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subject class:Poetry
subject class:History

--- WIKI
Pindar ( Pindaros, ; Pindarus; c. 518 438 BC) was an Ancient Greek lyric poet from Thebes. Of the canonical nine lyric poets of ancient Greece, his work is the best preserved. Quintilian wrote, "Of the nine lyric poets, Pindar is by far the greatest, in virtue of his inspired magnificence, the beauty of his thoughts and figures, the rich exuberance of his language and matter, and his rolling flood of eloquence, characteristics which, as Horace rightly held, make him inimitable." His poems can also, however, seem difficult and even peculiar. The Athenian comic playwright Eupolis once remarked that they "are already reduced to silence by the disinclination of the multitude for elegant learning". Some scholars in the modern age also found his poetry perplexing, at least until the 1896 discovery of some poems by his rival Bacchylides; comparisons of their work showed that many of Pindar's idiosyncrasies are typical of archaic genres rather than of only the poet himself. His poetry, while admired by critics, still challenges the casual reader and his work is largely unread among the general public. Pindar was the first Greek poet to reflect on the nature of poetry and on the poet's role. Like other poets of the Archaic Age, he has a profound sense of the vicissitudes of life, but he also articulates a passionate faith in what men can achieve by the grace of the gods, most famously expressed in the conclusion to one of his Victory Odes: His poetry illustrates the beliefs and values of Archaic Greece at the dawn of the classical period.

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--- DICTIONARIES (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

pindarical ::: a. --> Pindaric.

pindaric ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to Pindar, the Greek lyric poet; after the style and manner of Pindar; as, Pindaric odes. ::: n. --> A Pindaric ode.

pindarism ::: n. --> Imitation of Pindar.

pindarist ::: n. --> One who imitates Pindar.

pindar ::: n. --> The peanut (Arachis hypogaea); -- so called in the West Indies.

pindarical ::: a. --> Pindaric.

pindaric ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to Pindar, the Greek lyric poet; after the style and manner of Pindar; as, Pindaric odes. ::: n. --> A Pindaric ode.

pindarism ::: n. --> Imitation of Pindar.

pindarist ::: n. --> One who imitates Pindar.

pindar ::: n. --> The peanut (Arachis hypogaea); -- so called in the West Indies.

--- QUOTES [7 / 7 - 121 / 121] (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

KEYS (10k)

   7 Pindar


   73 Pindar
   4 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
   4 Bob Burg
   2 Robert Greene
   2 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   2 Friedrich Nietzsche
   2 Bill Schutt
   2 Ben Jonson
   2 Alexandre Dumas
   2 Albert Camus

1:What is God? Everything. ~ Pindar, Fragment 140d ,
2:Do not peer too far. ~ Pindar, Olympian Odes I,
3:Learn what you are and be such. ~ Pindar,
4:For lawless joys a bitter ending waits. ~ Pindar,
5:If any man hopes to do a deed without God's knowledge, he errs. ~ Pindar, Olympian Odes I,
6:Not every truth is the better for showing its face undisguised; and often silence is the wisest thing for a man to heed. ~ Pindar, Nemean Odes V,
7:If one but tell a thing well, it moves on with undying voice, and over the fruitful earth and across the sea goes the bright gleam of noble deeds ever unquenchable. ~ Pindar, Isthmian Odes Letters On Yoga IV,

