The text of this poem is free to copy for any and all purposes under CC BY 4.0 (attribution only).

Transcript:

The spring is gone then; and has turned her back,
Just when she grew most lovely and familiar.
A joy that seemed to see all joy before it;
It should have felt more lasting. First of seasons!
You fled as suddenly as youth itself:
That dream of endless possibility,
From which we start in cold bewilderment.
Just so I woke from you, season of dreams.
The winter's desolation fit my mood;
But through it all I hoped and prayed, that you,
Also, would be a symbol of my life:
Sweeping my cares away like autumn leaves,
And granting me a beautiful rebirth.

Those hopes, I know, have fallen short; but still
I treasure every memory you gave,
In passing through your wonderful successions.
What magic, when I first caught sight of birds
On leafless branches, perfect to the view!
Magic, when next the buds began to grow;
I saw the primrose, shyly smiling up,
And daffodils that danced on every verge.
In woods, a mist of bluebells stretched as far
As eye could see; in fields the dandelions,
With sun-like glory. The cowslips also shone,
But seldom seen, and as a light in darkness:
They loved to rest together in the shade,
Or resolutely clung across the ditches.
Then last but most majestical of all,
The cow's parsley conspired with hawthorn flowers
To bring back winter's snow in latest spring.

So even in her death, does spring recall
Her birth and triumph over winter, a time
Mysteriously lovely. The cold bites hard;
The wind shakes trees still scarcely in the bud,
That menace us in their austerity;
But never do we doubt that she shall conquer.
Season most sacred! defiant-beautiful,
Like a first love that tried with all its strength,
Though fraught with hardship, faithfully and purely;
As you have fought with universal death.

This speech is taken from Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene II. I have left implicit any interactions with the crowd.

Errata: “I come not to disprove what Brutus spoke” for “I speak not to disprove”; “forgive me” for “bear with me”; the words “look you here” omitted; “poor dumb mouths” for “poor poor dumb mouths"; "whence comes such another" for "when comes such another."

A link to a written version of this essay, with a fair number of improvements and corrections: https://www.thomaswhichello.com/?page_id=3395.

A practical example of the principles advocated for: https://youtu.be/rpF7uYMZjAc

I wrote this essay in an attempt to find a reconstruction of 17th-century speech that was both aesthetically pleasing to me and plausible for Shakespeare's time. I hope that it may be of some use to people who are looking for an overview of Elizabethan pronunciation, and or for an alternative to Original Pronunciation. I have no training in linguistics, and I apologize for any faults on that account.

A few footnotes:

Footnote 1, on the paragraph at 14:01:

Speaking of the eye/symmetry rhyme in Blake’s Tyger Tyger, Crystal writes: “John Hart, writing in the 1570s, transcribes boldly as boldlei, certainly as sertenlei, and so on… In my work on Shakespearean Original Pronunciation, I transcribe this as a schwa + i… Blake is recalling an earlier pronunciation... by the time [he] was writing, the everyday pronunciation had shifted to its modern form, like a short 'ee'.”—But what of Hart's many spellings like brịfli, gladli, triuli, and so on, which also concern this lexical set? A solitary letter i, Hart tells us, is to be sounded like the /i/ of the Romance languages, in other words with what Crystal calls the "short ee" of our modern pronunciation.

Footnote 2, on the paragraph at 26:45:

In his dictionary, Crystal (2016:XLVI) allows that Jonson may be referring to a trilled R; but, if I understand him correctly, only when the R comes in front of a vowel, and even then as a "variant." I have not, at any rate, been able to discover an OP production where the R is trilled. Jonson's statement that R is "sounded firm in the beginning of the words, and more liquid in the middle and ends," I interpret as signifying a trill in an initial position, and otherwise a tap. I say a tap, and not an approximant, in part because countless lines in Shakespeare lose much of their beauty and power when the R is unrolled, even in the middle and at the end of words. Compare, for example, the wonderfully harsh effect produced by the line from Henry V, cited in the next footnote, only one of whose five Rs is initial.

Footnote 3, on the same paragraph.

Other examples where the R is more appropriately rolled are these lines in A Midsummer Night's Dream, which are said to belong to "a part to tear a cat in, to make all split":

The raging rocks
And shivering shocks
Shall break the locks
Of prison gates (I.2.285-294);

this onomatopoeic line in Henry V, as indicated by the phrase "hard-favoured rage," hard-favoured meaning coarse- or rough-featured:

Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage (III.1.1092);

and Antony’s words in Julius Caesar, on the violent power of ingratitude:

Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms (III.2.1714).

Footnote 4, on the paragraph at 46:19:

Has Lass (1992:133) overlooked this circumstance? He writes, “Early writers like Hart … make no mention of special qualities in weak syllables,” a statement which is accepted by Beale (2014:150). Technically speaking, this is true; but Hart's dropping of letters where we pronounce a schwa, is at least, I should think, worth acknowledging. True, it does not absolutely contradict one possibility that Lass proposes, that "There was no single phonetic /ə/ in earlier times, but rather a set of centralised vowels in weak positions, whose qualities were reminiscent of certain stressed vowels, and could be identified as weak allophones without explicit comment." But if this was the case, first, why does Hart choose to omit vowel-letters at all, since this would obscure a connection with the corresponding vowel in the centralized set? And secondly, would not Hart's making no explicit mention of many different centralized qualities, as opposed to a single quality, amount to an even greater "defect of analysis" (to quote Lass) that one would be "disinclined to believe," given his "general acuity"?

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Chapters

00:00 Introduction
01:50 The chief basis of Crystal's reconstruction
03:08 Problems with reconstructing pronunciation by means of rhyme
05:04 John Hart
09:40 /ǝɪ/ (Price lexical set)
11:17 /ǝɪ/ (Happy lexical set)
14:59 Alexander Gil
18:45 /ǝɪ/ (Choice lexical set)
20:28 /ɤ/ (Strut and goose sets)
22:08 /ɛ/ (Face lexical set)
24:23 /ɐ/ (Nurse lexical set)
25:30 /ɑ/
26:20 /ǝʊ/ (Mouth lexical set)
26:45 Letter r
28:37 Letter h
30:26 Conclusion
31:22 Proposed alternatives
33:05 Roger Lass
35:46 Elizabethan phoneticians
37:30 Pronunciation of words like day
39:51 Pronunciation of words like mate
40:24 Disagreements with Lass (short vowels /ɪ/ and /ʊ/)
45:02 Pronunciation of the schwa (/ə/)
47:52 Final conclusion

This reconstructed pronunciation is largely based on the Orthographie of John Hart and the work of Patricia Wolfe and Roger Lass. (An explanation of my principles can be found here https://www.thomaswhichello.com/?page_id=3395 or here https://youtu.be/qevyExHo6fk.)

