Hoplite Revolution

A selection of poems (usually fragments) of Tyrtaeus, Archilochus, and Theognis for background in discussing the challenge mounted to the aristocratic ideal by the new style of fighting, the hoplite formation. All translations by Walter Donlan.

Dates:

Tyrtaeus is an elegiac poet of the seventh century B. C. He was probably a Spartan, since he was a general. He led the Spartains in the second Messenian War and helped take Messene. That is, he has experience as a commander and a fighter.

Archilochus is an iambic and elegiac poet from Paros, an island in the Aegean Sea. He lived probably in the seventh century, since he mentions an eclipse that probably fell on 14 March 711 B.. He was engaged in warfare on Thasos, an island in the northern Aegean.

Tyrtaeus

Let each man hold, standing firm, both feet planted on the ground,

biting his lip with his teeth, covering with the belly of his broad

shield his thighs and lets, his breast and shoulders . . let each man,

Closing with the enemy, fighting hand-to-hand with long spear or

sword, wound and take him; and setting foot against foot, and resting

shield against shield, crest against crest, helmet against helmet

let him fight his man breast to breast, grasping the hilt of his sword

or of his long spear.

For the man is not agathos (brave) in war, unless he endure seeing the bloody

slaughter, and standing close reach out for the foe. This is arete, this is the

best and loveliest prize for the young man to win. A common good this,

for the whole poolis and all the demos, when a man holds, firm-set among the

fighters, unflinchingly.....

For it is a fine thing for an agathos man to die, falling among the front-fighters,

fighting for his fatherland.....

Archilochus

I am a squire of the lord of war, Enyalius, and I understand the lovely gift of the Muses.

Some barbarian is waving my shield, since I was obliged to

leave that perfectly good piece of equipment behind

under a bush. But I got away, so what does it matter?

Let the shield go; I can buy another one equally good.

A mercenary, Glaukos, is a friend-so long as he's fighting.

There's no respect or fame from townsmen when you're dead. It's the praise of the living we want-while we're alive. A dead man gets the worst of it, every time.

I don't like a general who is big or who walks with a swagger, or who

glories in his curly hair, cut-off moustache. Give me a man who's little,

bandy-legged, feet firm on the ground, and full of heart.