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Even genius is tied to profit. ~ Pindar,
2:Convention is the ruler of all. ~ Pindar,
3:Learn what you are and be such. ~ Pindar,
4:Mankind is a dream of a shadow. ~ Pindar,
5:Men are the dreams of a shadow. ~ Pindar,
6:Water is the best of all things. ~ Pindar,
7:The present will not long endure. ~ Pindar,
8:Unsung, the noblest deed will die. ~ Pindar,
9:A good deed hidden in silence dies. ~ Pindar,
10:The test of any man lies in action. ~ Pindar,
11:Though God alone never tastes woe, ~ Pindar,
12:The noblest of the elements is water ~ Pindar,
13:Words have a longer life than deeds. ~ Pindar,
14:Envy, the attendant of the empty mind. ~ Pindar,
15:Sweet is war to those who know it not. ~ Pindar,
16:War is sweet to them that know it not. ~ Pindar,
17:For lawless joys a bitter ending waits. ~ Pindar,
18:Point thy tongue on the anvil of truth. ~ Pindar,
19:War is sweet to those who never tried it. ~ Pindar,
20:Even wisdom has to yield to self-interest. ~ Pindar,
21:Law, the king of all mortals and immortals. ~ Pindar,
22:Time is the best preserver of righteous men. ~ Pindar,
23:If any man thinks to swindle God, he is wrong. ~ Pindar,
24:Whatever is beautiful is beautiful by necessity ~ Pindar,
25:The forehead of every work must shine from afar. ~ Pindar,
26:To be envied is a nobler fate than to be pitied. ~ Pindar,
27:Every noble deed dieth, if suppressed in silence. ~ Pindar,
28:Even success softens not the heart of the envious. ~ Pindar,
29:War is sweet for those who haven't experienced it. ~ Pindar,
30:I will be small in small things, great among great. ~ Pindar,
31:Even now I am full of hope, but the end lies in God. ~ Pindar,
32:Often silence is the wisest thing for a man to heed. ~ Pindar,
33:Many a time the thing left silent makes for happiness. ~ Pindar,
34:There are many roads to happiness, if the gods assent. ~ Pindar,
35:When men succeed, even their neighbors think them wise. ~ Pindar,
36:The days that are still to come are the wisest witnesses. ~ Pindar,
37:A thing said walks in immortality if it has been said well. ~ Pindar,
38:Success for the striven washes away the effort of striving. ~ Pindar,
39:To each thing belongs it's measure. Occasion is best to know. ~ Pindar,
40:Rich man and poor move side by side toward the limit of death. ~ Pindar,
41:A graceful and honorable old age is the childhood of immortality. ~ Pindar,
42:He is gifted with genius who knoweth much by natural inspiration. ~ Pindar,
43:Pindar wrote, “Become who you are by learning who you are. ~ Robert Greene,
44:Time is the turning over of days, works change for better or worse. ~ Pindar,
45:Success abides longer among men when it is planted by the hand of God. ~ Pindar,
46:I will not steep my speech in lies; the test of any man lies in action. ~ Pindar,
47:With our mortal minds we should seek from the gods that which becomes us. ~ Pindar,
48:Man's pleasure is a short time growing And it falls to the ground As quickly. ~ Pindar,
49:O my soul, do not aspire to immortal life, but exhaust the limits of the possible. ~ Pindar,
50:One race there is of men, one of gods, but from one mother we both draw our breath. ~ Pindar,
51:To our own sorrows serious heed we give, But for another?s we soon cease to grieve. ~ Pindar,
52:Water is best, but gold shines like fire blazing in the night, supreme of lordly wealth. ~ Pindar,
53:We are things of a day. What are we? What are we not? The shadow of a dream is man, no more. ~ Pindar,
54:Skills vary with the man. We must tread a straight path and strive by that which is born in us. ~ Pindar,
55:In all things rest is sweet; there is sur feit even in honey, even in Aphrodite s lovely flowers. ~ Pindar,
56:Forge thy tongue on an anvil of truth and what flies up, though it be but a spark, will have light. ~ Pindar,
57:To bear lightly the neck's yoke brings strength; but kicking against the goads is the way of failure. ~ Pindar,
58:Every gift which is given, even though is be small, is in reality great, if it is given with affection ~ Pindar,
59:Great deeds give choice of many tales. Choose a slight tale, enrich it large, and then let wise men listen ~ Pindar,
60:Humble in a humble state and great in greatness, I will work out the divinity that is busy within my mind. ~ Pindar,
61:O my soul, do not aspire to immortal life, but exhaust the limits of the possible Pindar, Pythian iii ~ Albert Camus,
62:The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground. ~ John Milton,
63:O my soul, do not aspire to immortal life, but exhaust the limits of the possible. —Pindar, Pythian iii ~ Albert Camus,
64:Finding that the middle condition of life is by far the happiest, I look with little favor upon that of princes. ~ Pindar,
65:My God grant me love for that which has splendor, but in this time of my life let me strive for attainable things. ~ Pindar,
66:May God grant me love for that which has splendor; but in this time of my life let me strive for attainable things. ~ Pindar,
67:Various are the uses of friends, beyond all else in difficulty, but joy also looks for trust that is clear in the eyes. ~ Pindar,
68:Not every truth is the better for showing its face undisguised; and often silence is the wisest thing for a man to heed. ~ Pindar,
69:Natural ability is by far the best, but many men have succeeded in winning high renown by skill that is the fruit of teaching. ~ Pindar,
70:Pindar: ‘Youth is a flower of which love is the fruit … Happy the vintager who picks it after watching it slowly mature.’ As ~ Alexandre Dumas,
71:He never did his dumb-bells or played in his school fifteen. But the muscles came. He thinks they came while he was reading Pindar. ~ E M Forster,
72:Of the good things given between man and man, I say that a neighbor, true and loving in heart, to neighbor is a joy beyond all things else. ~ Pindar,
73:Strong men greet war, tempest, hard times. They wish, as Pindar said, to tread the floors of hell, with necessities as hard as iron. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
74:He who studies to imitate the poet Pindar, O Julius, relies on artificial wings fastened on with wax, and is sure to give his name to a glassy sea. ~ Horace,
75:Wrapt up in error is the human mind, And human bliss is ever insecure; Know we what fortune yet remains behind? Know we how long the present shall endure? ~ Pindar,
76:If one but tell a thing well, it moves on with undying voice, and over the fruitful earth and across the sea goes the bright gleam of noble deeds ever unquenchable. ~ Pindar,
77:There is a mortal breed most full of futility. In contempt of what is at hand, they strain into the future, hunting impossibilities on the wings of ineffectual hopes. ~ Pindar,
78:the count left, murmuring these verses from Pindar: ‘Youth is a flower of which love is the fruit … Happy the vintager who picks it after watching it slowly mature. ~ Alexandre Dumas,
79:He makes it his task to be wholly sincere with himself, and he notes this definition of wisdom which he finds in Pindar: “True being is the beginning of a great virtue. ~ Stefan Zweig,
80:It is God that accomplishes all term to hopes, God, who overtakes the flying eagle, outpasses the dolphin in the sea; who bends under his strength the man with thoughts too high. ~ Pindar,
81:May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats. ~ Lord Byron,
82:These are matters of settled custom,” he wrote, before paraphrasing the lyric poet Pindar, “And custom is King of all.” In other words, society defines what is right and what is wrong. ~ Bill Schutt,
83:Creatures of a day, what is any one? What is he not? Man is but a dream of a shadow. Yet when there comes as a gift of heaven a gleam of sunshine, there rest upon men a radiant light and, aye, a gentle life. ~ Pindar,
84:The race of gods and men is one, and from one mother we both draw our breath. Yet all the difference in our power holds us apart, so that man is nothing, but the brazen floor of heaven is eternally unshakable. ~ Pindar,
85:We may compare the opinion that the older actors entertained of their successors. Mynniscus used to call Callippides ‘ape’ on account of the extravagance of his action, and the same view was held of Pindarus. ~ Aristotle,
86:Mother of the Sun, Theia of many names, for your sake men honor gold as more powerful than anything else; and through the value you bestow on them, o queen, ships contending on the sea and yoked teams of horses in swift-whirling contests become marvels. ~ Pindar,
87:Thank you, Sal,” said Pindar. Sal bowed to Pindar and winked at Joe. It struck Joe that Pindar was exceedingly gracious to everyone they encountered, and, as they took their seats, Joe asked Pindar about that. “It never hurts to be kind to people,” Pindar replied. ~ Bob Burg,
88:Joe understood that Pindar had emphasized the word “experience” for a reason. It was not the hot dogs but the person serving the hot dogs that had vaulted the young man to such popularity. Not the dining—the dining experience. Ernesto had made buying a hot dog into an unforgettable event. ~ Bob Burg,
89:You see,” Pindar continued, “the majority of people operate with a mindset that says to the fireplace, ‘First give me some heat, then I’ll throw on some logs.’ Or that says to the bank, ‘Give me interest on my money, then I’ll make a deposit.’ And of course, it just doesn’t work that way. ~ Bob Burg,
90:When a thought of Plato becomes a thought to me,--when a truth that fired the soul of Pindar fires mine, time is no more. When I feel that we two meet in a perception, that our two souls are tinged with the same hue, and do as it were run into one, why should I measure degrees of latitude, why should I count Egyptian years? ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
91: The Bowl Of Song
Sweet the song ~ Anacreon

