Ion | Page 7

power of suspension from the original stone. In like manner
the Muse first of all inspires men herself; and from these inspired
persons a chain of other persons is suspended, who take the inspiration.
For all good poets, epic as well as lyric, compose their beautiful poems
not by art, but because they are inspired and possessed. And as the
Corybantian revellers when they dance are not in their right mind, so
the lyric poets are not in their right mind when they are composing
their beautiful strains: but when falling under the power of music and
metre they are inspired and possessed; like Bacchic maidens who draw
milk and honey from the rivers when they are under the influence of
Dionysus but not when they are in their right mind. And the soul of the
lyric poet does the same, as they themselves say; for they tell us that
they bring songs from honeyed fountains, culling them out of the
gardens and dells of the Muses; they, like the bees, winging their way

from flower to flower. And this is true. For the poet is a light and
winged and holy thing, and there is no invention in him until he has
been inspired and is out of his senses, and the mind is no longer in him:
when he has not attained to this state, he is powerless and is unable to
utter his oracles. Many are the noble words in which poets speak
concerning the actions of men; but like yourself when speaking about
Homer, they do not speak of them by any rules of art: they are simply
inspired to utter that to which the Muse impels them, and that only; and
when inspired, one of them will make dithyrambs, another hymns of
praise, another choral strains, another epic or iambic verses--and he
who is good at one is not good at any other kind of verse: for not by art
does the poet sing, but by power divine. Had he learned by rules of art,
he would have known how to speak not of one theme only, but of all;
and therefore God takes away the minds of poets, and uses them as his
ministers, as he also uses diviners and holy prophets, in order that we
who hear them may know them to be speaking not of themselves who
utter these priceless words in a state of unconsciousness, but that God
himself is the speaker, and that through them he is conversing with us.
And Tynnichus the Chalcidian affords a striking instance of what I am
saying: he wrote nothing that any one would care to remember but the
famous paean which is in every one's mouth, one of the finest poems
ever written, simply an invention of the Muses, as he himself says. For
in this way the God would seem to indicate to us and not allow us to
doubt that these beautiful poems are not human, or the work of man,
but divine and the work of God; and that the poets are only the
interpreters of the Gods by whom they are severally possessed. Was not
this the lesson which the God intended to teach when by the mouth of
the worst of poets he sang the best of songs? Am I not right, Ion?
ION: Yes, indeed, Socrates, I feel that you are; for your words touch
my soul, and I am persuaded that good poets by a divine inspiration
interpret the things of the Gods to us.
SOCRATES: And you rhapsodists are the interpreters of the poets?
ION: There again you are right.
SOCRATES: Then you are the interpreters of interpreters?
ION: Precisely.
SOCRATES: I wish you would frankly tell me, Ion, what I am going to
ask of you: When you produce the greatest effect upon the audience in

the recitation of some striking passage, such as the apparition of
Odysseus leaping forth on the floor, recognized by the suitors and
casting his arrows at his feet, or the description of Achilles rushing at
Hector, or the sorrows of Andromache, Hecuba, or Priam,--are you in
your right mind? Are you not carried out of yourself, and does not your
soul in an ecstasy seem to be among the persons or places of which you
are speaking, whether they are in Ithaca or in Troy or whatever may be
the scene of the poem?
ION: That proof strikes home to me, Socrates. For I must frankly
confess that at the tale of pity my eyes are filled with tears, and when I
speak of horrors, my hair stands on end and my heart throbs.
SOCRATES: Well, Ion, and what are we to say of a man who at a
sacrifice or festival, when he is dressed in holiday attire, and