Fortunate Isles

Hesiod then describes a fourth age set apart from the strict downward pattern of the rest, an age of heroes, nobler and more righteous by far than the Bronze Age that came immediately before it, the very age that produced the heroes and the great wars whose stories still lie ahead of us tonight, the age of Heracles and Theseus and the long siege of Troy itself, men Hesiod calls demigods, a race better and more just than the one that came before.

Some of these heroes, when their age finally ended, met their deaths in battle beneath the walls of Troy or in the terrible feuding around Thebes, while others were carried by the gods to a paradise called the Isles of the Blessed at the ends of the earth beside the deep swirling stream of ocean to live on forever in a peace their own world had never quite offered them while they lived.

the earth there bearing sweet fruit three times over every year without any need for labor at all finally comes the iron age hesiod's own age and in his telling ours as well a harder and far more exhausting time than any that came before it full of endless labor grief and a growing disrespect between parents and children that troubled him deeply as he set his pen to the page Men in this age would no longer keep faith with their oaths, Hesiod warns, and a father would grow to hate his own aging son, and a guest would betray the host who sheltered him.

Hesiod predicted this age too would one day end.

Mm

... that Helen is an honor for Menelaus, where we're told that Menelaus will go to the Isle of the Blessed because he's Zeus' son-in-law, not on, on his own merit-

Mm-hmm

...

Whence inspiration for a song that winds through ever-changing scenes of votive quest, wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid to patient courage and unblemished truth, to firm devotion, zeal unquenchable, and Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.

Sometimes more sternly moved, I would relate how vanquished Mithridates northward passed, and, hidden in the cloud of years, became Odin, the father of a race by whom perished the Roman empire; how the friends and followers of Sertorius out of Spain flying found shelter in the Fortunate Isles, and left their usages, their arts and laws, to disappear by a slow gradual death, to dwindle and to perish one by one, starved in these narrow bounds; but not the soul of liberty, which fifteen hundred years survived, and when the European came with skill and power that might not be withstood, did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold, and wasted down by glorious death that race of natural heroes.

Or I would record how, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man, unnamed among the chronicles of kings, suffered in silence for truth's sake; or tell how that one Frenchman Through continued force of meditation on the inhuman deeds of those who conquered first the Indian isles, went single in his ministry across the ocean: not to comfort the oppressed, but like a thirsty wind to roam about withering the oppressor.

How Gustavus sought help at his need in Gallicalia's mines! How Wallace fought Scotland! Left the name of Wallace to be found like a wild flower all over his dear country: left the deeds of Wallace like a family of ghosts to people the steep rocks and river banks, her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul of independence and stern liberty.

Whence inspiration for a song that winds through ever-changing scenes of votive quest, wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid to patient courage and unblemished truth, to firm devotion, zeal unquenchable, and Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.

Sometimes more sternly moved, I would relate how vanquished Mithridates northward passed, and, hidden in the cloud of years, became Odin, the father of a race by whom perished the Roman Empire, how the friends and followers of Sertorius out of Spain flying found shelter in the Fortunate Isles, and left their usages, their arts and laws, to disappear by a slow gradual death, to dwindle and to perish one by one, starved in these narrow bounds.

But not the soul of liberty, which fifteen hundred years survived, and when the European came with skill and power that might not be withstood, did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold, and wasted down by glorious death that race of natural heroes.

Or I would record how, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man, unnamed among the chronicles of kings, suffered in silence for truth's sake.

He calls it Atlantis, and it was, he says, sunk below the sea by an earthquake.

the phoenicians were wonderful sailors their ships had gone out of the mediterranean into the other sea and had reached the british isles and in all probability they sailed as far west as the canaries we find indeed in classical literature many references to supposed islands and countries out beyond the atlantic The ancients called these places the Islands of the Blessed and the Fortunate Isles.

It is perhaps not unnatural that in the earlier writers the existence of these remote and mysterious regions should be linked with the ideas of the Elysian fields and of the abodes of the dead.

But the later writers, such as Pliny and Strabo, the geographer, talked of them as actual places, and tried to estimate how many Roman miles they must be distant from the coast of Spain.

Sometimes the ambitious power of choice mistaking proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea will settle on some British theme some old romantic tale by Milton left unsung more often turning to some gentle place within the groves of chivalry I pipe to shepherd swains or seated harp in hand amid reposing knights by a riverside or fountain listen to the grave reports of dire enchantments faced and overcome by the strong mind and tales of warlike feats where spear encountered spear and sword with sword fought as if conscious of the blazonry that the shield bore so glorious was the strife whence inspiration for a song that winds through ever-changing scenes of votive quest wrongs to redress harmonious tribute paid to patient courage and unblemished truth to firm devotion zeal unquenchable and Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.

