Εἰπέ τις, Ἡράκλειτε, τεὸν μόρον ἐς δέ με δάκρυ - just a favourite poem

Εἰπέ τις, Ἡράκλειτε, τεὸν μόρον ἐς δέ με δάκρυ
ἤγαγεν ἐμνήσθην δ᾿ ὁσσάκις ἀμφότεροι
ἠέλιον λέσχῃ κατεδύσαμεν. ἀλλὰ σὺ μέν που,
ξεῖν᾿ Ἁλικαρνησεῦ, τετράπαλαι σποδιή,
αἱ δὲ τεαὶ ζώουσιν ἀηδόνες, ᾗσιν ὁ πάντων
ἁρπακτὴς Ἀίδης οὐκ ἐπὶ χεῖρα βαλεῖ.

Callimachus

William Cory translated it poetically, but buried the Greek reserve and terseness beneath Victorian sentimentality. Here is his version.


THEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
I wept as I remember'd how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest,
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

My version, more faithful to the Greek follows.

Someone told me, Heraclitus, of your death and left me
In tears as I remembered how often we together
Sent the Sun to bed, but where are you now, my
Halicarnasian guest, long ago ashes?

Yet your Nightingales still live, on which Death
Cannot lay his rapacious hand.

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