Sweet notes flow from Sappho's strings:
Pindar's strains, their sweets among,
Add, to crown the bowl of song.
Such a triple charm would sure
Dionysus' lips allure;
Paphos' sleek-skinn'd queen would deign,
Or Love's self, the cup to drain.
~ Anacreon,
92:I have made a very rude translation of the Seven against Thebes, and Pindar too I have looked at, and wish he was better worth translating. I believe even the best things are not equal to their fame. Perhaps it would be better to translate fame itself,--or is not that what the poets themselves do? However, I have not done with Pindar yet. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
93:Surprised to be here?” “Actually, yes,” Joe admitted. “I’m just wondering how many business legends would open their homes to a perfect stranger on a Saturday morning.” Pindar nodded as they walked along the path. “Actually, successful people do this all the time. Typically, the more successful they are, the more willing they are to share their secrets with others. ~ Bob Burg,
94:In the West they say, 'Never talk to strangers.' In the East they say, 'Always talk to strangers.' It was this stranger who gave us sustenance on the road, just as strangers had given me company on the way to the Pindar Glacier. On the open road there are no strangers. You share the same sky, the same mountain, the same sunshine and shade. On the open road we are all brothers. The ~ Ruskin Bond,
95:The young man was sort of ... well ... peering at this shovel, and Lisey knew not by his face but by the whole awkward this-way-n-that jut of his lanky body that he didn't have any idea what he was seeing. It could have been an artillery shell, a bonsai tree, a radiation detector, or a china pig with a slot in its back for spare silver; it could have been a whang-dang-doodle, a phylactery testifying to the pompetus of love, or a cloche hat made out of coyote skin. It could have been the penis of the poet Pindar. This guy was too far gone to know. ~ Stephen King,
96:The most beautiful conception of immortality of which I know, and certainly one that by contrast shows the utter vulgarity of Christian ideas, is set forth in Pindar's second Olympian: after three or six lives in which a man has lived with strict justice and perfect integrity, he passes beyond the tower of Cronus to the fair realm that cannot be reached by land or sea, where gentle breezes from a placid ocean blow forever on the fields of asphodel. For a description, see Pindar. If the beauty of great poetry can commend a religion, here you have it. ~ Revilo P Oliver,
97:Some 2,600 years ago the ancient Greek poet Pindar wrote, “Become who you are by learning who you are.” What he meant is the following: You are born with a particular makeup and tendencies that mark you as a piece of fate. It is who you are to the core. Some people never become who they are; they stop trusting in themselves; they conform to the tastes of others, and they end up wearing a mask that hides their true nature. If you allow yourself to learn who you really are by paying attention to that voice and force within you, then you can become what you were fated to become—an individual, a Master. ~ Robert Greene,
98:just before his arrival his two lieutenants had very nearly come to blows over the meaning of the word dromedary. They were both good seamen and amiable companions, but they were both given to writing verse, Mowett being devoted to the heroic couplet while Rowan preferred a Pindaric freedom, and each thought the other's not only incorrect but devoid of grammar, sense, meaning, and poetic inspiration. At two bells in the afternoon watch this rivalry had spilled over on to the name of the transport: why, it was difficult to make out, since dromedary could not conceivably be made to rhyme with anything ~ Patrick O Brian,
99: Xix
The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise;
I barter curl for curl upon that mart,
And from my poet's forehead to my heart
Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,-As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes
The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart
The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, . . .
The bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise,
Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black !
Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath,
I tie the shadows safe from gliding back,
And lay the gift where nothing hindereth;
Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack
No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.
~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
100: Sonnet Xix
The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise;
I barter curl for curl upon that mart,
And from my poet's forehead to my heart
Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,-As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes
The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart
The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, . . .
The bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise,
Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black !
Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath,
I tie the shadows safe from gliding back,
And lay the gift where nothing hindereth;
Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack
No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.
~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
101: Sonnet Xix: The Soul's Rialto
The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise;
I barter curl for curl upon that mart,
And from my poet's forehead to my heart
Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,-As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes
The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart
The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart,...
The bay-crown's shade, Belovèd, I surmise,
Still lingers on thy curl, it so black!
Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath,
I tie the shadows safe from gliding back,
And lay the gift where nothing hindereth;
Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack
No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.
~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
102:Let's sort the injury from the injured,
Asking: What field? What battle?

Is this the site of your disaster?

An emergency room full of old friends.
Someone asking: Recollect, if you will,
A poem of Pindar's: That which above all

Shines through everything. Shines through
Each thing present all around.

Everything quietly unconcealing in the golden hospital
Light. Here's the chart, the anamnesis, of how and when
We want to kill each other, let each other die.

We, the living, breathe
Although we have lost old friends.

We have left them behind like dirty bandages.
We have left them ripped open, wide.
We've left rooms saying: Fuck you
And you and you. ~ Olena Kalytiak Davis,
103: Sonnet 19 - The Soul's Rialto Hath Its Merchandise
The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise;
I barter curl for curl upon that mart,
And from my poet's forehead to my heart
Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,—
As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes
The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart
The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, . . .
The bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise,
Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black!
Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath,
I tie the shadows safe from gliding back,
And lay the gift where nothing hindereth;
Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack
No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.
~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
104:To what shall I compare my literary pursuits in India? Suppose Greek literature to be known in modern Greece only, and there to be in the hands of priests and philosophers; and suppose them to be still worshippers of Jupiter and Apollo; suppose Greece to have been conquered successively by Goths, Huns, Vandals, Tartars, and lastly by the English; then suppose a court of judicature to be established by the British parliament, at Athens, and an inquisitive Englishman to be one of the judges; suppose him to learn Greek there, which none of his countrymen knew, and to read Homer, Pindar, Plato, which no other Europeans had even heard of. Such am I in this country: substituting Sanscrit for Greek, the Brahmans, for the priests of Jupiter, and Vālmic, Vyāsa, Cālīdāsa, for Homer, Plato, Pindar. William Jones ~ Aatish Taseer,
105:In his masterpiece, The Histories, the man often referred to as the Father of History wrote that the Persian king Darius asked some Greeks what it would take for them to eat their dead fathers. “No price in the world,” they cried (presumably in unison). Next, Darius summoned several Callatians, who lived in India and “who eat their dead fathers.” Darius asked them what price would make them burn their dead fathers upon a pyre, the preferred funerary method of the Greeks. “Don’t mention such horrors!” they shouted.

Herodotus (writing as Darius) then demonstrated a degree of understanding that would have made modern anthropologists proud. “These are matters of settled custom,” he wrote, before paraphrasing the lyric poet Pindar, “And custom is King of all.” In other words, society defines what is right and what is wrong. ~ Bill Schutt,
106: Mingle, My Boy, A Little Draught For Me
Mingle, my boy, a little draught for me
In such wise, now, as I shall tell to thee.
First, mark my words, into this goblet run
A little of that old ~ Anacreon

Now take that slender flagon over there'Tis Sapho's own, no better anywhereAnd pour into the glass to give it strength
Just about half your little finger's length.
'There now, my master, surely it will do:'
Nay, boy, not yet; a little Pindar too.
There, there. 'tis full, the glass o'erflows the crown;
Just hand it me and I will drink it down.
Methinks Apollo, should he chance to come
Upon me now, would say, 'Just mix me some
Of that same brew I see you tippling there'.
Or if the Paphian maid should this way fare
With Eros, her companion, wandering free,
They both would cry, 'Ho, Servus, make it three.'
~ Anacreon,
107:In an egalitarian and democraticised society (in the broader sense of the term); in a society in which there are no longer any casts, functional organic classes or Orders; in a society in which ‘culture’ is standardised, extrinsic, utilitarian, and tradition is no longer a living, forming force; in a society in which Pindar’s ‘be thyself’ has become but a meaningless phrase;19 in a society in which character amounts to a luxury that only fools can afford, whereas inner weakness is the norm; in a society, finally, in which whatever lies above racial, ethnic and national difference has been replaced by what effectively lies below all this and which, therefore, has a shapeless and hybrid character — in such a society, forces are at work that in the long run are bound to influence the very constitution of individuals, thus affecting everything typical and differentiated, even in the psycho-physical field. ~ Julius Evola,
108:Humans have always exalted dreams. Pindar of Thebes, the Greek lyric poet, suggested that the soul is more active while dreaming than while awake. He believed that during a dream, the awakened soul may see the future, “an award of joy or sorrow drawing near.” So it’s no wonder that humans were quick to reserve dreams for people alone; researchers for many years claimed dreams were a property of “higher” minds. But any pet owner who has heard her dog woof or seen his cat twitch during sleep knows that is not true. MIT researchers now know not only that rats dream, but what they dream about. Neurons in the brain fire in distinctive patterns while a rat in a maze performs particular tasks. The researchers repeatedly saw the exact same patterns reproduced while the rats slept—so clearly that they could tell what point in the maze the rat was dreaming about, and whether the animal was running or walking in the dream. The rats’ dreams took place in an area of the brain known to be involved with memory, further supporting a notion that one function of dreams is to help an animal remember what it has learned. ~ Sy Montgomery,
109:Let us face ourselves. We are Hyperboreans; we know very well how far off we live. 'Neither by land nor by sea will you find the way to the Hyperboreans'—Pindar already knew this about us. Beyond the north, ice, and death—our life, our happiness. We have discovered happiness, we know the way, we have found the exit out of the labyrinth of thousands of years. Who else has found it? Modern man perhaps? 'I have got lost; I am everything that has got lost,' sighs modern man. This modernity was our sickness: lazy peace, cowardly compromise, the whole virtuous uncleanliness of the modern Yes and No. … Rather live in the ice than among modern virtues and other south winds! We were intrepid enough, we spared neither ourselves nor others; but for a long time we did not know where to turn with our intrepidity. We became gloomy, we were called fatalists. Our fatum—abundance, tension, the damming of strength. We thirsted for lightning and deeds and were most remote from the happiness of the weakling, 'resignation.' In our atmosphere was a thunderstorm; the nature we are became dark—for we saw no way. Formula for our happiness: a Yes, a No, a straight line, a goal. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
110:What do you consider to
be the greatest blessing which you have reaped from your wealth?
One, he said, of which I could not expect easily to convince others. For let me
tell you, Socrates, that when a man thinks himself to be near death, fears and
cares enter into his mind which he never had before; the tales of a world be-
low and the punishment which is exacted there of deeds done here were once
a laughing matter to him, but now he is tormented with the thought that they
may be true: either from the weakness of age, or because he is now drawing
nearer to that other place, he has a clearer view of these things; suspicions and
alarms crowd thickly upon him, and he begins to reflect and consider what
wrongs he has done to others. And when he finds that the sum of his transgres-
sions is great he will many a time like a child start up in his sleep for fear, and
he is filled with dark forebodings. But to him who is conscious of no sin, sweet
hope, as Pindar charmingly says, is the kind nurse of his age:
’Hope,’ he says, ’cherishes the soul of him who lives in justice and holiness,
and is the nurse of his age and the companion of his journey;– hope which is
mightiest to sway the restless soul of man. ~ Plato,
111:Let us look one another in the face. We are Hyperboreans—we know well enough how much out of the way we live. 'Neither by land nor sea shalt thou find the road to the Hyperboreans': Pindar already knew that of us. Beyond the North, beyond the ice, beyond death—our life, our happiness.... We have discovered happiness, we know the road, we have found the exit out of whole millennia of labyrinth. Who else has found it? Modern man perhaps? 'I know not which way to turn; I am everything that knows not which way to turn,' sighs modern man.... It was from this modernity that we were ill—from lazy peace, from cowardly compromise, from the whole virtuous uncleanliness of modern Yes and No. This tolerance and largeur of heart which 'forgives' everything because it 'Understands' everything is sirocco to us. Better to live among ice than among modern virtues and other south winds! ...We were brave enough, we spared neither ourselves nor others: but for long we did not know where to apply our courage. We became gloomy, we were called fatalists. Our fatality—was the plenitude, the tension, the blocking-up of our forces. We thirsted for lightning and action, of all things we kept ourselves furthest from the happiness of the weaklings, from 'resignation'.... There was a thunderstorm in our air, the nature which we are grew dark—for we had no road. Formula of our happiness: a Yes, a No, a straight line, a goal... ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
112:Seeker: So what is social ego, Sadhguru? Sadhguru: Society has its own ego, isn’t it? For every small thing, the whole society gets upset. It need not be wrong. Suppose it’s summer in the United States. Everybody is hardly wearing anything or maybe they are in miniskirts. Let’s say you’re fully clothed. People will get upset: “What is she doing? Why is she all covered up?” Here in India, if you dress like that, they’ll all get upset. So this is one kind of ego; that is another kind of ego. It’s the social ego which is getting upset, and your karma is becoming part of the collective karma. I want you to really understand this with a certain depth. Your idea of good and bad has been taught to you. You have imbibed it from the social atmosphere in which you have lived. See, for example, a bandit tribe, like the Pindaris, who from a young age were trained to rob and kill, they even had gods who taught them skills and brought them success in their banditry. When the British army was let loose on them, they were shot and killed indiscriminately. They were completely bewildered, as in their perception they had not done anything wrong. The Pindari ego was just to be a good bandit. The same happened for the Native Americans also. Among some Native American tribes, unless you had killed a man in your life, you were not much of a man. They collected the scalp of the man and wore it around their neck. So what is right and wrong, what is good and bad, is all about how the social ego functions. ~ Sadhguru,
