So begins the second verse of book one of Virgil's epic poem, The Aeneid. He has invoked the muse of epic poetry, Calliope; he has called upon her to tell the tale of the Trojan prince, Aeneas, son of Priam, King of Troy. Virgil was only a conduit for the voice of an immortal goddess, one of nine known to the Greeks as Muses.

"Sing in me, O Muse, and through me tell the story,
Of that man skilled in all ways of contending,
The wanderer, harried for years on end
After he plundered the stronghold
On the proud height of Troy." (Robert Fitzgerald)

    In perhaps the eighth century before the Christian era, Homer, that greatest of epic poets, sung those words, sung of the Odyssey, no doubt at the court of an Argive prince. But perhaps not. Perhaps he sung for the common man; perhaps his immortal words were first heard by nothing more than a group of boys in a village gathered round a fire, somewhere along the coast of Greece. I would like to believe so, but in fact, we shall never know. Scholars can debate the issue and they shall, but all that matters is that he spoke them, those words, and somehow, we have been blessed enough to have them passed down to us. The Muse, Calliope, saw fit to ensure that her finest works were preserved.
    The Greeks believed there were nine muses, each providing over some form of literature, art, or science. There was Calliope, of course, as well as Clio the muse of history, Euterpe of lyric poetry, Melpomene of tragedy, Terpsichore of choral dance and song, Erato of love poetry, Polyhymnia of sacred poetry, Urania of astronomy, and Thalia of comedy. It was believed that each would help mortals in the furtherment of her art. Hesiod wrote of them in his tale of the birth of the gods, Theogony, and dedicated his work to them.
    Those were simpler times, and modern man has no use for such foolishness, or so he believes. Undoubtedly, the ancients believed that a mere mortal man could not compose a work of such intricacy and depth as The Iliad, or of such breadth and splendor as The Odyssey. And perhaps they were right. The works of the ancients do not have their rivals in modern man. Perhaps only when a man believes that the Muse of epic poetry is speaking through him, that Calliope whispers in his hear and wraps her arms about him, perhaps only then can he write with such spirit and accomplishment. But perhaps not . . .

(The sculpture is one by Augustin Pajou, and is from the Samuel H. Kress Collection 1952.5.107. It is on display at The National Gallery of Art. For further information, follow this link.)