Apollo on the Pythagorean Tradition

[sdi]

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Mnesarchos the Samian was in Delphi on a business trip, with his wife, who was already pregnant but did not know it. He consulted the Pythia about his voyage to Syria. The oracle replied that his voyage would be most satisfying and profitable, and that his wife was already pregnant and would give birth to a child surpassing all others in beauty and wisdom, who would be of the greatest benefit to the human race in all aspects of life. Mnesarchos reckoned that the god would not have told him, unasked, about a child, unless there was indeed to be some exceptional and god-given superiority in him. So he promptly changed his wife's name from Parthenis to Pythais, because of the birth and the prophetess. When she gave birth, at Sidon in Phœnicia, he called his son Pythagoras ["Pythia speaks"], because the child had been foretold by the Pythia.

(Iamblichus, On the Pythagorean Life, as translated by Gillian Clark)

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Well, Chærephon, as you know, was very impetuous in all his doings, and he went to Delphi and boldly asked the oracle to tell him whether [...] there was anyone wiser than I was, and the Pythian prophetess answered that there was no man wiser. [...]

When I heard the answer, I said to myself, "What can the god mean? and what is the interpretation of this riddle? for I know that I have no wisdom, small or great. What can he mean when he says that I am the wisest of men? And yet he is a god and cannot lie; that would be against his nature." [...]

The truth is [...] that God only is wise; and in this oracle he means to say that the wisdom of men is little or nothing; he is not speaking of Socrates, he is only using my name as an illustration, as if he said, "He [...] is the wisest, who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing."

(Socrates, as quoted by Plato, and as translated by Benjamin Jowett)

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Apollo was consulted by Amelius, who desired to learn where Plotinus' soul had gone. [...]

Celestial! Man at first but now nearing the diviner ranks! the bonds of human necessity are loosed for you and, strong of heart, you beat your eager way from out the roaring tumult of the fleshly life to the shores of that wave-washed coast free from the thronging of the guilty, thence to take the grateful path of the sinless soul: where glows the splendour of God, where Right is throned in the stainless place, far from the wrong that mocks at law.

Oft-times as you strove to rise above the bitter waves of this blood-drenched life, above the sickening whirl, toiling in the mid-most of the rushing flood and the unimaginable turmoil, oft-times, from the Ever-Blessed, there was shown to you the Term still close at hand:

Oft-times, when your mind thrust out awry and was like to be rapt down unsanctioned paths, the Immortals themselves prevented, guiding you on the straightgoing way to the celestial spheres, pouring down before you a dense shaft of light that your eyes might see from amid the mournful gloom.

Sleep never closed those eyes: high above the heavy murk of the mist you held them; tossed in the welter, you still had vision; still you saw sights many and fair not granted to all that labour in wisdom's quest.

But now that you have cast the screen aside, quitted the tomb that held your lofty soul, you enter at once the heavenly consort: where fragrant breezes play, where all is unison and winning tenderness and guileless joy, and the place is lavish of the nectar-streams the unfailing Gods bestow, with the blandishments of the Loves, and delicious airs, and tranquil sky: where Minos and Rhadamanthus dwell, great brethren of the golden race of mighty Zeus; where dwell the just Æacus, and Plato, consecrated power, and stately Pythagoras and all else that form the Choir of Immortal Love, that share their parentage with the most blessed spirits, there where the heart is ever lifted in joyous festival.

O Blessed One, you have fought your many fights; now, crowned with unfading life, your days are with the Ever-Holy.

(Porphyry, Life of Plotinus, as translated by Stephen MacKenna)

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[Julian] sent Oribasius, physician and quæstor, to rebuild the temple of Apollo at Delphi. Arriving there and taking the task in hand, he received an oracle from the dæmon:

Tell the emperor that the Daidalic hall has fallen.
No longer does Phœbus have his chamber, nor mantic laurel,
Nor prophetic spring, and the speaking water has been silenced.

(George Kedrenos, as translated by Timothy E. Gregory)

Comments

[boccaderlupo]

The Porphyry quote is quite moving. Thank you for sharing.

[sdi]

A little gift! Here is a verse translation from Frederic William Henry Myers:

