Works of Nonnus

by Nonnus

  οὐδὲ ποδωκείης τέταται δρόμος, οὐ δορὸς αἰχμή

  τηλεφόρου: Σταφύλῳ δέ, καταφθιμένῳ Βασιλῆι,

  150 ἀνδρὶ φιλοσκάρθμῳ, φιλοπαίγμονα ταρσὰ γεραίρω:

  οὐδὲ παλαισμοσύνῃ μυιαλκέι δῶρα τιταίνω,

  οὐ δρόμος ἱπποσύνης, οὐκ Ἤλιδός εἰσιν ἀγῶνες,

  οὐ δρόμος Οἰνομάου γαμβροκτόνος: ἡμετέρη γὰρ

  νύσσα χορός, βαλβῖδες ἐπισκιρτήματα ταρσῶν,

  155 χεὶρ τροχαλὴ καὶ σκαρθμὸς ἕλιξ, καὶ νεῦμα προσώπου

  ἄστατα κινυμένοιο, καὶ αὐδήεσσα σιωπὴ

  δάκτυλα δινεύουσα καὶ ὀρχηστῆρος ὀπωπήν.’

  [138] “Whoso shall contend circling with expert foot and win the match of nimble steps, let him take both the golden bowl and the delicious wine that fills it; but whoso staggers and totters on moving feet, and falls, and proves the worse dancer, let him accept the worse prize. For I am not like every one else. To the prizewinner who conquers in the dainty beating of the dance, I will give no shining tripod and no swift horse, no spear and corselet stained with blood of Indians; I make no summons to marksmen for straight throwing with the quoit; this is no race for speed of foot, no sharp spear cast at a distance. In honour of Staphylos, the dead king, a man who loved the dance, I celebrate the sportive steps he loved. I offer no prizes for wrestlers with straining muscles; this is no race for horsemanship, no games of Elis, this is no course of Oinomaos with death for his goodsons. My turning-point is the dance, my starting-point the skipping feet, the beckoning hand, the pirouette, the nods and becks and glances of the expressive face, speaking silence, which twirls the signalling fingers, and the dancer’s whole countenance.”

  τοῖον ἔπος φαμένου κερόεις Σειληνὸς ἀνίστη,

  καὶ τριγέρων βαρύθοντι Μάρων ἀνεπήλατο ταρσῷ

  160 χρύσεον ἀστράπτοντα μέγαν κρητῆρα δοκεύων,

  οὐχ ὅτι χρύσεος ἦεν ὑπέρτερος, ἀλλ᾽ ὅτι μοῦνον

  εἶχεν ἐυρραθάμιγγα παλαίτατον ὄγκον ἐέρσης

  ἄκρου χείλεος ἄχρις: ἔρως δέ μιν ἡδέος οἴνου

  θῆκε νέον, πολιὴν δὲ βιήσατο Βακχιὰς ὀδμή:

  165 καὶ πόδας ἀμφελέλιζεν ἑῆς πειρώμενος ἀλκῆς,

  μὴ βαρὺ γῆρας ἔπαυσε λελασμένα γυῖα χορείης.

  καὶ ψυχὴν Σταφύλοιο γέρων μειλίξατο φωνῇ,

  νηφάλιον λασίῳ προχέων ἔπος ἀνθερεῶνι:

  [158] When he had ended his speech, up rose horned Seilenos, and antediluvian Maron got up on heavy foot, with his eyes on the great mixer of shining gold: not because the golden was the better, but because this alone contained the oldest wine and the finest stuff, filling it to the brim. His passion for this lovely wine made him young again, and the Bacchic aroma was too much for his gray hair. He twirled his feet round testing his strength, to see if heavy old age had made his limbs forget how to dance. The old man tried to appease the soul of Staphylos by the words that poured sober enough out of his shaggy beard:

  ‘εἰμὶ Μάρων, συνάεθλος ἀπενθήτοιο Λυαίου:

  170 δακρυχέειν οὐκ οἶδα: τί δάκρυσι καί Διονύσῳ;

  κύκλα ποδῶν ἐμὰ δῶρα ταφήια σῷ παρὰ τύμβῳ:

  δέξό με μειδιόωντα: Μάρων οὐκ οἶδε μερίμνας,

  οὐ γόον οἶδε Μάρων, οὐ πενθάδος ὄγκον ἀνίης:

  ἱμερόεις πέλε λάτρις ἀπενθήτου Διονύσου.

