Table of Contents
Callimachus: A Blessed Life
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
Whoe'er shall to this tomb draw nigh, Behold, in death, a priestess lie; I sacred Ceres first implor'd, The great Cabiri next ador'd, Grew old on Dindymene's plains, And now my dust alone remains. Alive, I seldom fail'd to lead The sprightly dance along the mead; I bore two sons, I ran my race, And dy'd with joy, in their embrace. Go friend; prepare for life's decline; And may thy death be blest as mine.
The Brightest Beauty of the Plain
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
Fond Callignotus sigh'd and swore, 'Tis Violante I adore, The brightest beauty on the plain, And she alone my heart shall gain, He swore; but lover's vows, they say, To heav'n could never make their way, Nor penetrate the bless'd abode, Nor reach the ears of any God. While for another maid he burns, Forsaken Violante mourns Her blasted hopes, her honour gone; As Megra's race were once undone.
Crethis the Witty
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
The Samian virgins us'd often to play With Crethis the witty, the pleasant and gay, But now, when they seek her, she cannot be found, Their sportive companion sleeps here under ground, Discharging the debt which to nature we owe; For all must descend to the regions below.
The Death of Heraclitus
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
I hear, O friend, the fatal news Of Heraclitus death. A sudden tear my cheek bedews, And sighs suppress my breath.
For I must often call to mind, How from the crowd we run; And how to jesting still inclin'd, We sported in the sun.
Alas! he's gone, and part we must, And repartee's no more; But, tho' my friend be sunk in dust, His muse shall ever soar.
The dart of death shall never fly To stop her waving wings; Like Philomel she mounts on high And still, like her, she sings.
The Death of Lycus
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
Not on the land could Lycus die, Nor in his native Naxos lie, But on the main by tempest tost, His life and ship together lost, When first he left Ægina's shore, And o'er him now the surges roar: An empty marble only keeps His name from the devouring deeps. Obey my words and shun the seas, Ye mariners, in times like these, When to the main the goat declines, Nor in the sky with Phoebus shines.
The Death of Melanippus
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
This morning we beheld with streaming eyes The flames from Melanippus' body rise; At eve, fair Basile resign'd her breath, Disdaining to survive a brother's death; With frantic hands she gave the deadly blow That sent her soul to gloomy shades below. Two mighty ills the wretched fire must mourn, And weep around a son and daughter's urn; Old Aristippus sunk in grief appears, And all Cyrene melts in briny tears.
Embrace Me Not
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
By mighty Pan and Bacchus' greater name, Beneath these embers lurks a spreading flame. Embrace me not; tho' streams in silence fall, They sap the basis of the best built wall: Embrace me not; left this invading fire Should be but love, and fiercer flames inspire.
An Empty Tomb
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
Had never vessel cross'd the main, Our present grief had been in vain; But we for Sopolis must weep, Now plung'd beneath the whelming deep: The surges toss his breathless frame; An empty tomb preserves his name.
Epitaph for Callimachus
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
Whoe'er with hallow'd feet approaches near, Behold, Callimachus lies buried here, I drew my breath from fam'd Cyrene's shore, And the same name my son and father bore. My warlike fire in arms much glory won, But brighter trophies grac'd his favour'd son; Lov'd by the tuneful nine he sweetly sung, And stopt the venom of th' invidious tongue: For whom the muse beholds with fav'ring eyes, In early youth, she'll ne'er in age despise.
Life After Death
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
Cleombrotus, high on a rock, Above Ambracia stood, Bade Sol adieu, and, as he spoke, Plung'd headlong in the flood.
From no mischance the leap he took, But fought the realms beneath, Because he read in Plato's book, That souls live after death.
The Stepdame's Tomb
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
A pious youth approaching where His stepdame's body lay, Officious crown'd her statue there With flow'rets fresh and gay.
Nor thought his father's wife, when dead, Her malice could retain; The statue thunder'd on his head And fix'd him to the plain.
Ye foster-sons avoid this doom Nor hang a flow'ry wreath Around an envious stepdame's tomb, Lest ye too sink in death.
The Street Poet
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
I hate the bard who strolls along, And sells in streets his borrow'd song; I seldom walk the public way, Where here and there the vulgar stray; Inconstant friends I never court, Nor to the common spring resort. I still despise the rabble's rage, Nor with the noisy crowd engage; 'Tis fine, 'tis fine, a reader cries; Indignant Echo thus replies, Tho' ne'er so good, perhaps divine, Another bard wrote ev'ry line.
To Emulate So Sweet a Bard
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
This book is sure exactly wrote In Hesiod's manner, style, and thought, Of Grecian poet's not the least. And here his pow'rs are all exprest. I fear, my friend, you say too much, His verse is soft, his genius such, That Soli's son will find it hard To emulate so sweet a bard. Farewell Aratus' empty themes, His idle thoughts, and heavy dreams.
When First You Saw the Nymph Divine
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
Cleonicus, unhappy man, Say whence thy sorrows first began? For, by yon' blazing orb of light, I ne'er beheld so sad a sight. Where hast thou been? thy flesh is gone, And nothing left but skin and bone. My dæmon sure and hapless fate, Reduc'd thee to this wretched state; Eusithea stole thy heart, like mine; When first you saw the nymph divine, You gaz'd on her with wishful eyes, And hence, I fear, your woes arise.
When Love and Wine Inspire
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
If sober, and inclin'd to sport, To you, my fair one, I resort; The still-forbidden bliss to prove, Accuse me then, and blame my love. But if to rashness I incline, Accuse me not, but blame the wine: When Love and Wine at once inspire, What mortal can control his fire. Of late I came, I know not how, Embrac'd my fair, and kiss'd her too; It might be wrong; I feel no shame, And, for the bliss, will bear the blame.
A Youth in Haste
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
A Youth, in haste, to Mitylene came, And anxious, thus reveal'd his am'rous flame To Pittacus the wife; O sacred Sire, For two fair nymphs I burn with equal fire, One lovely maid in rank and wealth like me, But one superior, and of high degree. Since both return my love, and each invites To celebrate with her the nuptial rites, Perplex'd with doubts, for sage advice I come: Whom shall I wed? 'Tis you must fix my doom. So spake th' impatient youth; th' attentive sage Rais'd the support of his declining age, An ancient staff; and pointing to the ground Where sportive striplings lash'd their tops around With eager strokes; let yonder boys, he cry'd, Solve the dispute, and your long doubts decide. The youth drew nigh, and listen'd with surprize, Whilst from the laughing crowd these words arise, “Let equal tops with equal tops contend.” The boys prevail'd, and soon the contest end. The youth departing shun'd the wealthy dame, And chose th' inferior maid to quench his flame.
Go thou, my friend, obey the sage, and lead An equal beauty to thy nuptial bed.
Zephyritis Divine
by: Callimachus (c. 310-240 B.C.)
translated by H. W. Tytler
A sacred shell Zephyritis divine, Fair Selenæa offers at thy shrine, And thus thy Nautilus is doubly bless'd, Since giv'n by her, and still by thee possess'd. Of late small tackling from my body grew; Thin fails I spread, when winds propitious blew, But when the seas were calm, to gain the shores, I stretch'd my little feet, like lab'ring oars, And, from my busy limbs and painted pride, Was call'd a Polyp as I stem'd the tide; Till driv'n by winds, on Coan rocks I shone, And now recline before Arsinoë's throne. Depriv'd of life no more in seas I rest, Or draw young Halcyons from the wat'ry nest; But be this boon to Clinia's daughter giv'n, A virtuous maid and fav'rite of high heav'n; The precious boon let Selenæa gain, When she from Smyrna ploughs the foaming main.