THE FIRST ANTHOLOGIST
Adapted from
Meleager, The Greek Anthology, iv, 1
This my memorial for all of time,
to my beloved Diocles I give,
not helmet, shield, or fleece of gold,
but poems garland-gathered, sweet
and noble, angry at gods and men,
swooning with unrequited love, full
of heaven’s bliss and Hades’ cold
comforts, flowers bound tight
with leaf and branch. Burn not,
my long-labored book! Set sail
on fair winds with many copies,
ye who thrill to beautiful words.
This was Meleager’s work. His own
lines are packed in immodestly
with the best of the best. Too few
the flowers of Sappho, but roses
they are! Lilies, Anyte and Moero
left us. Oh, the sad narcissus,
with the clear blue eyes and song
of Melanippides; a strong branch
of Simonides keeps it from falling.
The iris of Nossis, short-lived
but beloved of the busy bees.
Eros stopped by, and with his heat
the wax melted for all my
piled-up writing tablets; long
he distracted me, but the work
is done at last. Have I not turned
every temple-stone and epitaph
so that no good line was missed?
Herbs, too, mix in when flowers
are too fragile. The sweet crocuses
of Rhianus and Erinna crouch here
pale as unmolested maids. Alceus
left his hyacinth, like the self-same
beauty’s locks, Apollo’s tears.
Laurel, be sure, is there beneath,
the dark-leafed branch of Samius.
To last, my garland must be made
of sterner stuff than blossoms only.
Here Leonidas’s ivy cluster clings,
here the pine’s spiky needles hold
green forever the words of Mnasaclas.
A fist-full of plane leaves for Pamphilus,
all tangled up with walnut Pancrates.
Add to the rustling poplar of Tymnes,
all shading the sweet wild thyme below
where Nicias still tunes his lyre, wild
spurge enwraps Euphemus whose
words are not forgotten. Even the frail
violet of Damagetus is gently placed,
protected by the myrtle, sweet
Callimachus, whose words
are biting honey. The list goes on.
You may consult the book. I wove
the names one after another
into an elegaic garland. Even
Anacreon’s sweet lyrics flew in,
and a nameless poet, too, whose
name would not fit any meter.
A dash of ocean water went in
to stop the garland from going
stale. There came Antipater, red,
and a golden bough of Plato, too,
and other fine poets too many
to mention. Here they will peep
among the lilies and surprise you.
If I place here, for my own Muse
to honor, a smattering of spring’s
early-blooming white violets,
my little poems, can I be blamed?
Things most of you have read
and memorized, are here,
conjoined with works
the world has never seen before.
Welcome to my anthology.
[Note: Meleager’s long introduction to his Greek Anthology weaves in the name
of at least two dozen more poets, but he clearly is running out of steam with
the metaphor. I have therefore cut the list short, leaving enough of it here to
demonstrate what the poet was attempting.]
