It is a
beautiful thing when a good man falls and dies fighting for
his country.
The worst pain is leaving one's city and fertile fields for
the life of a beggar,
wandering with mother, old father, little children, and
wedded wife.
The man beaten by need and odious poverty is detested
everywhere he goes,
a disgrace to his family and noble appearance, trailed by
dishonor and evil.
If no one takes care of the wanderer or gives him honor,
respect, or pity,
we must fight to the death for our land and children, giving
no thought to lengthening life.
Fight in a stubborn, close array, my boys! Never waver or
retreat!
Feel your anger swell. There is no place in combat for love
of life.
Older soldiers, whose knees are not so light, need you to
stand and protect them.
An aging warrior cut down in the vanguard of battle
disgraces the young. His head
is white, his beard is grey, and now he is spilling his
powerful spirit in dust,
naked, clutching his bloody groin: a sight for shame and
anger. But youthful
warriors always look good, until the blossom withers. Men
gape
at them and women sigh, and dying in combat they are
handsome still.
Now is the time for a man to stand, planting his feet and
biting his lip.
From Tyrtaeus
of Sparta. As reproduced in Early Greek Lyric Poetry,
trans. David Mulroy (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan
Press, 1992), 48-49.