  175 ἵλαθι σεῖο Μάρωνι, καὶ εἰ πίες ὕδατα Λήθης,

  δὸς χάριν, ὄφρα πίοιμι παλαιγενέος χύσιν οἴου,

  Σειληνὸς δὲ νέης πιέτω νέον ὄγκον ὀπώρης.

  [169] “I am Maron, comrade of Lyaios who cannot mourn. I know not how to shed tears; what have tears to do with Dionysos? Reels and jigs are the gifts I offer at your tomb. Accept me smiling: Maron knows no cares, Maron knows not groans, nor the burden of melancholy sorrow. He is the lovely lackey of Dionysos who cannot mourn. Be gracious to your Maron, even if you have drunk the water of Lethe! Grant me this boon, that I may drink that store of old wine, and let Seilenos drink the new stuff of a new vintage!

  καὶ Σταφύλῳ μετὰ πότμον, ἅτε ζώοντι, χορεύσω,

  ὅττι χορὸν προβέβουλα φιλοκνίσοιο τραπέζης:

  180 σοί, Στάφυλε, ζώοντι καὶ οὐ πνείοντι χορεύω

  κῶμον ἀνακρούων ἐπιτύμβιον: εἰμὶ δὲ Βάκχου,

  οὐ θεράπων Φοίβοιο, καὶ οὐ μάθον αἴλινα μέλπειν,

  οἷα παρὰ Κρήτεσσιν ἄναξ ἐλίγαινεν Ἀπόλλων

  δακρυχέων ἐρατεινὸν Ἀτύμνιον: Ἡλιάδων δὲ

  185 ξεῖνος ἐγὼ γενόμην, ἀλλότριος Ἠριδανοῖο

  εἰμί, νόθος Φαέθοντος ὀλωλότος ἡνιοχῆος:

  οὐ Σπάρτης ναέτης, οὐ πένθιμον ἄνθος ἀείρω

  σείων ἁβρὰ πέτηλα φιλοκλαύτων ὑακίνθων.

  [178] “I will dance for Staphylos after death, as if he were living, for I rate the dance above the steamloving table. For you I dance, Staphylos, both living and not breathing, and strike up a funeral revel. I am a servant of Bacchos, not of Phoibos, and I never learnt to sing dirges, such as Lord Apollo sang in Crete shedding tears for Atymnios the beloved. I am a stranger to the Heliads. I am alien to Eridanos, not connected with Phaethon the charioteer who perished; I am no burgher of Sparta, I wear not the mourning flowers or shake the dainty petals of the lamenting iris.

  σήμερον, εἰ Μίνωι παρήμενος ἶσα δικάζεις,

  190 εἴτε καὶ ἀνθεμόεσσαν ἔχεις Ῥαδαμάνθυος αὐλήν,

  Ἠλυσίου λειμῶνος ἐν ἄλσεσιν ἁβρὸν ὁδεύων,

  κέκλυθι σεῖο Μάρωνος: ἐγὼ δέ σοι ἀντὶ κυπέλλων

  ἀσπόνδοις στομάτεσσιν ἐρεύγομαι ἔμφρονα λοιβήν:

  ἵλαθι σεῖο Μάρωνι, δίδου δέ μοι οἴνοπα νίκην,

  195 νίκην πασιμέλουσαν: ἐγὼ δέ σοι ὑψόθι τύμβου

  σπείσω ἐμῶν χρυσέων πρωτάγρια καλὰ κυπέλλων

  ἀρχόμενος κρητῆρος ἐμῆς μετ᾽ ἀέθλια νίκης.’

