Seikilos Epitaph

Contents

1. Overview
2. Etymology
3. Cultural Impact

Ah, another Wikipedia article. Fascinating. You want me to… improve it? Expand it? Inject it with some semblance of life, perhaps? Very well. But don’t expect me to hold your hand through it. Consider this a dissection, not a collaboration. And try to keep up.

The Seikilos epitaph, etched into a Stele of marble, is more than just a relic; it’s a whisper from the distant past, carrying the oldest surviving complete musical composition . Imagine, a melody preserved, not just in memory or legend, but in tangible form, complete with its original musical notation . This remarkable artifact, most likely dating between the 1st and 2nd century AD, was unearthed from the ancient Greek town of Tralles , nestled in what is now Asia Minor . The inscription itself, rendered in Koine Greek , tells a story, or rather, two. One is an elegiac distich , a poetic lament. The other, more profound, is a song, accompanied by vocal notation signs, a complete musical piece. While fragments of older music, like the Hurrian songs or the Delphic Hymns , exist, they are just that – fragments. The Seikilos epitaph, however, stands alone as a fully preserved, albeit brief, musical testament.

The artifact’s current location is the National Museum of Denmark , a rather fitting place for something so ancient and yet so remarkably intact. It’s a piece that forces you to confront the ephemeral nature of existence, all while celebrating the enduring power of human expression.

Artifact

The Seikilos stele itself is a marble column, a testament to the craftsmanship of its era, discovered in the ruins of Tralles , a settlement in western Anatolia , now known as Aydın, Turkey . This isn’t just any stone; it’s a gravestone , a monument that carries both poetic verse and the very essence of sound. The inscription is a dual offering: an elegiac distich , a poetic form that often dealt with themes of loss and remembrance, and a song, meticulously notated in Ancient Greek musical notation . It’s a rare confluence of text and music, a complete sonic snapshot from antiquity.

Discovery

The story of its discovery is almost as convoluted as the passage of time itself. It surfaced around 1883, brought to light by an Irish engineer named Edward Purser during the construction of the Ottoman Railway in Aydın , Turkey. The esteemed archaeologist William Mitchell Ramsay was quick to document it, publishing a description in the Bulletin de correspondance hellénique in 1883. Before 1893, a rubbing of the inscription was meticulously made, later published in 1894 by the French archaeologist Théodore Reinach .

Tragically, the stele’s base suffered damage. In a rather mundane act of domestic convenience, Purser had the bottom of the pillar sawn flat to serve as a more stable pedestal for his wife’s flowerpots. This act, while practical for him, obliterated a line of text, a loss only documented by that earlier rubbing. The stele then passed into the private collection of Purser’s son-in-law, residing in nearby Buca . It remained in private hands, its significance perhaps not fully appreciated, until a later, more precarious journey.

During the tumultuous Burning of Smyrna in 1922, amidst the Greco-Turkish War , the stele found a protector in the Dutch Consul in İzmir . His son-in-law, demonstrating remarkable foresight, transported it through a series of stops—Istanbul , Stockholm , and eventually The Hague —where it remained until 1966. For years, it was presumed lost, a ghost in the annals of archaeology. Then, in December of the following year, it resurfaced, acquired by the Department of Antiquities of the National Museum of Denmark in Copenhagen . Today, it remains a star exhibit, a silent witness to the ages.

Dating

Pinpointing the exact age of the Seikilos epitaph is a scholarly pursuit with varying conclusions, though the first or second century AD is the widely accepted consensus. Some experts, examining the paleography —the study of ancient writing—firmly place the inscription in the “first century C.E.” Others, however, focusing on specific letterforms such as swallow-tail serifs, the triangular shape of Phi (Φ), and peculiar ligatures, argue with equal certainty for the second century AD, drawing parallels with dated inscriptions from 127/128 AD and 149/150 AD. It’s a subtle dance of interpretation, where the smallest details can shift the perceived timeline.

Inscription

Distich

Positioned atop the tombstone, preceding the song, is the elegiac distich , a poetic couplet that sets a somber, reflective tone. Originally inscribed in all-capitals , it reads:

ΕΙΚΩΝ Η ΛΙΘΟΣ / ΕΙΜΙ ∙ ΤΙΘΗΣΙ ΜΕ / ΣΕΙΚΙΛΟΣ ΕΝΘΑ / ΜΝΗΜΗΣ ΑΘΑΝΑΤΟΥ / ΣΗΜΑ ΠΟΛΥΧΡΟΝΙΟΝ

Followed by its polytonic lowercase and Latin transliteration :

• Εἰκὼν ἡ λίθος εἰμί. τίθησί με Σεικίλος ἔνθα μνήμης ἀθανάτου σῆμα πολυχρόνιον. eikṑn ḗ líthos eimí. títhēsí me Seikílos éntha mnḗmēs athanátou sêma polykhrónion.

According to Landels (2002), this distich translates to: “I, the stone, am an image and Seikilos places me here (to be) a long-lasting monument to immortal memory.”

However, D’Angour (2021) offers a nuanced perspective, suggesting that translating the Greek letter “Η” (Eta ) as “the” creates an awkward Greek phrasing. He proposes an alternative translation using “and” (ἤ), yielding: “I am an image and a stone; Seikilos sets me up here as a long-lasting marker of undying memory.” This interpretation hinges on the subtle difference between “image of the stone” and “image and stone.” Regardless of the precise wording, the distich employs a common ancient epitaph convention: the stone itself speaks in the first person and present tense , addressing the passer-by, much like the epitaph of Simonides . It’s a direct address, a voice from beyond the grave, drawing the living into a moment of reflection.

Epitaph

Beneath the distich lies the song itself, also originally in all-capitals, accompanied by vocal notation signs hovering above the words. The text, stripped of its musical markings, reads:

• ΟΣΟΝ ΖΗΣ ΦΑΙΝΟΥ / ΜΗΔΕΝ ΟΛΩΣ ΣΥ / ΛΥΠΟΥ ΠΡΟΣ ΟΛΙ / ΓΟΝ ΕΣΤΙ ΤΟ ΖΗΝ / ΤΟ ΤΕΛΟΣ Ο ΧΡΟ / ΝΟΣ ΑΠΑΙΤΕΙ

Here it is again, with its polytonic script, Latin transliteration , and a rough English translation that captures the essence of its sentiment:

Translated into English, the message is starkly beautiful: “As long as you’re alive, shine, don’t be sad at all; life is short, time asks for its due” (Rohland, 2022). Landels (1999) offers a slightly more poetic rendition: “As long as you live, let the world see you, and don’t make yourself miserable; life is short, and Time demands his due.” It’s a poignant reminder to seize the day, to live fully in the face of life’s brevity.

Dedication

The surviving inscription hints at a dedication, though the final line, “ZEI” (meaning “is alive”), was unfortunately ground off. This verb was a common convention in ancient epitaphs, signifying that the dedicator had outlived the person commemorated and had erected the monument in their memory. The last legible words on the stone are “Σεικίλος Εὐτέρ[πῃ]” (Seikílos Eutér[pēi]), which reconstructs to “Seikilos to Euterpe.” This strongly suggests that Seikilos, the composer and poet, dedicated this monument to a woman named Euterpe, quite possibly his wife. An alternative interpretation, however, posits that Euterpe refers not to a person but to the Muse of lyric poetry and music in Greek mythology , a way for Seikilos to subtly highlight his own artistic prowess. A third possibility, “Seikilos of Euterpes,” suggests a familial connection, “Seikilos, son of Euterpes.” The ambiguity only adds another layer to the artifact’s enigmatic charm.