113:The Greeks were the first people in the world to play, and they played on a great scale. All over Greece there were games, all sorts of games; athletic contests of every description: races—horse-, boat-, foot-, torch-races; contests in music, where one side out-sung the other; in dancing—on greased skins sometimes to display a nice skill of foot and balance of body; games where men leaped in and out of flying chariots; games so many one grows weary with the list of them. They are embodied in the statues familiar to all, the disc thrower, the charioteer, the wrestling boys, the dancing flute players. The great games—there were four that came at stated seasons—were so important, when one was held, a truce of God was proclaimed so that all Greece might come in safety without fear. There “glorious-limbed youth”—the phrase is Pindar’s, the athlete’s poet—strove for an honor so coveted as hardly anything else in Greece. An Olympic victor—triumphing generals would give place to him. His crown of wild olives was set beside the prize of the tragedian. Splendor attended him, processions, sacrifices, banquets, songs the greatest poets were glad to write. Thucydides, the brief, the severe, the historian of that bitter time, the fall of Athens, pauses, when one of his personages has conquered in the games, to give the fact full place of honor. If we had no other knowledge of what the Greeks were like, if nothing were left of Greek art and literature, the fact that they were in love with play and played magnificently would be proof enough of how they lived and how they looked at life. Wretched people, toiling people, do not play. Nothing like the Greek games is conceivable in Egypt or Mesopotamia. The life of the Egyptian lies spread out in the mural paintings down to the minutest detail. If fun and sport had played any real part they would be there in some form for us to see. But the Egyptian did not play. “Solon, Solon, you Greeks are all children,” said the Egyptian priest to the great Athenian. ~ Edith Hamilton,
114: The Praise Of Pindar In Imitation Of Horace His
Second Ode, Book 4
Pindarum quisquis studet oemulari, &c.
Pindar is imitable by none;
The phoenix Pindar is a vast species alone.
Whoe'er but Daedalus with waxen wings could fly
And neither sink too low nor soar too high?
What could he who followed claim
But of vain boldness the unhappy fame,
And by his fall a sea to name?
Pindar's unnavigable song,
Like a swollen flood from some steep mountain, pours along;
The ocean meets with such a voice
From his enlarged mouth as drowns the ocean's noise.
So Pindar does new words and figures roll
Down his impetuous dithyrambic tide,
Which in no channel deigns to abide,
Which neither banks nor dikes control.
Whether the immortal gods he sings
In a no less immortal strain,
Or the great acts of god-descended kings,
Who in his numbers still survive and reign,
Each rich embroidered line,
Which their triumphant brows around
By his sacred hand is bound,
Does all their starry diadems outshine.
Whether at Pisa's race he please
To carve in polished verse the conquerors' images,
Whether the swift, the skillful, or the strong
Be crowned in his nimble, artful, vigorous song,
Whether some brave young man's untimely fate
In words worth dying for he celebrate,
Such mournful and such pleasing words
As joy to his mother's and his mistress' grief affords,
He bids him live and grow in fame;
Among the stars he sticks his name;
The grave can but the dross of him devour,
So small is death's, so great the poet's power.
Lo, how the obsequious wind and swelling air
The Theban swan does upwards bear
Into the walks of clouds, where he does play,
And with extended wings opens his liquid way,
Whilst, alas, my timorous Muse
Unambitious tracks pursues;
Does, with weak, unballast wings,
About the mossy brooks and springs,
About the trees' new-blossomed heads,
About the gardens' painted beds,
About the fields and flowery meads,
And all inferior beauteous things,
Like the laborious bee,
For little drops of honey flee,
And there with humble sweets contents her industry.
~ Abraham Cowley,
115: Ode Upon The Censure Of His New Inn
Come, leave the loathed stage,
And the more loathsome age;
Where pride and impudence, in faction knit,
Usurp the chair of wit!
Indicting and arraigning every day
Something they call a play.
Let their fastidious, vain
Commission of the brain
Run on and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn;
They were not made for thee, less thou for them.
Say that thou pour'st them wheat,
And they will acorns eat;
'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste
On such as have no taste!
To offer them a surfeit of pure bread
Whose appetites are dead!
No, give them grains their fill,
Husks, draff to drink and swill:
If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine,
Envy them not, their palate's with the swine.
No doubt some mouldy tale,
Like Pericles, and stale
As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fishScraps out of every dish
Thrown forth, and rak'd into the common tub,
May keep up the Play-club:
There, sweepings do as well
As the best-order'd meal;
For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit.
And much good do't you then:
Brave plush-and-velvet-men
Can feed on orts; and, safe in your stage-clothes,
Dare quit, upon your oaths,
The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers)
Of larding your large ears
With their foul comic socks,
Wrought upon twenty blocks;
Which if they are torn, and turn'd, and patch'd enough,
The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff.
Leave things so prostitute,
And take the Alcaic lute;
Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre;
Warm thee by Pindar's fire:
And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold,
Ere years have made thee old,
Strike that disdainful heat
Throughout, to their defeat,
As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,
May blushing swear, no palsy's in thy brain.
But when they hear thee sing
The glories of thy king,
His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men:
They may, blood-shaken then,
Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers,
As they shall cry: 'Like ours
In sound of peace or wars,
No harp e'er hit the stars,
In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign,
And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his Wain.'
~ Ben Jonson,
116: Hymne
Salut, divin triomphe! entre dans nos murailles;
Rends-nous ces guerriers illustrés
Par le sang de Désille et par les funérailles
De tant de Français massacrés.
Jamais rien de si grand n'embellit ton entrée;
Ni quand l'ombre de Mirabeau
S'achemina jadis vers la voûte sacrée
Où la gloire donne un tombeau;
Ni quand Voltaire mort et sa cendre bannie
Rentrèrent aux murs de Paris,
Vainqueurs du fanatisme et de la calomnie
Prosternés devant ses écrits.
Un seul jour peut atteindre à tant de renommée,
Et ce beau jour luira bientôt:
C'est quand tu conduiras Jourdan à notre armée,
Et Lafayette à l'échafaud.
Quelle rage à Coblentz! quel deuil pour tous ces princes,
Qui, partout diffamant nos lois,
Excitent contre nous et contre nos provinces
Et les esclaves et les rois!
Ils voulaient nous voir tous à la folie en proie.
Que leur front doit être abattu!
Tandis que parmi nous quel orgueil, quelle joie
Pour les amis de la vertu,
Pour vous tous, ô mortels, qui rougissez encore
Et qui savez baisser les yeux,
De voir des échevins que la Râpée honore
Asseoir sur un char radieux
Ces héros que jadis sur les bancs des galères
Assit un arrêt outrageant,
Et qui n'out égorgé que très peu de nos frères
Et volé que très peu d'argent!
Eh bien, que tardez-vous, harmonieux Orphées?
Si sur la tombe des Persans
Jadis Pindare, Eschyle, ont dressé des trophées,
Il faut de plus nobles accents.
Quarante meurtriers, chéris de Robespierre,
Vont s'élever sur nos autels.
Beaux-arts, qui faites vivre et la toile et la pierre,
Hâtez-vous, rendez immortels
Le grand Collot d'Herbois, ses clients helvétiques,
Ce front que donne à des héros
La vertu, la taverne et le secours des piques.
Peuplez le ciel d'astres nouveaux,
O vous, enfants d'Eudoxe et d'Hipparque et d'Euclide,
C'est par vous que les blonds cheveux
Qui tombèrent du front d'une reine timide
Sont tressés en célestes feux;
Par vous l'heureux vaisseau des premiers Argonautes
Flotte encor dans l'azur des airs.
Faites gémir Atlas sous de plus nobles hôtes,
Comme eux dominateurs des mers.
Que la nuit de leurs noms embellisse ses voiles,
Et que le nocher aux abois
Invoque en leur galère, ornement des étoiles,
Les Suisses de Collot d'Herbois.
~ Andre Marie de Chenier,