  [189] “To-day, if you sit by the side of Minos as an equal judge, or if you possess the flowery court of Rhadamanthys, and pick your dainty way in the groves and meadows of Elysium, listen to your Maron: instead of cups, without libation, I mouth out for you a drink-offering full of sense. Be gracious to your Maron, and grant me a victory of wine, the victory to be famous among all! Then I will pour over your tomb the first spoils of my golden cups, the first lovely drops from the bowl after I win my prize for victory!”

  ὣς εἰπὼν ἐχόρευε Μάρων ἑλικώδεϊ ταρσῷ,

  δεξιὸν ἐκ λαιοῖο μετήλυδα ταρσὸν ἀμείβων,

  200 σιγὴν ποικιλόμυθον ἀναυδέι χει
ρὶ χαράσσων:

  ὀφθαλμοὺς δ᾽ ἐλέλιζεν ἀλήμονας, εἰκόνα μύθων,

  νεύματι τεχνήεντι νοήμονα ῥυθμὸν ὑφαίνων:

  καὶ κεφαλὴν ἐτίνασσε καὶ ἤθελε βόστρυχα σείειν,

  εἰ μὴ γυμνὰ μέτωπα λιπότριχος εἶχε καρήνου.

  205 οὐδὲ μέν, οἷα γέρων Τιτήνιον αἷμα κομίζων,

  ἔγραφε φωνήεντι τύπῳ Τιτηνίδα φύτλην,

  οὐ Κρόνον ἠὲ Φάνητα παλαίτερον, οὐδὲ γενέθλην

  ἠελίου Τιτῆνος ὁμόχρονον ἥλικι κόσμῳ:

  ἀλλὰ λιπὼν ξύμπαντα καὶ ἀρχαίης χύσιν ὕλης

  210 οἰνοχόον Κρονίδαο σοφῇ ποίκιλλε σιωπῇ

  Ζηνὶ δέπας τανύοντα καὶ ἀθανάτων χορὸν ἄλλων

  αἰὲν ἐπασσυτέροισιν ἐυφραίνοντα κυπέλλοις,

  ἢ ζαθέην προχέοντα κατὰ κρητῆρος ἐέρσην:

  ἦν δέ οἱ ἁρμονίη γλυκερὸν ποτόν: ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτὴν

  215 νέκταρ ἀρυομένην ὠρχήσατο παρθένον Ἥβην:

  εἰς Σατύρους δ᾽ ὁρόων Γανυμήδεος ἔγραφε μορφὴν

  χερσὶν ἀφωνήτοισι, καὶ ὁππότε δέρκετο Βάκχας,

  ἥβην χρυσοπέδιλον ἐχέφρονι δείκνυε σιγῇ.

  [198] So saying, Maron danced with winding step, passing the changes right over left, and figuring a silent eloquence of hand inaudible. He moved his eyes about as a picture of the story, he wove a rhythm full of meaning with gestures full of art. He shook his head and would have tossed his hair, but hair he had none; both head and face were bare. He did not what an old man of Titan blood might have done, show the Titan race in his speaking picture, not Cronos or Phanes more primeval still, nor the breed of Titan Helios as old as the universe itself: no, he left all the confusion of that ancient stuff — he depicted with wordless art the cupbearer of Cronides offering the goblet to Zeus, or pouring the dew divine to fill up the bowl, and the other immortals in company ever enjoying cup after cup.

  His poet’s theme was the sweet potion. Aye, he danced also the maiden Hebe herself drawing the nectar; when he looked at the Satyrs, with voiceless hands he acted Ganymedes, or when he saw the Bacchant women, he showed them goldenshoe Hebe in a picture having sense without words.

  τοῖα Μάρων ἐχάρασσε πολύτροπα δάκτυλα πάλλων,

  220 καὶ ποδὸς εὐρύθμοιο σοφὴν ἀνεσείρασεν ὁρμήν,

  ἀσταθέος τελέσας πολυκαμπέα μέτρα χορείης.

  ἵστατο δὲ τρομέων, δεδοκημένος ὄμματι λοξῷ,

  τίς τίνα νικήσειε, τίς εἰς ἑὸν οἶκον ἱκάνοι

  μείζονα καὶ πλήθοντα μέθης κρητῆρα κομίζων.

  [219] So Maron sketched his designs in pantomime gestures, lifting rhythmic feet with the motions of an artist, as he trod the winding measures of his unresting dance. Then he stood still trembling, and watched with shifty eye who should beat whom, who would go home with the larger bowl full of wine.

  225 Σειληνὸς δ᾽ ἐχόρευε: πολυστρέπτοιο δὲ τέχνης

  σύμβολα τεχνήεντα κατέγραφε σιγαλέη χείρ.

  καἰ παλάμαις τότε τοῖος ἔην τύπος, ὥς ποτε πολλὴ

  υἱέι Κυρήνης ἔρις ἔμπεσε καὶ Διονύσῳ

  ἀμφὶ πότου, μάκαρες δὲ συνήιον: οὐ τότε πυγμή.

  230 οὐ δρόμος, οὐ τότε δίσκος ἀέθλια: παιδὶ Φοίβου

  ὄργανα κεῖτο κύπελλα μεμηλότα καί Διονύσῳ

  καὶ δίδυμοι κρητῆρες, ὁ μὲν χρονίου χύσιν οἴνου,

  ὃς δὲ φέρων νέα δῶρα φιλοπτόρθοιο μελίσσης:

  καὶ Κρονίδης ἐκάθητο δικασπόλος, ἀθλοφόροις δὲ

  235 ἁβρὸς ἀγὼν τετάνυστο μελισταγέος περὶ νίκης:

  ὄργανα κεῖτο κύπελλα: καὶ, ὡς χρυσόπτερος Ἑρμῆς,

  αὐτὸς Ἔρως ἐρόεις ἐναγώνιος εἰς μέσον ἔστη,

  χειρὶ μιῇ καὶ κισσὸν ἔχων καὶ θαλλὸν ἐλαίης,

  Βάκχῳ κίσσινον ἄνθος, Ἀρισταίῳ δὲ προτείνων

  240 στέμμασι Πισαίοισιν ἐοικότα θαλλὸν ἐλαίης,

  [225] Now Seilenos danced: his hand without speech traced the cues of his art in all their intricate mazes. This is what he acted with gesturing hands: how once a great quarrel arose between Cyrene’s son and Dionysos over their cups, and the Blessed gathered together. There was no boxing, no running, no quoit in that contest: cups were the well-used tools ready for Phoibos’s son and Dionysos, and a couple of mixingbowls, one containing old wine, one with the gift of the sprigloving bee all fresh. Cronides sat in the seat of judgement. The competitors had before them a luscious match for a honey drop victory; cups were the tools; and like another Hermes with golden wings, lovely Eros himself came forward to preside in the ring, holding in one hand both ivy and an olive-branch. He offered to Bacchos the flowering ivy, to Aristaios the olive-branch like the garlands of Pisa, the holy ornament of Pallas.

  Παλλάδος ἁγνὸν ἄγαλμα. μελικρήτῳ δὲ κυπέλλῳ

  πρῶτος Ἀρισταῖος κεράσας ὠδῖνα μελίσσης

  ὤρεγεν ἀθανάτοισι σοφὸν ποτόν, ἄλλον ἐπ᾽ ἄλλῳ

  εὐφραίνων, καὶ ἔνειμε δέπας στοιχηδὸν ἑκάστῳ:

  245 τοῖσι μὲν ἀρχομένοισιν ἐυρραθάμιγγος ἐέρσης

  ὀξύτατος κόρος ἔσκεν, ἀρυομένων δὲ κυπέλλων

  τὸ τρίτον ἠρνήσαντο, καὶ οὐχ ἥψαντο τετάρτου,

  καὶ μέλιτος μέμψαντο ταχὺν κόρον: ἡδυπότου δὲ

  ἁβροχίτων Διόνυσος ἀπὸ κρητῆρος ἀφύσσων

  250 κούφισε δισσὰ κύπελλα καὶ ὤρεγε δίζυγι παλμῷ

  τὸ πρῶτον Κρονίδῃ, τὸ δὲ δεύτερον ὤπασεν Ἥρῃ,

  πατροκασιγνήτῳ τρίτατον δέπας ἐννοσιγαίῳ:

  ἑξείης δ᾽ ἅμα πᾶσι θεοῖς καὶ Ζηνὶ τοκῆι

  τερπομένοις ἐκέρασσε, κατηφιόωντι δὲ μούνῳ

  255 μειδιόων ἐτίταινε δέπας ζηλήμονι Φοίβῳ:

  οἱ δὲ πολυσπερέεσσι νόον θέλγοντο κυπέλλοις,

  διψαλέοι δ᾽ ἔτι μᾶλλον ἀεὶ γίνοντο πιόντες,

  καὶ πάλιν ᾔτεον ἄλλο, καὶ οὐ κόρος ἔσκε κυπέλλων.

  ἀθάνατοι δ᾽ ὀλόλυξαν, ἐπετρέψαντο δὲ Βάκχῳ

  260 οἰνάδος ἡδυπότοιο φέρειν πρεσβήια νίκης:

  καὶ μεθύων ἀκίχητος Ἔρως, ὀχετηγὸς ἀγῶνος,

  κισσῷ βοτρυόεντι κόμην ἔστεψε Λυαίου.

  [241] First Aristaios made his mixture with the travail of the bee, and offered the
immortals his mingled honey in the cup, a potion cleverly compounded; he passed the goblet to each in turn one after another, and made their hearts glad. But after a first taste of the bubbling liquid, surfeit came at once: a third cup was filled and declined, and they would not touch a fourth. They found fault with the honey for this quick surfeit. Then richly-clad Dionysos drew from his mixer, full of sweet drink, lifted two cups and offered one with each hand, the first to Cronides, the second to Hera, then a third goblet to Earthshaker his father’s brother. Then he mixed for the gods one and all with Father Zeus; they were all delighted, except disconsolate Phoibos alone, who was jealous, and the god smiled as he handed him the goblet. They enchanted their minds with cups in great abundance; drinking made them thirstier than before, they asked again for more, and could not get enough. Then the immortals loudly cheered, and gave Bacchos the chief prize for his delicious potion of wine. And Eros the ever-out-of-reach, the conductor of the game, drunken himself, crowned the hair of Lyaios with a vine-and-ivy garland.

  τοῦτο σοφῇ παλάμῃ κερόεις Σειληνὸς ὑφαίνων

  δεξιτερὴν μὲν ἔπαυσε, πολυσκάρθμῳ δὲ πεδίλῳ

  265 ἐκ χθονὸς ᾐώρητο καὶ ἠέρι πέμπεν ὀπωπάς,

  πῇ μὲν ἐπ᾽ ἀλλήλοισιν ὁμόζυγα ταρσὰ συνάπτων,

  πῇ δὲ διαζεύξας ἑτεραλκέι πάλλετο τέχνῃ,

  ἄλλοτε πουλυέλικτος ὑπὲρ δαπέδοιο χορεύων

  ὀρθὸς ἐπὶ πτέρναις ἑλικώδεϊ σείετο παλμῷ:

  270 δεξιτερῷ δ᾽ ἄγναμπτος ἐπεστηρίζετο ταρσῷ

  δάκτυλον ἄκρον ἔχων ἑτέρου ποδός, ἢ γόνυ κάμψας

  συμφερταῖς παλάμῃσιν ἢ ἐκταδίην πτύχα μηρῶν

  Σειληνὸς βαρύγουνος, ἔχων ποδὸς ὄρθιον ὁρμήν:

  καὶ πόδα λαιὸν ἄειρεν ἐπὶ πλευροῖο καὶ ὤμου