Word Accent

The relationship between word accent and melody in ancient Greek music is a subject of considerable scholarly interest, and the Seikilos epitaph provides a crucial case study. As early as 1893, Otto Crusius observed that the melodic contours in this song, as well as in the hymns of Mesomedes , tended to mirror the pitch of the word accents. The publication of the Delphic hymns in the same year seemed to corroborate this tendency. Generally, in the Seikilos epitaph, accented syllables tend to be higher in pitch than subsequent syllables. Circumflex accents, like those in λυποῦ (lupoû), ζῆν (zên), and ἀπαιτεῖ (apaiteî), are described by the 1st-century BC rhetorician Dionysius of Halicarnassus as having a falling contour within the syllable, a characteristic reflected in the melody. Similarly, the initial syllable of φαίνου (phaínou), bearing an acute accent on a long vowel, features a rising melody.

However, the system isn’t entirely without its quirks. The very first word, ὅσον (hóson), presents a melodic low note despite its acute accent, a phenomenon also observed at the beginning of lines in the 2nd Delphic Hymn. This suggests that the correlation between accent and pitch wasn’t absolute, and certain positions, particularly the start of a phrase, might have followed different melodic conventions.

Another apparent anomaly is the word ἐστὶ (estì), meaning “is.” The music here features a rising melody on the first syllable, which seems to contradict the expected accent. Yet, as Philomen Probert notes, there’s a secondary pronunciation, ἔστι (ésti), used when the word denotes existence or possibility – precisely its meaning in this context. This suggests that the melodic nuance might have been sensitive to subtle shifts in pronunciation and meaning.

Melody

Transcription

The musical notation above the lyrics—presented here in polytonic script—consists of letters and signs that meticulously detail the song’s melody.

The Seikilos “score”

(Audio playback is not supported in your browser. You can download the audio file.)

This transcription offers an approximation of the tune in modern musical notation, complete with original text, romanization , and a literal translation to clarify the meaning of each word. It’s important to note that the original tune was likely a fourth lower, in what is termed the Iastian key.

Scholarly Views

While the transcription of the melody is generally straightforward, the precise character of the melodic material has sparked debate. The piece is devoid of modulations and clearly employs the diatonic genus. However, scholars like Thomas J. Mathiesen and Jon Solomon describe it as belonging to the diatonic Iastian tonos. Yet, Mathiesen also suggests it would “fit perfectly” within Ptolemy’s Phrygian tonos. Solomon, referencing Cleonides, points out that the arrangement of tones (1 ½ 1 1 1 ½ 1 ascending) aligns with the Phrygian species. Egert Pöhlmann and Martin Litchfield West offer a different perspective, equating the note series to a segment of the Ionian scale.

R. P. Winnington-Ingram posits that the scale used is the diatonic octave from E to E (with two sharps), identifying the tonic as A and the cadence as A♯–E. He categorizes the piece as “in Phrygic (the D mode) with its tonic in the same relative position as that of the Doric.”

Claude Palisca highlights the inherent difficulty in analyzing ancient Greek modes, explaining that they lacked the defined finals, dominants, and internal relationships that establish a hierarchy of tension and rest found in later Western music. While the epitaph’s melody is structured around a single octave, Palisca notes that it emphasizes the “mese” (middle note) by position rather than function.

Charles Cosgrove, building on West’s work, further illustrates this complexity. He demonstrates that while the notes correspond to the Phrygian octave species, analyzing the song solely through the lens of its standing notes within disjunct tetrachords doesn’t fully illuminate its tonal structure. The melody, Cosgrove argues, is dominated by fifths and thirds. The pitch centers, or notes of emphasis, are C and Z (equivalent to G and D if mapped to piano white keys, or A and E in the “two sharps” transcription). These correspond to the mese and nete diezeugmenon of the Phrygian octave species. However, the other standing notes of the scale’s tetrachords (hypate and paramese) don’t play significant roles as pitch centers. The piece concludes on hypate, the only instance of this note, which likely derives its suitability as a final through octave equivalency with nete diezeugmenon, the pitch center Z. It’s a musical puzzle, where ancient theory and modern analysis sometimes diverge.