Pure spirit—once a man—pure spirits now
Greet thee rejoicing, and of these art thou;
Not vainly was thy whole soul always bent
With one same battle and one the same intent
Through eddying cloud and earth's bewildering roar
To win her bright way to that stainless shore.
Ay, 'mid the salt spume of this troublous sea,
This death in life, this sick perplexity,
Oft on thy struggle through the obscure unrest
A revelation opened from the Blest—
Showed close at hand the goal thy hope would win,
Heaven's kingdom round thee and thy God within.
So sure a help the eternal Guardians gave,
From life's confusion so were strong to save,
Upheld thy wandering steps that sought the day
And set them steadfast on the heavenly way.
Nor quite even here on thy broad brows was shed
The sleep which shrouds the living, who are dead;
Once by God's grace was from thine eyes unfurled
This veil that screens the immense and whirling world,
Once, while the spheres around thee in music ran,
Was very Beauty manifest to man;—
Ah, once to have seen her, once to have known her there,
For speech too sweet, for earth to heavenly fair!
But now the tomb where long thy soul had lain
Bursts, and thy tabernacle is rent in twain;
Now from about thee, in thy new home above,
Has perished all but life, and all but love,—
And on all lives and on all loves outpoured
Free grace and full, a spirit from the Lord,
High in that heaven whose windless vaults enfold
Just men made perfect, and an age all gold.
Thine own Pythagoras is with thee there,
And sacred Plato in that sacred air,
And whose followed, and all high hearts that knew
In death's despite what deathless Love can do.
To God's right hand they have scaled the starry way—
Pure spirits these, thy spirit pure as they.
Ah, saint! how many and many an anguish past,
To how fair haven art thou come at last!
On thy meek head what Powers their blessing pour,
Filled full with life, and rich for evermore!

[sdi]

This translation of the poem is by Dr. Henry More, and found in The Platonist, vol. 2, no. 9, p. 129.

I tune my strings to sing some sacred verse
Of my dear friend: in an immortal strein
His might praise I loudly will reherse
With honey-dewer words: some golden vein
The stricken chorns right weetly shall resound.
Come, blessed Muses, let's with one join noise,
With strong impulse, and hull harmonious sound,
Speak out his excellent worth. Advance your noice,
As once you did for great Æacides,
Wrapt with an heavenly rage, in decent dance,
Mov'd at the measures of Meonides.
Go to, you holy quire, let's all at once
Begin, and to the end hold up the song,
Into one heavenly harmony conspire;
I Phœbos with my lovely locks among
The midst of you shall sit, and life inspire.

Divine Plotinos! yet now more divine
Than when thy noble soul so stoutly strove
In that dark prison, where strong chains confine
Keep down the active mind it cannot move
To what it loveth most. Those fleshly bands
Thou now hast loos'd, broke from necessitie.
From bodies storms, and frothie works sands
Of this low restless life now setten free,
Thy feet do safely stand upon a shore,
Which foaming waves beat not in swelling rage,
Nor angry seas do threat with fell uprore;
Well hast thou swommen out, and left that stage
Of wicked actours, that tumultous rout
Of ignorant men. Now thy pure steps thous stay'st
In that high path, where God's light shines about,
And perfect Right its beauteous beams displayes.
How oft, when bitter wave of troubled flesh,
And whirlpool-turnings of the lower spright,
Thou stoutly s'rov'st with, heaven did thee refresh,
Held out a mark to guide thy wandring flight,
While thou in tumbling seas didst strongly toil
To reach the steadie Land, struckst with thy arms
The deafing surges, that with rage do boil:
Stear'd by that sign thou shunn'st those common harms.
How oft, when rasher cast of thy soul's eye
Had thee misguided into crooked wayes,
Wast thou directed by the Deitie?
They held out to thee their bright lamping rayes,
Dispers'd the mistie darkness, safely set
Thy feeble feet in the right path again.
Nor easie sleep so closely ere beset
Thy eyelids, nor did dimness ere so stain
Thy radiant sight, but thou such things didst see
Even in that tumult, that few can arrive
Of all named from Philosophie
To that high pitch, or to such secrets dive.

But sith this body thy pure soul divine
Hath left, quite risen from her rotten grave,
Thou now among those heavenly wights dost shine,
Whose abode this glorious lustre doth embrave:
There lovely friendship, mild-smiling Cupid's there,
With lively looks and amorous suavitie,
Full of pure pleasure, and fresh flowring cheer:
Ambrosian streams, sprang from the Deitie
Do frankly flow, and soft love-kindling winds
Do strike with a delicious sympathie
Those thender spirits, and fill up their minds
With satisfying joy. The puritie
Of holy fire their heart doth then invade,
And sweet perswasion, meek tranquillitie,
The gentle-breathing aire, the heavens nought sad
Do maken up this great felicitie.
Here Rhadamanthos, and just Æakos,
Here Minos abides, with those that liv'd of yore
I' th' golden age; here Plato vigorous
In holy virtue, and fair Pythagore.
These been the goodly offspring of Great Jove,
And liven here, and whoso fill'd the quire
And sweet assembly of immortal love
Purging their spirits with refining fire;
These with the happie angels live in blisse,
Full fraught with joy, and lasting pure delight,
In friendly feasts, and life-outfetching kisse.
But, ah! dear Plotin, what smart did thy spright
Endure, before thou reach'st this high degree
Of happiness? What agonies, what pains
Thou underwenst'st to set thy soul so free
From baser life? It now in heaven remains
'Mongst the pure Angels. O thrice happy wight!
That now art got into the Land of Life,
Fast plac'd in view of that Eternal Light,
And sitt'st secure from the foul bodie's strife.

But now, you comely virgins, make an end,
Break off this music, and deft seemly round,
Leave off your dance: For Plotin my dear friend
Thus much I meant my golden harp should sound.