English

ON HIS OWN B OOK

Not my namesake of Chios, but I, who belong
To the Syracuse burghers, have sung you my song
I'm Praxagoras' son by Philinna the fair,
And I never asked praise that was owing elsewhere.

EPITAPH OF H IPPONAX

Behold Hipponax' burialplace,
A true bard's grave
Approach it not, if you're a base
And base born knave.
But if your sires were honest men
And unblamed you,
Sit down thereon serenely then,
And eke sleep too.

Tuneful Hipponax rests him here.
Let no base rascal venture near.
Ye who rank high in birth and mind
Sit down — and sleep, if so inclined.

UNDER A Statue OF P EISANDER , WHO WROTE THE LABOURS OF HERACLES

H E whom ye gaze on was the first
That in quaint song the deeds rehearsed
Of him whose arm was swift to smite,
Who dared the lion to the fight:
That tale, so strange, so manifold,
Peisander of Cameirus told.
For this good work, thou may'st be sure,
His country placed him here,
In solid brass that shall endure
Through many a month and year.

TO A RCHILOCHUS

Pause , and scan well Archilochus, the bard of elder days,
By east and west
Alike's confest
The mighty lyrist's praise.
Delian Apollo loved him well, and well the sister choir:
His songs were fraught
With subtle thought,
And matchless was his lyre.

EPITAPH OF C LEITA , Nurse OF M EDEIUS

T HE babe Medeius to his Thracian nurse
This stone — inscribed To Cleita — reared in the mid-highway.
Her modest virtues oft shall men rehearse;
Who doubts it? is not " Cleita's worth " a proverb to this day?

FOR A Tripod E RECTED BY D AMOTELES TO B ACCHUS

T HE precentor Damoteles, Bacchus, exalts
Your tripod, and, sweetest of deities, you
He was champion of men, if his boyhood had faults
And he ever loved honour and seemliness too.

EPITAPH OF E USTHENES

Here the shrewd physiognomist Eusthenes lies,
Who could tell all your thoughts by a glance at your eyes.
A stranger, with strangers his honoured bones rest;
They valued sweet song, and he gave them his best.
All the honours of death doth the poet possess:
If a small one, they mourned for him nevertheless.

FOR A Statue OF THE M USES

T O you this marble statue, maids divine,
Xenocles raised, one tribute unto nine
Your votary all admit him: by this skill
He gat him fame: and you he honours still.

FOR A Statue OF Æ SCULAPIUS

F AR as Miletus travelled Paean's son;
There to be guest of Nicias, guest of one
Who heals all sickness; and who still reveres
Him, for his sake this cedarn image rears
The sculptor's hand right well did Nicias fill;
And here the sculptor lavished all his skill.

Poor Thyrsis! What boots it to weep out thine eyes?
Thy kid was a fair one, I own:
But the wolf with his cruel claw made her his prize,
And to darkness her spirit hath flown.
Do the dogs cry? What boots it? In spite of their cries
There is left of her never a bone.