117:A VALEDICTION: OF THE BOOK I'll tell thee now (dear love) what thou shalt do To anger destiny, as she doth us; How I shall stay, though she eloign me thus, And how posterity shall know it too; How thine may out-endure Sibyl's glory, and obscure Her who from Pindar could allure, And her, through whose help Lucan is not lame, And her, whose book (they say) Homer did find, and name. Study our manuscripts, those myriads Of letters, which have past 'twixt thee and me; Thence write our annals, and in them will be To all whom love's subliming fire invades, Rule and example found; There the faith of any ground No schismatic will dare to wound, That sees, how Love this grace to us affords, To make, to keep, to use, to be these his records. This book, as long-lived as the elements, Or as the world's form, this all-graved tome In cypher writ, or new made idiom; We for Love's clergy only are instruments; When this book is made thus, Should again the ravenous Vandals and Goths invade us, Learning were safe; in this our universe, Schools might learn sciences, spheres music, angels verse. Here Love's divines—since all divinity Is love or wonder—may find all they seek, Whether abstract spiritual love they like, Their souls exhaled with what they do not see; Or, loth so to amuse Faith's infirmity, they choose Something which they may see and use; For, though mind be the heaven, where love doth sit, Beauty a convenient type may be to figure it. Here more than in their books may lawyers find, Both by what titles mistresses are ours, And how prerogative these states devours, Transferred from Love himself, to womankind; Who, though from heart and eyes, They exact great subsidies, Forsake him who on them relies; And for the cause, honour, or conscience give; Chimeras vain as they or their prerogative. Here statesmen, (or of them, they which can read) May of their occupation find the grounds; Love, and their art, alike it deadly wounds, If to consider what 'tis, one proceed. In both they do excel Who the present govern well, Whose weakness none doth, or dares tell; In this thy book, such will there something see, As in the Bible some can find out alchemy. Thus vent thy thoughts; abroad I'll study thee, As he removes far off, that great heights takes; How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be; To take a latitude Sun, or stars, are fitliest viewed At their brightest, but to conclude Of longitudes, what other way have we, But to mark when and where the dark eclipses be? ~ John Donne,
118: The Critick And The Writer Of Fables
Weary, at last, of the Pindarick way,
Thro' which advent'rously the Muse wou'd stray;
To Fable I descend with soft Delight,
Pleas'd to Translate, or easily Endite:
Whilst aery Fictions hastily repair
To fill my Page, and rid my Thoughts of Care,
As they to Birds and Beasts new Gifts impart,
And Teach, as Poets shou'd, whilst they Divert.
But here, the Critick bids me check this Vein.
Fable, he crys, tho' grown th' affected Strain,
But dies, as it was born, without Regard or Pain.
Whilst of his Aim the lazy Trifler fails,
Who seeks to purchase Fame by childish Tales.
Then, let my Verse, once more attempt the Skies,
The easily persuaded Poet cries,
Since meaner Works you Men of Taste despise.
The Walls of Troy shall be our loftier Stage,
Our mighty Theme the fierce Achilles Rage.
The Strength of Hector, and Ulysses Arts
Shall boast such Language, to adorn their Parts,
As neither Hobbes, nor Chapman cou'd bestow,
Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow.
Amidst her Towers, the dedicated Horse
Shall be receiv'd, big with destructive Force;
Till Men shall say, when Flames have brought her down.
" Troy is no more, and Ilium was a Town.
Is this the way to please the Men of Taste,
The Interrupter cries, this old Bombast?
I'm sick of Troy, and in as great a Fright,
When some dull Pedant wou'd her Wars recite,
As was soft Paris, when compell'd to Fight.
To Shades and Springs shall we awhile repair,
The Muse demands, and in that milder Air
Describe some gentle Swain's unhappy Smart
Whose folded Arms still press upon his Heart,
And deeper drive the too far enter'd Dart?
Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns
The Joy, the Grief, the Envy of the Plains;
Heightens the Beauty of the verdant Woods,
And softens all the Murmurs of the Floods.
Oh! stun me not with these insipid Dreams,
Th' Eternal Hush, the Lullaby of Streams.
Which still, he cries, their even Measures keep,
Till both the Writers, and the Readers sleep.
But urge thy Pen, if thou wouldst move our Thoughts,
To shew us private, or the publick Faults.
Display the Times, High-Church or Low provoke;
We'll praise the Weapon, as we like the Stroke,
And warmly sympathizing with the Spite
Apply to Thousands, what of One you write.
Then, must that single Stream the Town supply,
The harmless Fable-writer do's reply,
And all the Rest of Helicon be dry ?
And when so many choice Productions swarm,
Must only Satire keep your Fancies warm?
Whilst even there, you praise with such Reserve,
As if you'd in the midst of Plenty starve,
Tho' ne'er so liberally we Authors carve.
Happy the Men, whom we divert with Ease,
Whom Opera's and Panegyricks please.
~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,
119: Verses Inspired By 'My Old Black Pipe'
Aye ! Many a sport old Homer names.
By Achilles held ' at his little games ',
On the banks of the swift Scamander ;
And Pindar sings the Olympian deeds
Of the ivory car and the milk-white steeds
Of Catullus or Lysander.
How clouds of dust aloft were spurn'd
By wheels that grazed the goals as they turn'd
Till the bright sparks flicker'd redly ;
How the strains of mingled mirth and fury,
That swell'd in the chant of ' Morituri ',
Proclaimed when the sports were deadly.
Ah ! little we cared for classic lore,
When Greek was a task and Latin a bore,
In school-days that are deemed of yore ;
And who will venture to chide us,
If better we loved the play-field green,
And the black-thorn hedge that served as a screen
In the mills that settled our boyish spleen,
From the tutor's eyes to hide us ?
Who envies the bygone days of old ?
They never were half so good as we're told ;
Their loss is not worth bewailing.
We have seen young Camel's slashing stride,
And Archer's rush, and Mormon's pride ;
And the deer-like bound of Ingleside,
At ' five-foot-three ' of a paling.
We've seen how the side of Falcon bled,
And the hopes of Arinna's backers fled
When the Rose of Denmark shot ahead,
And never again they caught her.
How false were the shouts of ' Barwon's first ! '
When she came 'from the distance home' with a burst,
And the favourite's friends devoutly cursed
Old Premier's gamest daughter.
What cheers for King Alfred's white-faced son
Were heard when the Western chase was done,
And the judge's verdict given ;
While Vandyke fell in the beaten ranks,
And the red spots showed on the mare's great flanks
How vainly the steel was driven.
And with anxious longing we wait the day,
When the prads must strip for the coming fray,
To be criticized in rotation ;
But to spot the winner we well not try,
For a mist obscures our mental eye,
And we have not the power of prophecy,
Nor the spirit of divination.
Yet in fancy's glass we may scan the course,
And hear the bookmaker's challenge hoarse,
The odds incessantly dunning ;
We may watch the starter's signal fall,
And the nags may picture, one and all,
For a Cup in a cluster running.
And mark, as they sweep before the stand
How Ebor is going well in hand,
And Banker is pulling double ;
How longer each moment grows the tail,
As one by one the outsiders fail,
To get into grief and trouble.
How Trainor pulls out of Waldock's track,
And Morrison steadies the Caulfield crack,
While up on the right comes the rose and black
Like an eagle that scents the plunder ;
How round the turn they jostle and crush,
And Simpson clears his whip for a rush,
And then on the crowd comes a lull and a hush
And then a roar like thunder.
And when Beaufort collars the Western pet,
Then Greek meets Greek, unconquered yet,
And the tug of war commences ;
As stride for stride, with the stoke of one,
Like greyhounds running with couples on
Together they fly their fences.
There ' Vates ' and ' Rhyming Richard ' too,
Can tell much better than I or you
What nags are likely the trick to do,
Nor will I their judgement sneer at ;
If the gift of second sight were mine,
I'd make a fortune, and then ' I'd shine ',
But I haven't got it, and so I'll sign
' Qui Meruit Palmam Ferat '.
~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,
120: A Pindaric Ode
Brave infant of Saguntum, clear
Thy coming forth in that great year,
When the prodigious Hannibal did crown
His rage with razing your immortal town.
Thou looking then about,
Ere thou wert half got out,
Wise child, didst hastily return,
And mad'st thy mother's womb thine urn.
How summ'd a circle didst thou leave mankind
Of deepest lore, could we the centre find!
Did wiser nature draw thee back,
From out the horror of that sack;
Where shame, faith, honour, and regard of right,
Lay trampled on? The deeds of death and night
Urg'd, hurried forth, and hurl'd
Upon th' affrighted world;
Sword, fire and famine with fell fury met,
And all on utmost ruin set:
As, could they but life's miseries foresee,
No doubt all infants would return like thee.
For what is life, if measur'd by the space,
Not by the act?
Or masked man, if valu'd by his face,
Above his fact?
Here's one outliv'd his peers
And told forth fourscore years:
He vexed time, and busied the whole state;
Troubled both foes and friends;
But ever to no ends:
What did this stirrer but die late?
How well at twenty had he fall'n or stood!
For three of his four score he did no good.
He enter'd well, by virtuous parts
Got up, and thriv'd with honest arts;
He purchas'd friends, and fame, and honours then,
And had his noble name advanc'd with men;
But weary of that flight,
He stoop'd in all men's sight
To sordid flatteries, acts of strife,
