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Updated: May 15, 2025
Pulszky is zealous in the Greek tragedians, and I have been helping him to a little Sophocles which put me up to translating the 1st Chorus after I had been reading it with him...." Here is the translation to which allusion is made: 1st Strophe
"But his best book to my thinking is by far, 'Peristephanon, that is to say, the hymns celebrating the glory of the martyrs. "I was saying just now that the hymns of Prudentius, by the dramatic rapidity of the narrative, by the composition of the strophe, and by their wit, remind me very forcibly of our English ballads.
Through what vicissitudes had passed these royal tombs, to which the coffin of Louis XVIII. was borne! Read in the work of M. Georges d'Heylli, Les Tombes royales de Saint-Denis, the story of these profanations and restorations. The Moniteur of the 6th of February, 1793, published in its literary miscellany, a so-called patriotic ode, by the poet Lebrun, containing the following strophe:
Peaslee's reflections rose in a strophe of hope and fell in an antistrophe of despair. "'T ain't likely it hurt him any just bird shot," said Hope. "Bird shot's mighty irritatin' specially to a wrathy fellow," said Despair. And alternating thus, his thoughts ran on: "Bird shot'll show I didn't have any serious intent; but mebbe a piece of the marble struck him.
The first strophe is eminently happy; in the second he has a little strayed from Pindar's meaning, who says, "If thou, my soul, wishest to speak of games, look not in the desert sky for a planet hotter than the sun; nor shall we tell of nobler games than those of Olympia." He is sometimes too paraphrastical.
A legend was a-making round about the strange life not fifty years closed, a life which seems, extravagance apart, to have been a lyrical outburst, a strophe in the hymn of praise which certain happy people were singing just then. It was a Gloria in Excelsis for a second time in Christian Annals which did not end in a wail of "Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata, miserere." Why should it?
In the central buildings, five feet above this noisy confluence of people, where the golden images of the Buddhas are enthroned, the mitred priests with their copes of gold-embroidered brown were performing the rituals of their order. To right and left of the high altar, the canons squatting at their red-lacquered praying-desks, were reciting the sutras in strophe and antistrophe.
And if we do but peer into their labyrinth of graceful windings and reach their Chrimhilde Rose-garden, we shall find it begirt with the strong, fighting men of humor. This element lurks under many a musical strophe and crowns many a regal verse. And yet in real humorous poetry we have been sadly deficient.
Master Christian seated himself at the piano, to accompany her, and commenced a prelude. The first notes of the young girl were like a gentle murmur. By degrees her voice became firmer and stronger, until at the end of each strophe the word eleïson rose like a sonorous hymn to heaven. The measure was remarkably slow, simple, and full of a tranquil melody.
It is absolutely preposterous to suppose that the effect on a Greek ear of a strophe even of Sophocles or Euripides, let alone the great Agamemnonian choruses, was anything like the effect on an English ear of such wooden stuff as this: "Three brothers roved the field, And to two did Destiny Give the thrones that they conquer'd, But the third, what delays him From his unattained crown?"
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