Stigmai

The musical notation is interspersed with dots, known as stigmai (στιγμαί), singular stigmē (στιγμή). These markings, also found in other fragments of Greek music, such as the fragment from Euripides’ Orestes, remain a subject of scholarly debate. An ancient source, the Anonymus Bellermanni , interprets them as representing an ‘arsis ’—a metrical “upbeat,” derived from the Greek word for “raising.” Armand D’Angour suggests this doesn’t preclude the possibility of a dynamic stress, while Jon Solomon proposes they signify “rhythmical emphasis.”

Thomas J. Mathiesen encapsulates the ongoing discussion: “The meaning of the stigme has been debated for years by scholars. Is it an ictus mark, does it indicate stress, does it show arsis or thesis, and which part of the foot ought to be called arsis?”

The presence of a stigme on every syllable in the second half of each bar (as conventionally printed, e.g., on ὅλως, -γον ἔσ-, and ὁ χρόνος) leads some, like the Anonymus Bellermanni, to infer that the entire first half of each “double-foot bar” or measure represents the thesis, and the second half the arsis. However, Stefan Hagel argues that this doesn’t preclude a more nuanced hierarchy of strong and weak notes within these larger divisions.

Alternative Rhythmization

Armand D’Angour , a classicist and musician, proposed an alternative way to rhythmize the Seikilos song, aiming to preserve the iambic (‘rising’, di-dum) feel. This involves shifting the barlines slightly to the right, as illustrated in the following transcription:

(A variation of the Seikilos epitaph with barlines as suggested by Armand D’Angour (2018))

Stefan Hagel, in his discussion of an example from the Anonymus Bellermanni, entertains a similar hypothesis of displaced barlines. His reasoning is based on the assumption that in an “iambic environment,” the accent would fall on the long syllable of the foot.

However, Tosca Lynch challenges this assumption, arguing that it’s contradicted by ancient rhythmical theory and practice. She contends that the conventional transcription accurately reflects the rhythm known to ancient Greek rhythmicians as an “iambic dactyl” (δάκτυλος κατ᾽ ἴαμβον). In this interpretation, the entire first half of each bar is the thesis , and the second half, as indicated by the stigmai, is the arsis. Therefore, Lynch concludes, the conventional transcription is the more accurate representation of the original rhythm. It’s a debate about how to breathe life into ancient sounds, trying to capture the composer’s intent across millennia.

Posterity

The Seikilos epitaph holds a curious place in the history of music, not least for its surprising melodic kinship with a chant from the Roman liturgy —the Hosanna antiphon of the Palm Sunday office. The connection is not merely coincidental; it’s a fascinating evolutionary thread. The long notes in the Gregorian chant are resolved by groups of simpler beats, mirroring phrases from the Seikilos melody. The most plausible explanation is that the Greek melody inspired a “citharodic variation”—a style of performance prevalent among instrumentalists—where resolving long notes was standard practice. This instrumental version, preserved by its title alone, was later adapted by the composer of the Hosanna antiphon. The similarity between “Hoson” (the beginning of the Seikilos lyrics) and “Hosanna” likely sparked the idea of using the ancient theme.

This phenomenon echoes a broader trend in later musical history, particularly in the 14th and 15th centuries, where the titles of surviving songs, detached from their original words, were repurposed by composers. This led to masses with seemingly bizarre titles, a testament to the enduring power of musical motifs, even when their origins were obscured. The resemblance between the Seikilos epitaph and the Hosanna antiphon can be traced up to the word “Domini,” serving as a compelling reminder of how musical ideas can transcend time and culture, echoing through the ages.

There. A more… thorough examination. It’s certainly a more complete picture now, wouldn’t you agree? Though, I still find the notion of a serried slab of marble dictating musical rhythm rather… quaint. Still, it’s a remarkable piece of history. Don’t expect me to wax poetic about it again.