And sunk in that dead sea of life,
So deep, as he did then death's waters sup,
But that the cork of title buoy'd him up.
Alas, but Morison fell young!
He never fell,-thou fall'st, my tongue.
He stood, a soldier to the last right end,
A perfect patriot and a noble friend;
But most, a virtuous son.
All offices were done
By him, so ample, full, and round,
In weight, in measure, number, sound,
As, though his age imperfect might appear,
His life was of humanity the sphere.
Go now, and tell out days summ'd up with fears,
And make them years;
Produce thy mass of miseries on the stage,
To swell thine age;
Repeat of things a throng,
To show thou hast been long,
Not liv'd; for life doth her great actions spell,
By what was done and wrought
In season, and so brought
To light: her measures are, how well
Each syllabe answer'd, and was form'd, how fair;
These make the lines of life, and that's her air.
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make men better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far, in May,
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.
Call, noble Lucius, then, for wine,
And let thy looks with gladness shine;
Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,
And think, nay know, thy Morison's not dead.
He leap'd the present age,
Possest with holy rage,
To see that bright eternal day;
Of which we priests and poets say
Such truths as we expect for happy men;
And there he lives with memory, and Ben
Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went
Himself, to rest,
Or taste a part of that full joy he meant
To have exprest,
In this bright asterism,
Where it were friendship's schism,
Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,
To separate these twi{-}
Lights, the Dioscuri,
And keep the one half from his Harry.
But fate doth so alternate the design,
Whilst that in heav'n, this light on earth must shine.
And shine as you exalted are;
Two names of friendship, but one star:
Of hearts the union, and those not by chance
Made, or indenture, or leas'd out t' advance
The profits for a time.
No pleasures vain did chime,
Of rhymes, or riots, at your feasts,
Orgies of drink, or feign'd protests;
But simple love of greatness and of good,
That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.
This made you first to know the why
You lik'd, then after, to apply
That liking; and approach so one the t'other
Till either grew a portion of the other;
Each styled by his end,
The copy of his friend.
You liv'd to be the great surnames
And titles by which all made claims
Unto the virtue: nothing perfect done,
But as a Cary or a Morison.
And such a force the fair example had,
As they that saw
The good and durst not practise it, were glad
That such a law
Was left yet to mankind;
Where they might read and find
Friendship, indeed, was written not in words:
And with the heart, not pen,
Of two so early men,
Whose lines her rolls were, and records;
Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin,
Had sow'd these fruits, and got the harvest in.
~ Ben Jonson,
121: Beer
In those old days which poets say were golden -(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:
And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden
To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,
Who talk to me 'in language quaint and olden'
Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,
Pan with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,
And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)
In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette
(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born.
They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,
No fashions varying as the hues of morn.
Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate,
Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn)
And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,
And were no doubt extremely incorrect.
Yet do I think their theory was pleasant:
And oft, I own, my 'wayward fancy roams'
Back to those times, so different from the present;
When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes,
Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant,
Nor 'did' her hair by means of long-tailed combs,
Nor migrated to Brighton once a year,
Nor -- most astonishing of all -- drank Beer.
25 No, they did not drink Beer, 'which brings me to'
(As Gilpin said) 'the middle of my song.'
27 Not that 'the middle' is precisely true,
Or else I should not tax your patience long:
29 If I had said 'beginning,' it might do;
But I have a dislike to quoting wrong:
31 I was unlucky -- sinned against, not sinning -32 When Cowper wrote down 'middle' for 'beginning.'
So to proceed. That abstinence from Malt
Has always struck me as extremely curious.
The Greek mind must have had some vital fault,
That they should stick to liquors so injurious -(Wine, water, tempered p'raps with Attic salt) -And not at once invent that mild, luxurious,
And artful beverage, Beer. How the digestion
Got on without it, is a startling question.
Had they digestions? and an actual body
Such as dyspepsia might make attacks on?
Were they abstract ideas -- (like Tom Noddy
And Mr. Briggs) -- or men, like Jones and Jackson?
Then nectar -- was that beer, or whisky-toddy?
Some say the Gaelic mixture, I the Saxon:
I think a strict adherence to the latter
Might make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter.
Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shows
That the real beverage for feasting gods on
Is a soft compound, grateful to the nose
And also to the palate, known as 'Hidgson.'
I know a man -- a tailor's son -- who rose
To be a peer: and this I would lay odds on,
(Though in his Memoirs it may not appear,)
That that man owed his rise to copious Beer.
O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsopp, Bass!
Names that should be on every infant's tongue!
Shall days and months and years and centuries pass,
And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?
Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass,
And wished that lyre could yet again be strung
Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her
Misguided sons that the best drink was water.
How would he now recant that wild opinion,
And sing -- as would that I could sing -- of you!
I was not born (alas!) the 'Muses' minion,'
I'm not poetical, not even blue:
And he, we know, but strives with waxen pinion,
Whoe'er he is that entertains the view
Of emulating Pindar, and will be
Sponsor at last to some now nameless sea.
Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burned
With all the lustre of the dying day,
And on Cithæron's brow the reaper turned,
(Humming, of course, in his delightful way,
How Lycidas was dead, and how concerned
The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay;
And how rock told to rock the dreadful story
That poor young Lycidas was gone to glory:)
What would that lone and labouring soul have given,
At that soft moment for a pewter pot!
How had the mists that dimmed his eye been riven,
And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot!
If his own grandmother had died unshriven,
In two short seconds he'd have recked it not;
Such power hath Beer. The heart which Grief hath cankered
Hath one unfailing remedy -- the Tankard.
Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa;
Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen:
When 'Dulce est desipere in loco'
Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.
When a rapt audience has encored 'Fra Poco'
Or 'Casta Diva,' I have heard that then
The Prima Donna, smiling herself out,
Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.
97 But what is coffee, but a noxious berry,
Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?
99 What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry,
But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache?
101 Nay stout itself -- (though good with oysters, very) -102
Is not a thing your reading man should take.
103 He that would shine, and petrify his tutor,
104 Should drink draught Allsopp in its 'native pewter.'
But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear -A soft and silvery sound -- I know it well.
Its tinkling tells me that a time is near
Precious to me -- it is the Dinner Bell.
O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer,
Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:
Seared is, of course, my heart -- but unsubdued
Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.
I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen:
But on one statement I may safely venture:
That few of our most highly gifted men
Have more appreciation of their trencher.
I go. One pound of British beef, and then
What Mr. Swiveller called a 'modest quencher';
That home-returning, I may 'soothly say,'
'Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.'
~ Charles Stuart Calverley,