Transcript:

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

This translation is one of the vanishingly few Greek compositions done by Milton. It came to him of a sudden by a kind of divine inspiration, while he was lying in bed before day-break. So he writes to Alexander Gil in 1634, a tutor at St Paul’s School, giving this poem in exchange for some verses that were sent by him:

"I send, what is certainly not mine, but also belongs to that truly divine poet, this Ode of whom, only last week, with no deliberate intention certainly, but from I know not what sudden impulse, before day-break, I composed, almost in bed, to the rule of Greek heroic verse.”

Milton adds the following interesting remarks:

“Should anything occur to you in it not coming up to your usual opinion of our productions, understand that, since I left your school, this is the first and only thing I have composed in Greek,--employing myself, as you know, more willingly in Latin and English matters; inasmuch as whoever spends study and pains in this age on Greek composition, runs a risk of singing generally to the deaf." (Letter to Alexander Gil, 4 December 1634; transl. from Latin by Masson 1859:499.)

A thought: may not this complaint, that Greek composition runs the risk of "singing to the deaf," have found its remedy in the modern age, where foreign-language poetry can be recited on film with bilingual subtitles?

The composition differs from the original in many interesting ways. A number of innovations have a Grecian tinge. God is called, like Zeus, a God of thunder, for which (as G. S. Gordon says) Milton even invents a new word, ἐκκτυπέοντα, the one who thunders out. Jacob is introduced under the patronymic of Isaacides, as if he were a Homeric hero: and the Egyptians are said to speak a barbarian tongue; as if to draw a parallel between the special light in which both the Greeks and Hebrews viewed their own nations, as against the outside world. We are reminded of the translation-philosophy of Chapman’s Iliad; and the work seems to pass beyond the modern conception of a translation into what we might call an emulatively original poem.

It is also an extraordinary fusion of Greek and Hebrew culture; almost seeming to revive the Hellenistic Judaism to which Philo and Josephus and the Septuagint belonged. Milton takes the greatest poet of the Hebrew nation, and expresses his thoughts in the metre and language of the greatest poet of the Greeks. He thus makes the greatest poets of both nations appear to speak with one voice. This circumstance looks forward, with dramatic irony, to the Paradise Lost, so thoroughly influenced as it is both by Homer and the Bible. And it is also interesting to think that Milton is himself the greatest poet of the English nation; so that, in this translation, we find (as it were) three of the greatest poets in history meeting in one place.

The very best essay on this poem is "Milton as a Translator of Poetry" by John Hale, originally published in Renaissance Studies 1, 1987, pp. 238-56. It is also treated of in his book "Milton's Languages" (1997).

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My translation of this poem is free to use under CC-BY-4.0 (attribution only). For want of space, I include it in a comment beneath the video, along with the Greek text.

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A possible erratum: Milton's name, on reflection, would be better Hellenized as Μίλτων, Μίλτωνος; as opposed to my pronunciation of Μιλτών, Μιλτῶνος. This is not only how the word is accented in modern Greek, but the analogy of nearly every bisyllabic name ending in -ων that I can think (Πλάτων, Σόλων, Χάρων &c.), the only exception being Παιών. There was only a small amount of precedent for what I have done; which is that Milton’s name is written with an oxytone accent in Professor Cook's translation of Young's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” into ancient Greek (1785:173) a work which was much praised in its day:

Ενθάδε καὶ Μιλτών τις ἄμωσος &c., Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest.

This poem was written in 1810, for a young Athenian girl called Teresa Makri. The Greek refrain is translated by Byron as, "My Life, I love you," a phrase which he calls "a Romaic expression of tenderness."

The word Ζωή, in the Greek language, signifies both life, and the proper name Zoe; so that the refrain has often been interpreted as a pun, meaning both "My life, I love you," and, "My Zoe, I love you." I find that the earliest editions of the poem, at any rate, significantly give a capital letter to the word "life," as it appears in Byron's translation. e. g. in "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, a Romaunt," published in 1812 (where the poem first appears), we read: "My Life, I love you."

Curiously, a similar kind of pun (following the Hebrew) is also used in the Septuagint, over 2000 years ago:

καὶ ἐκάλεσεν Αδαμ τὸ ὄνομα τῆς γυναικὸς αὐτοῦ Ζωή, ὅτι αὕτη μήτηρ πάντων τῶν ζώντων.

And Adam called the name of his wife, Life (Ζωή), because she was the mother of all living (ζώντων). -- Genesis 3.20, transl. by Brenton.

A footnote from Byron, on the word "token-flowers":

"In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scribble assignations), flowers, cinders, pebbles, etc., convey the sentiments of the parties, by that universal deputy of Mercury—an old woman. A cinder says, "I burn for thee;" a bunch of flowers tied with hair, "Take me and fly;" but a pebble declares—what nothing else can."

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Transcript:

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

Cleombrotus, the subject of this epigram, was a disciple of Socrates. In the Phaedo, a Socratic dialogue, Plato argues that the soul lives happily after death; and Cleombrotus, affected by the beauty of its ideas, is said to have been inspired to leap from a high wall into the sea. This suicide is used by Callimachus, in part, to illustrate the overwhelming beauty of Plato’s work.

It has been observed that the word “ἓν” (here translated “single”) is significant. One reason why, is because it may imply that Cleombrotus was not a careful student of Plato; since he was actuated by, and perhaps, even, had only read, "a single work" of his. In both the Phaedo itself and another work, Plato argues that suicide, in all but the most extreme circumstances, is morally wrong; so that Cleombrotus was premature to do as he did. This epigram may also be a warning, then, against the danger of drinking too shallowly from the Pierian spring.

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My translation is free to use under CC-BY-4.0. Transcript:

"Farewell, sun!" said Cleombrotus of Ambracia, and leapt from a high wall into Hades. Although he had not experienced any evil worthy of death; but had read a single work by Plato: "On the Soul."

Εἴπας ἥλιε χαῖρε Κλεόμβροτος Ὡμβρακιώτης
ἥλατ᾿ ἀφ᾿ ὑψηλοῦ τείχεος εἰς Ἀΐδην,
ἄξιον οὐδὲν ἰδὼν θανάτου κακόν, ἀλλὰ Πλάτωνος
ἓν τὸ περὶ ψυχῆς γράμμ᾿ ἀναλεξάμενος.

The Greek text used in this video is that of Lancelot Brenton, to which I have added macrons. My translation is free to use with attribution only (CC-BY-4.0).

Transcript:

The Lord tends to me as a shepherd, and I shall lack nothing. In a place of young grass, there he has pitched my tent; by the water of rest, he has brought me up from my birth. He has turned my soul around: he has guided me on the paths of righteousness, on account of his name. For even if I walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I shall not fear evils, because you are with me: your rod and your staff, these have comforted me. You have prepared before me a table, directly in the face of those who persecute me. You have anointed my head all over with oil, and your cup is intoxicating as the strongest wine. And your mercy shall pursue me all the days of my life; and my dwelling shall be in the house of the Lord for the length of my days.

