Poetry of Tyrtaeus From Tyrtaeus of Sparta. As reproduced in Early Greek Lyric Poetry, trans. David Mulroy (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1992), 48-49. 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. Copyright © University of Michigan Press. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher.