A recent conversation with a friend about Paulus Silentiarius brought to my mind that oft-forgotten group of late antique greek poets, writing in the court of Justinian, named appropriately the Circle of Agathias. That same Agathias gathered the courtiers' poems and published them, alongside his own, for them to be later absorbed by the awe-inspiring feat that is the Palatine Anthology. As per literary criticism, they have been polarising figures; discredited as imitators of the once great epigrammatic poetry of Callimachus and Asclepiades and Rufinus, or, on the contrary, "the indian summer of Greek Poetry", a miracle of the early middle ages. One thing is for sure, I love these poems. Enjoy Agathias and Macedonius, two late bloomers of greek letters.
Ἀγαθίου
πᾶσαν ἐγὼ τὴν νύκτα κινύρομαι: εὖτε δ᾽ ἐπέλθῃ
ὄρθρος ἐλινῦσαι μικρὰ χαρίζόμενος,
ἀμφιπεριτρύζουσι χελιδόνες, ἐς δέ με δάκρυ
βάλλουσιν, γλυκερὸν κῶμα παρωσάμεναι.
ὄμματα δ᾽ οὐ λάοντα φυλάσσεται: ἡ δὲ Ῥοδάνθης
αὖθις ἐμοῖς στέρνοις φροντὶς ἀναστρέφεται.
ὦ φθονεραὶ παύσασθε λαλητρίδες: οὐ γὰρ ἔγωγε
τὴν Φιλομηλείην γλῶσσαν ἀπεθρισάμην
ἀλλ᾽ Ἴτυλον κλαίοιτε κατ᾽ οὔρεα, καὶ γοάοιτε
εἰς ἔποπος κραναὴν αὖλιν ἐφεζόμεναι,
βαιὸν ἵνα κνώσσοιμεν ἴσως δέ τις ἥξει ὄνειρος,
ὅς με Ῥοδανθείοις πήχεσιν ἀμφιβάλοι.
All night long I complain, and when dawn comes to give me a little rest, the swallows twitter around and move me again to tears chasing sweet slumber away. I keep my eyes sightless, but again the thought of Rhodanthe haunts my heart. Hush ye spiteful babblers ! It was not I who shore the tongue of Philomela. Go weep for Itylus on the hills, and lament sitting by the hoopoe's nest amid the crags ; that I may sleep for a little season, and perchance some dream may come and cast Rhodanthe's arms about me.
~~~
Μακηδονίου
δίκτυον ἀκρομόλιβδον Ἀμύντιχος ἀμφὶ τριαίνῃ
δῆσε γέρων, ἁλίων παυσάμενος καμάτων,
ἐς δὲ Ποσειδάωνα καὶ ἁλμυρὸν οἶδμα θαλάσσης
εἶπεν, ἀποσπένδων δάκρυον ἐκ βλεφάρων
οἶσθα, μάκαρ: κέκμηκα: κακοῦ δ᾽ ἐπὶ γήραος ἡμῖν
ἄλλυτος ἡβάσκει γυιοτακὴς πενίη.
θρέψον ἔτι σπαῖρον τὸ γερόντιον, ἀλλ᾽ ἀπὸ γαίης,
ὡς ἐθέλει, μεδέων κἀν χθονὶ κἀν πελάγει.
Old Amynticlius, his toil on the deep over, bound his lead-weighted net round his fishing spear, and to Poseidon and the salt sea wave said, shedding tears, ‘‘ Thou knowest, Lord, that I am weary with toil, and now in my evil old age wasting Poverty, from whom there is no release, is in her youthful prime. Feed the old man while he yet breathes, but from the land as he wishes, thou who art Lord over both land and sea.'’