Κύ_ριος ποιμαίνει με, καὶ οὐδέν με ὑστερήσει. εἰς τόπον χλόης ἐκεῖ με κατεσκήνωσεν: ἐπὶ ὕδατος ἀναπαύσεως ἐξέθρεψέ με. τὴν ψυ_χήν μου ἐπέστρεψεν: ὡδήγησέν με ἐπὶ τρίβους δικαιοσύνης, ἕνεκεν τοῦ ὀνόματος αὐτοῦ. ἐὰ_ν γὰρ καὶ πορευθῶ ἐν μέσῳ σκιᾶς θανάτου, οὐ φοβηθήσομαι κακά, ὅτι σὺ μετ᾽ ἐμοῦ εἶ: ἡ ῥάβδος σου καὶ ἡ βακτηρία_ σου, αὗταί με παρεκάλεσαν. ἡτοίμασας ἐνώπιόν μου τράπεζαν, ἐξ ἐναντία_ς τῶν θλι_βόντων με: ἐλίπα_νας ἐν ἐλαίῳ τὴν κεφαλήν μου, καὶ τὸ ποτήριόν σου μεθύσκον ὡς κράτιστον. καὶ τὸ ἔλεός σου καταδιώξεταί με πά_σα_ς τὰ_ς ἡμέρα_ς τῆς ζωῆς μου, καὶ τὸ κατοικεῖν με ἐν οἴκῳ Κυ_ρίου εἰς μακρότητα ἡμερῶν.

The Greek text without macrons:

Κύριος ποιμαίνει με, καὶ οὐδέν με ὑστερήσει. εἰς τόπον χλόης ἐκεῖ με κατεσκήνωσεν: ἐπὶ ὕδατος ἀναπαύσεως ἐξέθρεψέ με. τὴν ψυχήν μου ἐπέστρεψεν: ὡδήγησέν με ἐπὶ τρίβους δικαιοσύνης, ἕνεκεν τοῦ ὀνόματος αὐτοῦ. ἐὰν γὰρ καὶ πορευθῶ ἐν μέσῳ σκιᾶς θανάτου, οὐ φοβηθήσομαι κακά, ὅτι σὺ μετ᾽ ἐμοῦ εἶ: ἡ ῥάβδος σου καὶ ἡ βακτηρία σου, αὗταί με παρεκάλεσαν. ἡτοίμασας ἐνώπιόν μου τράπεζαν, ἐξ ἐναντίας τῶν θλιβόντων με: ἐλίπανας ἐν ἐλαίῳ τὴν κεφαλήν μου, καὶ τὸ ποτήριόν σου μεθύσκον ὡς κράτιστον. καὶ τὸ ἔλεός σου καταδιώξεταί με πάσας τὰς ἡμέρας τῆς ζωῆς μου, καὶ τὸ κατοικεῖν με ἐν οἴκῳ Κυρίου εἰς μακρότητα ἡμερῶν.

The English translation of Brenton, for those who may find it useful or prefer it to my own:

The Lord tends me as a shepherd, and I shall want nothing. In a place of green grass, there he has made me dwell: he has nourished me by the water of rest. He has restored my soul: he has guided me into the paths of righteousness, for his name's sake. Yea, even if I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will not be afraid of evils: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, these have comforted me. Thou hast prepared a table before me in presence of them that afflict me: thou hast thoroughly anointed my head with oil; and thy cup cheers me like the best wine. Thy mercy also shall follow me all the days of my life: and my dwelling shall be in the house of the Lord for a very long time.

This poem is an encouragement to cast away anxiety, and place our trust in Providence. It thus anticipates the Parable of the Lily by six hundred years, as well as countless other master-works of literature and philosophy. Its wisdom is framed as an admonition familiarly given to an unspecified person, most likely a relative of the poet. The observation is also made that our best times often rise out of our worst, or what appear to be our worst.

Charaxus (line 1) was a brother of Sappho; he was a merchant. A separate brother (Larichus) is mentioned in line 18. A daimon or daemon (line 14) was a sort of guardian spirit or angel.

My translation is free to use under CC BY 4.0 (attribution only).

Transcript:

But you are constantly chattering, "Charaxus has come, with a ship full of wares!". Things like _that_, I suppose, Zeus knows all about,—and all the gods besides! _You_, however, ought not to think of them. But instead you should send me, even order me, to pray sincerely to queen Hera, for Charaxus to arrive here with a safe ship, and to find us safe and sound. All other outcomes, let us turn over to the divine powers (daimones). For fair winds from great storms quickly rise. Those whose daimon the king of Olympus is pleased to change into a helper out of troubles; those people, I say, are happy and supremely blessed. And as for us, if Larichus should raise his head, and at long last become a man; from a grievous heaviness of heart, we also should be quickly freed.

ἀλλ' ἄϊ θρύλησθα Χάραξον ἔλθην
νᾶϊ σὺν πλήαι. τὰ μὲν οἴομαι Ζεῦς
οἶδε σύμπαντές τε θέοι· σὲ δ' οὐ χρῆ
ταῦτα νόησθαι,

ἀλλὰ καὶ πέμπην ἔμε καὶ κέλεσθαι
πόλλα λίσσεσθαι βασίληαν Ἤραν
ἐξίκεσθαι τυίδε σάαν ἄγοντα
νᾶα Χάραξον

κἄμμ' ἐπεύρην ἀρτέμεας. τὰ δ' ἄλλα
πάντα δαιμόνεσσιν ἐπιτρόπωμεν·
εὔδιαι γὰρ ἐκ μεγάλαν ἀήταν
αἶψα πέλονται

τῶν κε βόλληται βασίλευς Ὀλύμπω
δαίμον' ἐκ πόνων ἐπάρωγον ἤδη
περτρόπην, κῆνοι μάκαρες πέλονται
καὶ πολύολβοι·

κἄμμες, αἴ κε τὰν κεφάλαν ἀέρρη
Λάριχος καὶ δή ποτ' ἄνηρ γένηται,
καὶ μάλ' ἐκ πόλλαν βαρυθυμίαν κεν
αἶψα λύθειμεν.

In the translation for this video, I have tried to respect the word-order of the original as far as the English language will reasonably bear. This method, I hope, may both preserve something of the emphasis of the original, and make the English subtitles more easy to correlate with the spoken Greek.

The Greek text used is Monro and Allen 1920 (the Perseus text). I freely release the English translation under CC-BY-4.0 (attribution only).

Errata: The subtitles read "protector of Chryses" instead of "Chryse." (Chryses was the priest of the island Chryse.) They also read "τὸ δέ μοι κρήηνον ἐέλδωρ" instead of "τόδε."

Transcript:

The rage sing, goddess! of Achilles son of Peleus, the all-destroying rage; that countless griefs to the Achaeans brought, and many brave souls down to Hades hurled,—souls of heroes. It made them prey to dogs and all manner of birds; but the will of Zeus was being fulfilled. Sing from the time when those two stood at variance from their strife: I mean the son of Atreus, king of men, and godlike Achilles.

