabine juniper crackles on the old hearths.
And when the owl hoots from the
neighbor’s rafter,
Or
the oil-lamp sneezes, wanting sips of wine, 60
That day announces death to this
year’s lambs,
And
girt-up priests are hungry for fresh profits.
It’s not that great – the
glory of scaling Bactra
Or
looting linens from a perfumed prince,
When lumps of lead whiz, shot by
twisted slings, 65
And
treacherous bowstrings twang and steeds run off;
Why would I want that shining Tyrian
purple? 51
Or
a watery crystal flashing on my hand? 52
But if you want the sons of Parthia
tamed,
and
a headless spear behind triumphal horses,
keep uncorrupt the treaty of my
bed!
It's
only on those terms I want you back;
And when I give Capena Gate your
armor,
I’ll
write: “Girl Grateful for a Husband
Saved.”
* * *
Text
of Propertius IV, 3
(note by Elizabeth Malone). My text mostly uses Heyworth's 2007 text but
mostly keeps the traditional line order, preserved in Barber's OCT.
It is not known whether Propertius thought in “stanzas,” but I spaced the
lines thus, to show what seem to me units of sense. But because the
manuscript tradition is a notoriously bad one, and in other poems has many
couplets demonstrably out of place, I tried not to “force” these units but left
some couplets isolated, when I could not see their connection with what
precedes or follows. And I transposed lines 51-2 to follow 66, since they
seem to refer to war spoils and make little sense in the midst of a description
of home life.
In
these places I used an older reading rather than Heyworth's: 34 secta] lecta Heyworth.
38 dei] deo Heyworth. 46 essem] issem Heyworth. 49
aperto in W] rapto Heyworth. 53 ad sueta Palmer]
assueta Heyworth.
* * *
HAEC Arethusa suo mittit mandata
Lycotae,
cum
totiens absis, si potes esse meus.
si qua tamen tibi lecturo pars oblita
derit,
haec
erit e lacrimis facta litura meis;
aut si qua incerto fallet te littera
tractu, 5
signa
meae dextrae iam morientis erunt.
te modo uiderunt intentos Bactra per
arcus,
te modo munito ferreus hostis equo,
hibernique Getae, pictoque Britannia
curru,
ustus
et Eoa decolor Indus aqua. 10
haecne marita fides et pacta haec
foedera nobis,
cum
rudis urgenti bracchia uicta dedi?
quae mihi deductae fax omen
praetulit, illa
traxit
ab euerso lumina nigra rogo,
et Stygio sum sparsa lacu, nec recta
capillis 15
uitta
data est: nupsi non comitante deo.
omnibus heu portis pendent mea noxia
uota;
texitur
haec castriis quarta lacerna tuis.
occidat immerita qui carpsit ab
arbore uallum
et
struxit querulas rauca per ossa tubas, 20
dignior obliquo funem qui torqueat
Ocno
aeternusque
tuam pascat, aselle, famem.
dic mihi, num teneros urit lorica
lacertos?
num
grauis imbelles atterit hasta manus?
haec noceant potius quam dentibus
ulla puella 25
det
mihi plorandas per tua colla notas.
diceris et macie uultum tenuasse; sed
opto
e
desiderio sit color iste meo.
at mihi cum noctes induxit uesper
amaras,
si
qua relicta iacent, osculor arma tua. 30
tum queror in toto non sidere pallia
lecto,
lucis
et auctores non dare carrnen aues.
noctibus hibernis castrensia pensa
laboro
et
Tyria in chlamydas uellera secta tuas;
et disco qua parte fluat uincendus
Araxes, 35
quot
sine aqua Parthus milia currat equus;
cogor et e tabula pictos ediscere
mundos,
qualis
et haec docti sit positura dei.
quae tellus sit lenta gelu, quae
putris ab aestu,
uentus
in Italiam qui bene uela ferat. 40
assidet una soror, curis et pallida
nutrix
peierat
hiberni temporis esse moras.
felix Hippolyte nuda tulit arma
papilla
et
texit galea barbara molle caput.
Romanis utinam patuissent castra
puellis! 45
essem
militiae sarcina fida tuae,
nec me tardarent Scythiae iuga, cum
Pater altas
astrictam
in glaciem frigore uertit aquas.
omnis amor magnus; sed aperto in
coniuge maior:
hanc
Venus, ut uiuat, uentilat ipsa facem. 50
limina surda tacent, rarisque ad
sueta Kalendis 53
uix
aperit clausos una puella Lares, 54
Craugidos et catulae uox est mihi
grata querentis: 55
illa
tori partem uindicat una tuam.
flore sacella tego, uerbenis compita
uelo,
et
crepat ad ueteres herba Sabina focos.
siue in finitimo gemuit stans noctua
tigno
seu
uoluit tangi parca lucerna mero, 60
illa dies hornis caedem denuntiat
agnis,
succinctique
calent ad noua lucra popae.
ne, precor, ascensis tanti sit gloria
Bactris,
raptaue
odorato carbasa lina duci,
plumbea cum tortae sparguntur pondera
fundae, 65
subdolus
et uersis increpat arcus equis;
nam mihi quo Poenis nunc purpura
fulgeat ostris 51
crystallusque
meas ornet aquosa manus? 52
sed, tua sic domitis Parthae telluris
alumnis
pura
triumphantes hasta sequatur equos,
incorrupta mei conserua foedera
lecti:
hac
ego te sola lege redisse uelim; 70
armaque cum tulero portae uotiua
Capenae,
subscribam
SALVO SALVA PVELLA VIRO.