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Orphic Hymn 71 is addressed to Melinoe, and describes her as follows (in the translation by Apostolos Athanassakis and Benjamin M. Wolkow): I call upon Melinoë, saffron-cloaked nymph of the earth, whom revered Persephone bore by the mouth of the Kokytos river upon the sacred bed of Kronian Zeus.
The collection of eighty-seven hymns is preceded by a proem, in which Orpheus addresses his student Musaeus, calling upon various deities to attend the recitation of the hymns. The individual hymns in the collection, which are all very brief, typically call for the attention of the deity they address, before describing them, and highlighting ...
The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.It was held annually, mostly around the time that seeds were sown in late autumn – though in some places it was associated with the harvest instead – and celebrated human and agricultural fertility.
Aeterne rerum conditor (English "Eternal Maker of all") is an early Christian hymn among those attributed to Ambrose of Milan. [1]A dawn hymn, the hymn refers to Lucifer, the Morning Star, Christ, following 2 Peter 1:19 "until the day dawns and the morning star arises in your hearts".
The Athenians executed the men of fighting age [24] and sold the women and children into slavery. They then settled 500 of their own colonists on the island. [25]In 405 BC, by which time Athens was losing the war, the Spartan general Lysander expelled the Athenian colonists from Melos and restored the survivors of the siege to the island.
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Upon summoning the jackal, the jackal claimed he had given the meat to the appointed food person to give to the king. The appointed food person denied ever receiving the meat. The lion sent a search party to the jackal's house where they found the meat, thereby incriminating the jackal, resulting in him being thrown into jail.
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decayed, And my sick Muse doth give another place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again;