Which of the gods, then, sent them to fight each other in their strife? The son of Leto and Zeus. For that god, at the king enraged, a sickness raised among the army of a terrible kind, and destruction lay upon the people: because the king showed Chryses dishonour, though he was a priest! Yes, the king did this, the son of Atreus. For Chryses came to the swift ships of the Achaeans, intending to free his daughter, and taking with him countless gifts of ransom; and garlands he had in his hands of far-darting Apollo, wreathed around a golden sceptre. And he made his entreaties to all the Achaeans; but especially to the two sons of Atreus, the directors of the people.

“Sons of Atreus, and you other well-greaved Greeks! I wish first, that the gods, whose halls are in Olympus, may grant you this: the destruction of Priam’s city, and a safe return to your homes. But as for me, please, release my daughter to me, for I dearly love her, and accept my ransoms: if you do this, you will honour with a holy fear the son of Zeus, far-darting Apollo.”

At this, the other Greeks all shouted their applause; meaning to revere the priest, and accept his glorious ransoms. But as for the son of Atreus, Agamemnon, it was not pleasing to his heart; but abusively he dismissed the man, and a harsh command he gave.

“I warn you, old man! Do not let me find you by the hollow ships; whether you overstay now, or come again at a later time. Otherwise, I fear that the sceptre and garland of the god will not protect you. I will not free her. No, not before old age has overtaken her; at my house in Argos, far from her native country, when she is going to her loom, and paying visits to my bed. But go, do not provoke me, and you will leave the more safely for it.”

Thus he spoke; and the old man was filled with fear, and obeyed his command. He went silently by the shore of the harshly-sounding sea. But once he had gone far away, intensely did that old man pray to king Apollo, whom lovely-haired Leto bore.

“Hear me, god of the silver bow! protector of Chryse and divine Cilla, and mighty ruler over Tenedos! Smintheus! If ever I have built for you the roof of a lovely temple; or if, indeed, I have ever burned for you the fat thighs of bulls and goats, fulfil for me this wish: let the Danaans pay for my tears with your arrows.”

Thus he spoke in prayer; and Apollo heard him. He came down from the peaks of Olympus, enraged in his heart; and he had on his shoulders a bow, and a quiver that was covered round about. The arrows on his shoulders clanged in his rage as he moved; and he moved like the night. He then sat far apart from the ships—and let an arrow fly. A terrible clang came from the silver bow. At first he attacked the mules and swift hounds; but next at the men themselves with a bitter dart he shot; and constantly were the fires of the dead burning thick.

Artwork used:

Venetia, Lady Digby on her Deathbed, by Van Dyck.
Portrait of Venetia, Lady Digby, by Van Dyck.
Belshazzar's Feast, by John Martin.
Running along the beach, by Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida.
Le poeme de l'Ame 16, by Louis Janmot.

The species of tree in the moving pictures is Portuguese laurel (the laurel being a symbol of triumph).

“Overtakelessness” is a word invented by Emily Dickinson for this poem, and means something to the effect of, “The quality of not being able to be overtaken.”

An explanation of the phrase "Not at Home" in line 5:

"Not at Home is a phrase from a feature of the Victorian-era custom of paying visits, or social calls on households within one's own social sphere. In the days before telephones, the etiquette involved was quite ritualized. The visitor or her servant would present a calling card at the door, which would be brought in to the mistress of the household. If she was not prepared to have the visitor in, she would write "Not at Home" on the caller's card and send it back. This act signalled that the visit was not welcome, at least not at present." (Mattingly 2018:33.)

Transcript:

The overtakelessness of those
Who have accomplished Death
Majestic is to me beyond
The majesties of Earth.

The soul her “Not at Home”
Inscribes upon the flesh—
And takes her fair aerial gait
Beyond the hope of touch.

Music: Hélène Grimaud - Ravel Piano Concerto In G - Mov II, Adagio Assai (licensed under CC-BY-3.0).

This story puts forward a thought-experiment concerning what the average man would do if he had unlimited power. It is put in the mouth of Glaucon, who argues that all, or almost all men are restrained from evil only by the fear of punishment. Through the mouth of Socrates, Plato later argues that we ought not to do wrong, even if we have such a ring as the ancestor of Gyges had; because doing wrong enslaves us to our baser appetites, and makes us miserable.

The translation in this video is free to use with attribution only (CC-BY-4.0). I have translated from the Greek text of Burnet 1903, freely available on Perseus.

Transcript:

They speak of a power that once befell the ancestor of Gyges the Lydian. He was (they say) a shepherd, who was in the service of the then-ruler of Lydia. But when a great storm took place and an earthquake, a part of the earth broke open, and a chasm appeared where he was tending to his flocks. On seeing this and wondering at it, he descended: and saw both other wonders that the myth-makers tell us about, and—a horse: bronze, hollow, and with little doors on it. And stooping into the doors, he saw inside them a corpse; as it seemed, bigger in stature than any human being. And this corpse had nothing else on it, except that there was a golden ring on its finger; which Gyges taking for himself, he ascended. Now an assembly was taking place among the shepherds, according to their custom, where every month they reported their doings to the king; and Gyges arrived there also, while wearing the ring. Sitting down, then, among the others, he happened to turn round the bezel of the ring towards himself—into the palm of his hand. And as soon as this happened, he became invisible to those who were sitting next to him, and they conversed about him as though he was absent! And he was at first astonished; and then fingering the ring once again, he turned the bezel outwards, upon which he became visible. Reflecting on what had happened, he experimented with the ring, to see if it possessed this power; and it turned out as follows. When he turned the bezel inwards, he became invisible; outwards, visible. After perceiving this, he immediately got himself made one of the messengers, who personally reported to the king. And when he had arrived—and committed adultery with the king’s wife—he plotted with her against him. Consequently, he slew the king, and thus seized hold of his kingdom. If, then, two rings such as this should come into being, and the just man had one, and the unjust man the other, nobody, as it seems, would be of such an adamantine temper, as to remain in the path of justice.