--- IN CHAPTERS (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)


   1 Philosophy

   2 Sri Aurobindo

   3 The Secret Doctrine

1.26_-_A_general_estimate_of_the_comparative_worth_of_Epic_Poetry_and_Tragedy., #Poetics, #Aristotle, #Christianity
  The question may be raised whether the Epic or Tragic mode of imitation is the higher. If the more refined art is the higher, and the more refined in every case is that which appeals to the better sort of audience, the art which imitates anything and everything is manifestly most unrefined. The audience is supposed to be too dull to comprehend unless something of their own is thrown in by the performers, who therefore indulge in restless movements. Bad flute-players twist and twirl, if they have to represent 'the quoit-throw,' or hustle the coryphaeus when they perform the 'Scylla.' Tragedy, it is said, has this same defect. We may compare the opinion that the older actors entertained of their successors. Mynniscus used to call Callippides
  'ape' on account of the extravagance of his action, and the same view was held of Pindarus. Tragic art, then, as a whole, stands to Epic in the same relation as the younger to the elder actors. So we are told that Epic poetry is addressed to a cultivated audience, who do not need gesture; Tragedy, to an inferior public. Being then unrefined, it is evidently the lower of the two.

2.0_-_THE_ANTICHRIST, #Twilight of the Idols, #Friedrich Nietzsche, #Philosophy
  well enough how far outside the crowd we stand. "Thou wilt find the
  way to the Hyperboreans neither by land nor by water": Pindar already
  knew this much about us. Beyond the north, the ice, and death--_our

  Thus, the Lybians called Mount Atlas "the pillar of Heaven," according to Herodotus (IV., 184), and
  Pindar qualified the later AEtna as "the celestial pillar" (Pyth. 1, 20; Decharme, 315). Atlas was an
  inaccessible island peak in the days of Lemuria, when the African continent had not yet been raised. It
  disgust at the immorality in the pantheons of India and Greece.* We may be told that before them
  Euripides, Pindar, and even Plato, express the same; that they too felt irritated with the tales invented -"those miserable stories of the poets," as Euripides expresses it ([[haoidon hoide dustenoi logoi]],
  Hercules furens, 1346, Dindorf's Edition).

BOOK_I._--_PART_III._SCIENCE_AND_THE_SECRET_DOCTRINE_CONTRASTED, #The Secret Doctrine, #H P Blavatsky, #Theosophy
  Samothrace) the "Kabir born of the Holy Lemnos" (the island sacred to Vulcan).
  According to Pindar (See "Philosophumena," Miller's edition, p. 98), this Kabir, whose name was
  Adamas, was, in the traditions of Lemnos, the type of the primitive man born from the bosom of the

  Verily so, since Pindar's Hymns to Minerva (p. 19) . . . "who sits at the right hand of her Father Jupiter,
  and who is more powerful than all the other (angels or) gods," are likewise applied to the Virgin. It is

Evening_Talks_With_Sri_Aurobindo, #Talks With Sri Aurobindo, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  The idea of greatness of poetry is difficult to standardise. The French poet Villon, if you take his poems one by one, is equal in greatness to any other great poet, but if you take his work in a mass you cant justify his greatness. Petrarch has written only sonnets and that on one subject, and yet he is considered a great poet and given a place next to Dante. Simonides has not a single poem complete, he is known by fragments and yet he is regarded as second to Pindar who is called the greatest lyricist. The Hound of Heaven is a far greater poem than any of Oscar Wildes or Chestertons.

Talks_With_Sri_Aurobindo_1, #unset, #G. W. F. Hegel, #Philosophy
  And yet he is considered a great poet and given a place next to Dante. Simonides has not a single surviving complete poem; he is known only by his
  fragments. But he is ranked as a great poet, second only to Pindar who is the
  greatest Greek lyricist. Nor has Pindar himself written very much. Sappho
  has come down to us in only one complete poem: the rest of her is in mere

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