alexander-the-great.co.uk

[apelles]

This isn,t a poem about Alexander exactly but I came across it the other day and I thought you all might like it It,s an epitaph for the Spartan dead at Thermopylae by A.E. Housman.

Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprang.
Life,to be sure is nothing much to lose
But young men think it is
And we were young.

Isn,t that touching and beautifully put?

[Cynisca]

[carabest]

One of my friends has the hot in a big way for Gerard Butler. He's doing or has done a film called the 300 about Thermoplae.

[Adriv]

[Alexandros_19]

[Aniketos]

What lovely poems! You are all extremely talented! I wish I could write like that! Please write more!

A friend recently sent me the following poem written by Anne Finch (a lady in the seventeenth century!) Here it is, together with my friend's notes at the end.

An Epistle from Alexander
To Hephaestion In His Sickness

By Anne Finch

With such a Pulse, with such disorder'd Veins,
Such lab'ring Breath as thy Disease constrains;
With failing Eyes, that scarce the Light endure,
(So long unclos'd, they've watch'd thy doubtful cure)
To his Hephaestion Alexander writes,
To soothe thy Days, and wing thy sleepless Nights,
I send thee Love: Oh: that I could impart,
As well my vital Spirits to thy Heart!

As on Arbela's Plains we turn'd the Day
When Persians through our Troops had mow'd their way
When the rough Scythians on the Plunder run,
And barb'rous Shouts proclaimed the Conquest won,
'Till o'er my Head (to stop the swift Despair)
The Bird of Jove fans the supporting Air,
Above my Plume does his broad Wings display,
And follows Wheresoe'r I force my way:
Whilst Aristander, in his Robes of White,
Shews to the wav'ring Host th'auspcious Sight;
New Courage it inspires in ev'ry Breast,
And wins at once the Empire of the East.

Could He, but now, some kind of Pressage afford,
That Health might be again to Thee restor'd;
Thou to my Wishes, to my fond Embrace;
Thy Looks the same, the same Majestick Grace,
That round thee shone, when we together went
To chear the Royal Captives in their Tent,
Where Sysigambis, prostrate on the Floor,
Did Alexander in thy Form adore;
Above great Aesculapius shou'd he stand,
Or made immortal by Apelles Hand.

But no reviving Hope his Art allows,
And such cold Damps invade my anxious brows,
As, when in Cydnus plung'd, I dared the Flood
T' o'er-match the Boilings of my youthful Blood.
But Philip to my Aid repair'd in haste;
And whist the proffer'd Draught I boldly taste,
As boldly He the dangerous Paper views,
Which of hid Treasons does his Fame accuse.
More thy Physician's Life on Thine depends,
And what he gives, his Own preserves, or ends.
If thou expir'st beneath his fruitless Care,
To Rhadamanthus shall the wretch repair,
And give strict Answer for his Errors there.

Near thy Pavilion list'ning Princes wait,
Seeking from thine to learn their Monarch's State.
Submitting Kings, that post from Day to Day,
To keep those Crowns, which at my Feet they lay,
Forget th'ambitious Subject of their Speed,
And here arriv'd, only Thy Dangers heed.

The Beauties of the Clime, now Thou'rt away,
Droop, and retire, as if their God of Day
No more upon their early Pray'rs would shine,
Thy Parisatis whom I fear to name,
Lest to thy Heat it add redoubl'd Flame;
Thy Lovely Wife, thy Parisatis weeps,
And in her Grief a solemn Silence keeps.
Stretch'd in her Tent, upon the Floor she lies,
So pale her Looks, so motionless her Eyes,
As wen they gave thee leave at first to gaze
Upon the Charms of her unguarded Face;
When the two beauteous Sisters lowly knelt,
And su'd to those, who more than Pity felt.
To chear her now Statira vainly proves,
And at thy name alone she sighs, and moves.

But why these single Griefs shou'd I expose?
The World no Mirth, no War, no Bus'ness knows,
But, hush'd with Sorrow stands, to favour thy Repsose.
Ev'n I my boasted Title now Resign,
Not Ammon's son, nor born of Race Divine,
But Mortal all, opress'd with restless Fears,
Wild with my cares and Womanish in Tears.

Tho' Tears, before, I for lost Clytus shed,
And wept more Drops, than the old Hero bled;
Ev'n now, methinks, I see him on the Ground,
Now my dire Arms the wretched Corpse surround,
Now the fled Soul I wooe, now rave upon the Wound.
Yet He, for whom this mighty Grief did spring,
Not Alexander valued, but the King.

Then think, how much that Passion must transcend,
Which not a Subject raises but a Friend:
An equal Partner in the vanquished Earth,
A Brother, not impos'd upon my Birth,
Too Weak a Tye unequal Thoughts to bid,
But by the gen'rous Motions of the Mind.
My Love to thee for Empire was the Test,
Since him, who from Mankind cou'd choose the best,
The Gods only fit for Monarch o'er the rest.

Live then, my Friend; but if that must not be,
Nor Fate will with my boundless Mind agree,
Affording, at one time, the World and Thee;
To the most Worthy I'll that Sway resign,
And in Elysium keep Hyphaestion mine.

This poem was taken from Early Modern Women Poets - An Anthology, edited by Jane Stevenson and Peter Davidson.

Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea, 1661-1720, was a maid of honour (i.e. a lady in waiting) at the court of King James II of England. She was writing her poetry at a time when most women, even noble ones, were very poorly educated in England and where being a female poet was frowned upon. Fortunately she seems to have had a very sympathetic and rather enlightened husband, Heneage, who not only encouraged her writing but acted as her editor and helped to get her poems published. For those not immediately familiar with British History, James II was deposed by his daughter Mary and her husband William of Orange (James converted to Catholicism, but Mary and William were strict Protestants.) As Heneage and Anne remained loyal to James, they fell from grace and endured some years of hardship including Heneage being held in custody for a year after trying to follow James to France; this would seem to be reflected in Anne's poetry but ultimately also resulted in both she and Heneage committing themselves to her work.

The Source for this poem was apparently Plutarch's Life of Alexander, translated by Thomas North.

Drypetis / Parisatis For "Parisatis" I assume we should read "Drypetis," Scanning through my copy of North's translation I can't see any mention of the name of the woman Hephaestion married, but I've noticed that in a play written close to this time Parisatis is substituted for Drypetis again so maybe this was a common mistake. If anyone knows another reason, let me know!

[Adriv]

oh man... *sigh*

[apelles]

Aniketos,what a fantastic poem!This woman truly understood the bond between them,didn,t she?The language is wonderful.I,ve printed this off to keep it.Thanks.

[Aniketos]

[apelles]

[Cynisca]

I am not very inspired at the moment...

He came from the mountains
to conquer the plains
A man of a small nation
but all knew his name
by the time that he left us
Alexander

[Alexandros_19]

[Cynisca]

Hi,
I found this small Shrine site belonging to Beryl Alexandros....'friend of Alexander'
http://www.freewebs.com/alexandershrine/index.htm
There are some nice things on there...
regards
Cynisca

[joanna]

[joanna]