… οἵαν ποτέ φασιν δύναμιν τῷ Γύγου τοῦ Λυδοῦ προγόνῳ γενέσθαι. εἶναι μὲν γὰρ αὐτὸν ποιμένα θητεύοντα παρὰ τῷ τότε Λυδίας ἄρχοντι, ὄμβρου δὲ πολλοῦ γενομένου καὶ σεισμοῦ ῥαγῆναί τι τῆς γῆς καὶ γενέσθαι χάσμα κατὰ τὸν τόπον ᾗ ἔνεμεν. ἰδόντα δὲ καὶ θαυμάσαντα καταβῆναι καὶ ἰδεῖν ἄλλα τε δὴ ἃ μυθολογοῦσιν θαυμαστὰ καὶ ἵππον χαλκοῦν, κοῖλον, θυρίδας ἔχοντα, καθ᾽ ἃς ἐγκύψαντα ἰδεῖν ἐνόντα νεκρόν, ὡς φαίνεσθαι μείζω ἢ κατ᾽ ἄνθρωπον, τοῦτον δὲ ἄλλο μὲν [ἔχειν] οὐδέν, περὶ δὲ τῇ χειρὶ χρυσοῦν δακτύλιον ὄντα περιελόμενον ἐκβῆναι. συλλόγου δὲ γενομένου τοῖς ποιμέσιν εἰωθότος, ἵν᾽ ἐξαγγέλλοιεν κατὰ μῆνα τῷ βασιλεῖ τὰ περὶ τὰ ποίμνια, ἀφικέσθαι καὶ ἐκεῖνον ἔχοντα τὸν δακτύλιον: καθήμενον οὖν μετὰ τῶν ἄλλων τυχεῖν τὴν σφενδόνην τοῦ δακτυλίου περιαγαγόντα πρὸς ἑαυτὸν εἰς τὸ εἴσω τῆς χειρός, τούτου δὲ γενομένου ἀφανῆ αὐτὸν γενέσθαι τοῖς παρακαθημένοις, καὶ διαλέγεσθαι ὡς περὶ οἰχομένου. καὶ τὸν θαυμάζειν τε καὶ πάλιν ἐπιψηλαφῶντα τὸν δακτύλιον στρέψαι ἔξω τὴν σφενδόνην, καὶ στρέψαντα φανερὸν γενέσθαι. καὶ τοῦτο ἐννοήσαντα ἀποπειρᾶσθαι τοῦ δακτυλίου εἰ ταύτην ἔχοι τὴν δύναμιν, καὶ αὐτῷ οὕτω συμβαίνειν, στρέφοντι μὲν εἴσω τὴν σφενδόνην ἀδήλῳ γίγνεσθαι, ἔξω δὲ δήλῳ: αἰσθόμενον δὲ εὐθὺς διαπράξασθαι τῶν ἀγγέλων γενέσθαι τῶν παρὰ τὸν βασιλέα, ἐλθόντα δὲ καὶ τὴν γυναῖκα αὐτοῦ μοιχεύσαντα, μετ᾽ ἐκείνης ἐπιθέμενον τῷ βασιλεῖ ἀποκτεῖναι καὶ τὴν ἀρχὴν οὕτω κατασχεῖν. εἰ οὖν δύο τοιούτω δακτυλίω γενοίσθην, καὶ τὸν μὲν ὁ δίκαιος περιθεῖτο, τὸν δὲ ὁ ἄδικος, οὐδεὶς ἂν γένοιτο, ὡς δόξειεν, οὕτως ἀδαμάντινος, ὃς ἂν μείνειεν ἐν τῇ δικαιοσύνῃ.

Endymion was first published in 1818, and was the first long poem written by Keats. The poem is itself a narrative; but the introduction may also be appreciated separately, as an exposition in verse of the noblest philosophy of art and life.

Transcript:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.
Transcript:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

This poem was restored less than twenty years ago, after the discovery of new fragments of papyrus. It is one of the vanishingly few complete poems of Sappho.

My translation is free to copy for any and all purposes under CC-BY-4.0 (attribution only). For the sake of neatness, the Greek text has been presented without any marks of textual restoration.

Line 2, which makes mention of the lyre with a tortoise-shell resonator ("χελύνναν"), would appear to allude to the god Hermes, who invented the instrument. (Furley 2022:24.) The gifts of the _Muses_, then, are placed in antithesis with the gift of _Hermes_. This idea may not be intuitive at first glance, because the lyre is also traditionally associated with the Muses themselves. (e. g., from Pindar's Pythian 1: "Golden lyre! rightful joint possession of Apollo and the violet-haired Muses.")

This poem, I think, is reminiscent of what Longinus says of Fragment 31, or the Ode to a Loved One: that Sappho is sublime because "she chooses the most striking circumstances involved in whatever she is describing, and combines them into one animate whole." We find here the same process at work; it is only that, in the Tithonus fragment, she is concerned with the symptoms of old age, as opposed to those of a lover. The two poems also share a dramatic quality, as though they were monologues excerpted from some tragedy.

Where, however, the Tithonus fragment differs from 31, is in the addition of a philosophical component. It is not merely self-descriptive; the last six lines of the poem being an abstract meditation on the inevitability of ageing. In a gnomic maxim, line 8 summarizes the whole argument; and the fable of Tithonus serves both to emphasize this argument, and to mix pleasure with instruction. I say pleasure, because the fable is a charming story with imagery that is striking and beautiful.

Metre: acephalus hipponactean with double choriambic expansion
× – ᴗ ᴗ – – ᴗ ᴗ – – ᴗ ᴗ – ᴗ – –

Errata: "Σαπφοῦς," in the subtitles, is missing a capital letter. "τρίχες" has a comma next to it.

Transcript:

Cling, my children, to the beautiful gifts of the dark-breasted Muses, and to the shrill-toned, tortoise-timbred lyre, that loves to sing. But as for me, though once my skin was soft, now old age has overtaken it, and my hairs have changed to white from black. My life has grown heavy, and my knees cannot carry me; though once, to be sure, they were as nimble in dance as the little fawns. When I think of what has happened to me, I often sigh; but then, what can I do? To become ageless is impossible for one who is a man. Indeed it is even said of Tithonus, that Dawn, with her rosy forearms, bewildered with love, once carried him to the ends of the earth, while he was beautiful and young. But despite this, even him a grey old age caught up with in time, though he had an immortal spouse!

ὔμμες πεδὰ Μοίσαν ἰοκόλπων κάλα δῶρα, παῖδες,
σπουδάσδετε καὶ τὰν φιλάοιδον λιγύραν χελύνναν·
ἔμοι δ' ἄπαλον πρίν ποτ' ἔοντα χρόα γῆρας ἤδη
ἐπέλλαβε, λεῦκαι δ' ἐγένοντο τρίχες ἐκ μελαίναν·
βάρυς δέ μ' ὀ θῦμος πεπόηται, γόνα δ' οὐ φέροισι,
τὰ δή ποτα λαίψηῥ ἔον ὄρχησθ' ἴσα νεβρίοισι.
τὰ μὲν στεναχίσδω θαμέως· ἀλλὰ τί κεν ποείην;
ἀγήραον ἄνθρωπον ἔοντ' οὐ δύνατον γένεσθαι.
καὶ γάρ ποτα Τίθωνον ἔφαντο βροδόπαχυν Αὔων,
ἔρῳ φυράθεισαν βάμεν' εἰς ἔσχατα γᾶς φέροισαν,
ἔοντα κάλον καὶ νέον, ἀλλ' αὖτον ὔμως ἔμαρψε
χρόνῳ πόλιον γῆρας, ἔχ̣οντ' ἀθανάταν ἄκοιτιν.

The Greek text in this video is from Lancelot Brenton. I have also included his translation, along with a very few small alterations, that attempt to correspond more literally with the Greek.

"The Septuagint is a Greek translation from Hebrew of the Jewish sacred writings begun in the third century before Christ for the Greek-speaking Jews living outside of Palestine. The name Septuagint means "seventy." It comes from a legend that seventy scholars translated the Hebrew texts in seventy days, and their translations agreed word for word... The New Testament authors, when quoting the Jewish Scriptures, most often cited the Septuagint." (Boisclair 2016.)