Sometimes more sternly moved I would relate how vanquished Mithridates northward passed and hidden in the cloud of years became Odin the father of a race by whom perished the Roman empire how the friends and followers of Sertorius out of Spain flying found shelter in the Fortunate Isles and left their usages their arts and laws to disappear by a slow gradual death to dwindle and to perish one by one starved in these narrow bounds but not the soul of liberty which fifteen hundred years survived and when the European came with skill and power that might not be withstood did like a pestilence maintain its hold and wasted down by glorious death that race of natural heroes.

Or I would record how in tyrannic times some high-souled man unnamed among the chronicles of kings suffered in silence for truth's sake or tell how that one Frenchman through continued force of meditation on the inhuman deeds of those who conquered first the Indian Isles went single in his ministry across the ocean not to comfort the oppressed but like a thirsty wind to roam about withering the oppressor how Gustavus sought help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines how Wallace fought for Scotland left the name of Wallace to be found like a wild flower all over his dear country left the deeds of Wallace like a family of ghosts to people the steep rocks and river banks her natural sanctuaries with a local soul of independence and stern liberty.

Sometimes it suits me better to invent a tale from my own heart more near akin to my own passions and habitual thoughts some variegated story in the main lofty but the unsubstantial structure melts before the very sun that brightens it mist into air dissolving.

Sometimes the ambitious power of choice, Mistaking proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea, Will settle on some British theme, Some old romantic tale by Milton left unsung; More often turning to some gentle place Within the groves of chivalry, I pipe To shepherd swains, or, seated harp in hand Amid reposing knights by a river-side or fountain, Listen to the grave reports of dire enchantments Faced and overcome by the strong mind, And tales of warlike feats, where spear encountered spear, And sword with sword fought, as if conscious of The blazonry that the shield bore, so glorious was the strife: Whence inspiration for a song that winds Through ever-changing scenes of votive quest, Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid To patient courage and unblemished truth, To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable, And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.

Sometimes more sternly moved, I would relate How vanquished Mithridates northward passed, And, hidden in the cloud of years, became Odin, The father of a race by whom perished The Roman empire; how the friends and followers Of Sertorius out of Spain flying Found shelter in the Fortunate Isles, And left their usages, their arts and laws To disappear by a slow gradual death, To dwindle and to perish one by one, Starved in these narrow bounds; but not the soul Of liberty, which fifteen hundred years survived, And when the European came with skill and power That might not be withstood, did, like a pestilence, Maintain its hold, and wasted down by glorious death That race of natural heroes.

Or I would record how, in tyrannic times, Some high-souled man, unnamed among the chronicles of kings, Suffered in silence for truth's sake; Or tell how that one Frenchman, through continued force Of meditation on the inhuman deeds Of those who conquered first the Indian Isles, Went single in his ministry across the ocean, Not to comfort the oppressed, but like a thirsty wind To roam about withering the oppressor; How Gustavus sought help at his need In Gallicalia's mines; how Wallace fought Scotland, Left the name of Wallace to be found like a wild-flower All over his dear country, left the deeds of Wallace Like a family of ghosts to people the steep rocks And river banks, her natural sanctuaries, With a local soul of independence and stern liberty.

Sometimes it suits me better to invent a tale from my own heart, More near akin to my own passions and habitual thoughts, Some variegated story, in the main lofty, But the unsubstantial structure melts before The very sun that brightens it, mist into air dissolving.

Homer tells us how Zeus and Poseidon and Pluto divided the empire which they inherited from their father.

Now in the days of Cronos there existed a law respecting the destiny of man, which has always been and still continues to be in heaven, that he who has lived all his life in justice and holiness shall go, when he is dead, to the islands of the blessed, and dwell there in perfect happiness out of the reach of evil, but that he who has lived unjustly and impiously shall go to the house of vengeance and punishment, which is called Tartarus.

And in the time of Cronos, and even quite lately in the reign of Zeus, the judgment was given on the very day on which the men were to die.

The judges were alive, and the men were alive.

And the consequence was that the judgments were not well given.

And the consequence was that the judgments were not well given.

Then Pluto and the authorities from the islands of the blessed came to Zeus and said that the souls found their way to the wrong places.

Forget whatever plans you have this weekend because you're staying at home and playing on SpinQuest.