"The name 'Septuagint' refers to the oldest and most widely circulated Greek version of the Hebrew Bible, which was produced in the third century B. C. in the cultural ferment of Alexandria... The translation became the official version of the sacred text, beginning from the Jewish community of Alexandria and on to Christian authors, and it was accorded the same authority as the original." (Montanari 2022.)

Transcript:

Blessed is the man, who has not walked in the counsel of the ungodly, and has not stood in the way of sinners, and has not sat in the seat of evil men. But his pleasure, rather, is in the law of the Lord: and in his law will he meditate day and night. And he shall be as a tree planted by the brooks of waters, which shall yield its fruit in its season. And its leaf shall not fall off; and whatsoever he shall do shall be prospered.

Not so the ungodly;--not so: but rather as the chaff which the wind scatters away from the face of the earth. Therefore the ungodly shall not rise in judgement, nor sinners in the counsel of the just. For the Lord knows the way of the righteous; and the way of the ungodly shall perish.

μακάριος ἀνήρ, ὃς οὐκ ἐπορεύθη ἐν βουλῇ ἀσεβῶν, καὶ ἐν ὁδῷ ἁμαρτωλῶν οὐκ ἔστη, καὶ ἐπὶ καθέδρᾳ λοιμῶν οὐκ ἐκάθισεν. ἀλλ᾽ ἢ ἐν τῷ νόμῳ Κυρίου τὸ θέλημα αὐτοῦ, καὶ ἐν τῷ νόμῳ αὐτοῦ μελετήσει ἡμέρας καὶ νυκτός. καὶ ἔσται ὡς τὸ ξύλον τὸ πεφυτευμένον παρὰ τὰς διεξόδους τῶν ὑδάτων, ὃ τὸν καρπὸν αὐτοῦ δώσει ἐν καιρῷ αὐτοῦ: καὶ τὸ φύλλον αὐτοῦ οὐκ ἀπορρυήσεται, καὶ πάντα ὅσα ἂν ποιῇ κατευοδωθήσεται.

οὐχ οὕτως οἱ ἀσεβεῖς, οὐχ οὕτως, ἀλλ᾽ ἢ ὡς ὁ χνοῦς ὃν ἐκρίπτει ὁ ἄνεμος ἀπὸ προσώπου τῆς γῆς. διὰ τοῦτο οὐκ ἀναστήσονται ἀσεβεῖς ἐν κρίσει, οὐδὲ ἁμαρτωλοὶ ἐν βουλῇ δικαίων. ὅτι γινώσκει Κύριος ὁδὸν δικαίων, καὶ ὁδὸς ἀσεβῶν ἀπολεῖται.

We hear that ancient Greek poetry was often sung, so I have made a little song for this poem. I have also attempted to bring out the vowel-lengths and pitch-accents, and to make phrases and ideas as intelligible as possible by separating them with pauses.

Transcript of English translation (free to use under CC-BY-4.0, or attribution only):

That man seems equal to the gods to me, who sits and faces you, and hears you sweetly speak nearby, and laugh in your lovely way. Oh, it terrifies my heart within my breast! For whenever I look at you, even for the briefest moment, nothing of my voice comes to me. But my tongue is completely broken; a subtle fire runs straight beneath my flesh; with my eyes I see nothing; my ears ring. Sweat pours down and down me; trembling takes hold of all of me; I am paler-green than grass; I seem little short of death.

-

An excerpt from Longinus "On the Sublime," in which the author speaks of this fragment:

"One cause of sublimity is the choice of the most striking circumstances involved in whatever we are describing, and, further, the power of afterwards combining them into one animate whole. The reader is attracted partly by the selection of the incidents, partly by the skill which has welded them together. For instance, Sappho, in dealing with the passionate manifestations attending on the frenzy of lovers, always chooses her strokes from the signs which she has observed to be actually exhibited in such cases. But her peculiar excellence lies in the felicity with which she chooses and unites together the most striking and powerful features." (tr. by H. L. Havell.)

An extract from J. M. Edmonds, on Sappho:

“Plato calls her ‘the tenth Muse’; Strabo ‘a marvel’, and adds ‘In all the centuries since history began we know of no woman who could be said with any approach to truth to have rivalled her as a poet.’ To us, of all the ancient Greek poets, she stands supreme, and it is not only because her monodies strike the personal note so rare among them which makes all ages kin, but because we can hardly read a line of hers without feeling somehow that this could be neither better conceived nor better said.”

-

Transcript of Greek text:

φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θέοισιν
ἔμμεν ὤνηρ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι
ἰσδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί-
σας ὐπακούει

καὶ γελαίσας ἰμέροεν, τό μ' ἦ μὰν
καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόαισεν:
ὠς γὰρ εἰσίδω βροχέως σε, φώνας
οὐδὲν ἔτ᾽ ἴκει·

ἀλλὰ καμ μὲν γλῶσσα ἔαγε, λέπτον
δ’ αὔτικα χρῷ πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμακεν,
ὀππάτεσσι δ᾽ οὐδὲν ὄρημ᾽, ἐπιρρόμ-
βεισι δ᾽ ἄκουαι.

καδ δέ μ᾽ ἴδρως κακχέεται, τρόμος δὲ
παῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας
ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ᾽ ὀλίγω ᾽πιδεύης
φαίνομαι […].

The translation in this video is free to use with attribution only (CC-BY-4.0). Transcript:

That man seems equal to the gods to me, who sits and faces you, and hears you sweetly speak nearby, and laugh in your lovely way. Oh, it terrifies my heart within my breast! For whenever I look at you, even for the briefest moment, nothing of my voice comes to me. But my tongue is completely broken; a subtle fire runs straight beneath my flesh; with my eyes I see nothing; my ears ring. Sweat pours down and down me; trembling takes hold of all of me; I am paler-green than grass; I seem little short of death.

-

An excerpt from Longinus "On the Sublime," in which the author speaks of this fragment:

"One cause of sublimity is the choice of the most striking circumstances involved in whatever we are describing, and, further, the power of afterwards combining them into one animate whole. The reader is attracted partly by the selection of the incidents, partly by the skill which has welded them together. For instance, Sappho, in dealing with the passionate manifestations attending on the frenzy of lovers, always chooses her strokes from the signs which she has observed to be actually exhibited in such cases. But her peculiar excellence lies in the felicity with which she chooses and unites together the most striking and powerful features." (tr. by H. L. Havell.)

An extract from J. M. Edmonds, on Sappho:

“Plato calls her ‘the tenth Muse’; Strabo ‘a marvel’, and adds ‘In all the centuries since history began we know of no woman who could be said with any approach to truth to have rivalled her as a poet.’ To us, of all the ancient Greek poets, she stands supreme, and it is not only because her monodies strike the personal note so rare among them which makes all ages kin, but because we can hardly read a line of hers without feeling somehow that this could be neither better conceived nor better said.”

-

Transcript of Greek text:

φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θέοισιν
ἔμμεν ὤνηρ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι
ἰσδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί-
σας ὐπακούει

καὶ γελαίσας ἰμέροεν, τό μ' ἦ μὰν
καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόαισεν:
ὠς γὰρ εἰσίδω βροχέως σε, φώνας
οὐδὲν ἔτ᾽ ἴκει·

ἀλλὰ καμ μὲν γλῶσσα ἔα_γε, λέπτον
δ’ αὔτικα χρῷ πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμακεν,
ὀππάτεσσι δ᾽ οὐδὲν ὄρημ᾽, ἐπιρρόμ-
βεισι δ᾽ ἄκουαι.

καδ δέ μ᾽ ἴδρως κακχέεται, τρόμος δὲ
παῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας
ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ᾽ ὀλίγω ᾽πιδεύης
φαίνομαι […].

This poem was written “about 1871, in pencil on the reverse of Mrs. Kingman's bill for milk.” (Franklin 1998:1038) Pollak (2017:264) suggests that the word “King,” in the last line, is inspired by the name “Kingman.”

Dickinson appears to say that every person has in themselves an inborn plan for greatness; but fear prevents all but a few from achieving it.

"[This poem] mourns the tendency of the Godlike self to refuse its potential... we could, if we would, make ourselves heroes of life, while now we only read of heroes in literature, and consider them extraordinary because, illogically, we fear the greatness within all of us." (Weisbuch 1989:33.)

"Cubit, as a linear measure from elbow to fingertip, is an archetypal dimension... It refers specifically to the human body--the reach of the arm. As ordinary, everyday citizens, we 'warp' our reach, turn it from its natural, 'preconcerted' direction, shrink it, & ignore the fact of our human potential." (Allen 2007:153.)

“In still other cases, it's a self-image problem that holds us back. We see ourselves as small, low, quiet, and insignificant. We might long for significance, but our belief that we are small—indeed, our comfort-zone of being small—always limits us. Emily Dickinson knew about this.” (Woods 2015:39.)

"No soul in which dwelt not a very noble and actual love and respect for the essentials could have written as she did of real triumph, of truth, of aspiration. Must not one who wrote [this poem] have had her ever-open shrine, her reverenced tribunal?" (Loomis 1894:x.)

Transcript:

We never know how high we are
Till we are asked to rise
And then if we are true to plan
Our statures touch the skies—

The Heroism we recite
Would be a normal thing
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King—

-

The music is "In Search Of Solitude" by Scott Buckley, licensed and adapted under CC BY 4.0.

The Greek text used for this video is that of Gilbert Murray, readily accessible on Perseus. The English translation is my own, and free to copy or use for any and all purposes under CC BY 4.0 (attribution only).

Timestamps:

00:00 Introduction
01:26 Strophe a
03:05 Antistrophe a
05:03 Strophe b
06:49 Antistrophe b
08:38 Epode

In case it may be found useful for listening, I have added macrons to the Greek text, marking as long any alphas, iotas, or upsilons, that are naturally so. [Errata: A macron is however missing from "Λύδι᾿."]

In this description-box, there is not enough space to place the texts. But in the comments section I shall place an English, Greek, and Greek-English interwoven text.

The parodos is the ode sung by the chorus as it enters the stage, and takes its place in the orchestra. It is sometimes translated as "entry-song." Aristotle defines it as "the first complete speech of a chorus." (Poetics 1452b: "πάροδος μὲν ἡ πρώτη λέξις ὅλη χοροῦ.")

This Ode is occasionally known as the Hymn to Dionysus. e. g. Gregory (2008:257) speaks of the use, by Euripides, of "meters traditionally associated with cult songs"; which he employs "in Ion's paean to Apollo, and in the hymn to Dionysus, which comprises the parodos of Bacchae." Again, as early as 1872, Rogers (xxiv), a translator of Euripides, writes concerning the Bacchae: "The choral songs are in the best style of Euripides... The first is the hymn to Dionysus."

"Fungi from Yuggoth," in which this poem appears, was written between December 1929 and January 1930.

Transcript:

John Whateley lived about a mile from town,
Up where the hills began to huddle thick;
We never thought his wits were very quick,
Seeing the way he let his farm run down.

He used to waste his time on some queer books
He’d found around the attic of his place,
Till funny lines got creased into his face,
And folks all said they didn’t like his looks.

When he began those night-howls we declared
He’d better be locked up away from harm,
So three men from the Aylesbury town farm
Went for him—but came back alone and scared.

They’d found him talking to two crouching things
That at their step flew off on great black wings.

-

The music is from "Decoherence" by Scott Buckley.

This poem was printed in 1808, in the preface to "Milton, a Poem." It is said to concern the legend that Jesus Christ, when a young man, visited England with his uncle, Joseph of Arimathaea. Joseph is said to have been a tin-merchant, and Jesus his ship’s carpenter. They first landed at Cornwall, and travelled as far as the Mendip Hills in Somerset. After the death of Jesus, Joseph returned to England, and built the first English church at Glastonbury.

The poet speculates that Jesus brought heaven to earth when he came to our country; and then resolves a moral and intellectual fight to rebuild heaven in the present day. This is why I emphasize the word "we" in the penultimate line, which seems to contrast the Jerusalem of ancient time against the one that is now to be built.

The popular title "Jerusalem" derives from the title of the hymn by Sir Hubert Parry, who wrote music for Blake's words in 1916. Jerusalem is often considered to be the English national anthem.

A minor note concerning pronunciation. In modern Received Pronunciation, it is most common to say the word pasture as /'pɑːstjə/ (pah-sture). But in Walker’s Pronouncing Dictionary, published in 1791, I find that what is now the American pronunciation, /'pæs.tʃɚ/ (pas-ture), was the standard one in Britain at the time of Blake; so I have preferred it in this recording. (Walker gives to “pasture” the same vowel-sound as in “pat,” “patch,” and "pasty,” and a different one from that in the word “bath.”) The same pronunciation is also used in many British dialects.

Transcript:

And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England’s mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England’s pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England’s green & pleasant Land.

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Beethoven's "Piano Concerto no. 5 in Eb 'Emperor', Op. 73 - II. Adagio un poco mosso" performed by Ursula Oppens and DuPage Symphony Orchestra is licensed and adapted under CC BY 3.0.

This poem is free to copy or use for any and all purposes under CC BY 4.0 (attribution only).

Transcript:

Plato! though Athens blindly worships you,
The mob prefers imposing things to true.
But I look past, and search the man inside;
I see your heart, and trample on its pride!

You love to flatter wealthy men and kings,
And treasure what the name of wisdom brings;
But I pursue her in my way of life,
A godlike poverty, immune to strife.

Did not your master, who so nobly fell,
Teach you that wisdom should be living well?
But you, forsaking him for lesser aims,
Have changed philosophy to mental games.

I choose, though by your lovely books outlived,
The happy conscience of a life well lived!

Ode to Man is a name often given to the first stasimon or "standing song" in Sophocles' play Antigone, a poem which the chorus would sing while standing in the orchestra. The Ode is often compared with the famous speech in Shakespeare beginning, "What a piece of work is man." D'Angour (2021) says of the Ode to Man that it "has become the most famous ode in Greek tragedy."

The English translation below and in the video is free to use under CC-BY-4.0 (attribution only).

Timestamps:

00:00 Strophe a
01:14 Antistrophe a
02:22 Strophe b
03:22 Antistrophe b

Transcript:

An Ode to Man, from the Antigone of Sophocles

The Turn

Many wonderful things there are, and nothing more wonderful than man. This being travels across even the grisly sea, in the stormy southern wind, passing through swelling waves that threaten to engulf him. And even the eldest of the gods—Earth, imperishable, inexhaustible—he wears away; as year by year the plough goes round, and he turns up the soil with the race of horses.

The Counterturn

Casting round nets, the light-hearted tribe of birds he captures, and the clans of wild beasts; and with mesh-woven cords, he carries off the tribe of the deep, that dwells in the open sea: all-contriving man! By his arts, he tames the beast that dwells in the field, and roams over the mountains. The shaggy-maned horse he binds for his own use, putting the yoke upon its nape; and uses likewise the tireless, mountain-haunting bull.

The Turn

Both the power of speech, and wind-swift thought, and the feelings of social life, he has developed for his own benefit; and in the open sky, has learned to fly from inhospitable frosts, and the arrows of the raging storm. He is all-inventing! He comes to no situation without recourse: hell alone shall he find no way to escape. For diseases without remedy, he has invented means of escape.

The Counterturn

With ingenious skill, with art past expectation, at times towards evil, at others towards good he creeps. When the laws of the land he honours, and the justice of the gods, to which he is sworn, he stands high in the city; but he has no city at all, who lives with evil because of his recklessness. Never may he share my hearth, nor share my thoughts, who acts in such a way!

Σοφοκλέους Ἀντιγόνη, στάσιμον πρῶτον

Strophe a

πολλὰ τὰ δεινὰ κοὐδὲν ἀν-
θρώπου δεινότερον πέλει:
τοῦτο καὶ πολιοῦ πέραν
πόντου χειμερίῳ νότῳ
χωρεῖ, περιβρυχίοισιν
περῶν ὑπ᾽ οἴδμασιν, θεῶν
τε τὰν ὑπερτάταν, Γᾶν
ἄφθιτον, ἀκαμάταν, ἀποτρύεται,
ἰλλομένων ἀρότρων ἔτος εἰς ἔτος,
ἱππείῳ γένει πολεύων.

Antistrophe a

κουφονόων τε φῦλον ὀρ-
νίθων ἀμφιβαλὼν ἄγει
καὶ θηρῶν ἀγρίων ἔθνη
πόντου τ᾽ εἰναλίαν φύσιν
σπείραισι δικτυοκλώστοις,
περιφραδὴς ἀνήρ: κρατεῖ
δὲ μηχαναῖς ἀγραύλου
θηρὸς ὀρεσσιβάτα, λασιαύχενά θ᾽
ἵππον ὀχμάζεται ἀμφὶ λόφον ζυγῶν
οὔρειόν τ᾽ ἀκμῆτα ταῦρον.

Strophe b

καὶ φθέγμα καὶ ἀνεμόεν
φρόνημα καὶ ἀστυνόμους
ὀργὰς ἐδιδάξατο καὶ δυσαύλων
πάγων ὑπαίθρεια καὶ
δύσομβρα φεύγειν βέλη
παντοπόρος: ἄπορος ἐπ᾽ οὐδὲν ἔρχεται
τὸ μέλλον: Ἅιδα μόνον
φεῦξιν οὐκ ἐπάξεται:
νόσων δ᾽ ἀμηχάνων φυγὰς
ξυμπέφρασται.

Antistrophe b

σοφόν τι τὸ μηχανόεν
τέχνας ὑπὲρ ἐλπίδ᾽ ἔχων
τοτὲ μὲν κακόν, ἄλλοτ᾽ ἐπ᾽ ἐσθλὸν ἕρπει,
νόμους γεραίρων χθονὸς
θεῶν τ᾽ ἔνορκον δίκαν,
ὑψίπολις: ἄπολις ὅτῳ τὸ μὴ καλὸν
ξύνεστι τόλμας χάριν.
μήτ᾽ ἐμοὶ παρέστιος
γένοιτο μήτ᾽ ἴσον φρονῶν
ὃς τάδ᾽ ἔρδει.

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Joachim Andersen’s 24 Etudes for Flute, Op. 15 - VI. Moderato in B minor, played by Paolo Dalmoro is licensed and adapted under CC-BY-3.0.

Bach’s Flute Sonata in A minor, H. 562 - I. Poco Adagio, played by Lydia J. Roth is licensed and adapted under CC-BY-3.0.

All footage is taken from spring of this year. A list of things that appear in the video:

0:01 Daffodils
0:13 Hawthorn tree
0:38 Bluebells
00:53 Cowslips
01:08 Beech bud with hornbeam leaf
01:22 Beech tree
01:25 Ash tree
01:30 Wallflower
01:43 Stinging nettles
01:59 Yew tree
02:07 Teasels
02:13 Periwinkles
02:21 Dandelions
02:57 Buttercups
03:07 Daisies
03:12 Clematis
03:36 Oak tree
04:28 Barley
04:37 Primroses
04:52 Cedar tree
05:03 Dead daffodils
05:10 Yew tree (again)
05:38 Magnolias
05:50 Annual honesty
05:55 Horse chestnut tree
06:34 Columbines
06:57 Red campions
07:15 Wild roses
07:39 Rapeseed
08:07 Willow tree
08:52 China roses

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The music is Debussy's "Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun" (a symphonic poem), performed by Columbia University Orchestra.

It is argued here that the true lover is quiet and reserved, and fears to speak his love.

Astrophil and Stella, composed in the 1580s, has been called the first "real" sonnet sequence in the English language. (Roche 2000:661.)

"The two quartos of Astrophel and Stella, published in 1591 for Thomas Newman, started the late Elizabethan sonnet craze. Although Astrophel and Stella was not the first Petrarchan sonnet sequence in English, it was obviously the most influential. Between 1591 and 1609, the year in which Shakespeare's sonnets were published, about forty sonnet sequences were published, so various in form that no single definition of a 'sonnet sequence' is quite adequate." (Davis 2011:79.)

In explanation of lines 2 and 3, some Elizabethan men would wear roses, ribbons, and locks of their mistress' hair, as a sign of their devotion to her.

"Is there not here resident about London a crew of terrible hacksters in the habit of gentlemen, well apparelled, and yet some wear boots for want of stockings, with a lock worn at their left ear for their mistress' favour?" -- Greene, in The Defence of Cony-Catching, 1592.

Transcript:

Because I breathe not love to every one,
Nor do not use set colours for to wear,
Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groan,

The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan
Of them which in their lips Love’s standard bear:
What, he! (say they of me): now I dare swear
He cannot love; no, no, let him alone.

And think so still, so Stella know my mind.
Profess indeed I do not Cupid’s art;
But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge is but worn in the heart:

Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove;
They love indeed who quake to say they love.