The higher Greek poetry did not make up fictitious plots; its

Hear the voice of Gilbert Murray, scholar of the ancients, who declared: “The higher Greek poetry did not make up fictitious plots; its business was to express the heroic saga, the myths.” In these words lies not only a reflection on the poets of Hellas, but also a vision of what poetry itself was meant to be: not invention for mere delight, but the channel through which divine memory flowed. The myths were not idle stories; they were the sacred tapestry by which men understood themselves, their gods, and their destiny. Poetry in its highest form was a guardian of truth, not the spinner of fables.

The Greeks did not seek novelty for its own sake. They turned their gaze backward, toward the eternal fire of the heroic saga. Homer sang not of characters he had invented but of Achilles, Odysseus, Hector—names as old as the stones of Troy. To him, the poet was not a creator but a vessel, chosen to carry the voice of the past into the hearts of the living. In this sense, Greek poetry was more akin to prophecy than to invention. It bound the present to the eternal, giving courage to the soldier, wisdom to the statesman, and reverence to the child.

Consider how, in every age, societies decline when they forget their founding songs. Think of the Israelites in Babylon, weeping by the rivers when they could no longer sing the songs of Zion. Or recall the Norse skalds, whose verses preserved the sagas of their people through centuries of snow and war. When the story is lost, the soul of a people grows weak. The Greeks knew this truth, and so their poets did not waste their breath on trivial invention, but clothed themselves in the power of the myths, which had stood the test of generations.

A real tale shall make this clearer. In the year 480 BCE, when the Persian tide threatened to swallow Greece, the Athenians abandoned their city and fought upon the sea at Salamis. What gave them courage to face such a host? Was it numbers or arms? No, it was the memory of their mythic forebears—the tales of Theseus who had slain the Minotaur, of Heracles who had labored beyond mortal strength. These sagas lived in their blood. When the rowers bent to their oars, they were not merely men; they were the sons of heroes. Thus, history itself was shaped by the poetry that had preserved the myths of their ancestors.

Murray’s words strike us now as both a reminder and a warning. Too often, our modern songs and tales are spun from air, designed to entertain but not to endure. We prize clever invention more than rooted truth. Yet invention without memory drifts like a ship without anchor. If the ancients could rise again, they would say to us: “Sing the truth of your people! Do not let the fire of your origins be smothered by the dust of forgetting.”

The lesson for us is plain. We must rediscover the myths of our own heritage, whether they are the stories of our families, the struggles of our nations, or the sacred texts that formed our spirit. To know these stories is not to dwell in the past, but to arm the soul for the future. Without them, we are as leaves blown about by the wind; with them, we are oaks rooted deep in the earth, unshaken by storm.

So let each man and woman take up the practice of remembrance. Read Homer or the epics of your own land, not as relics but as companions. Tell the old stories to your children, so that they too may grow with strength. When you face hardship, recall the trials of the heroes; when you are tempted by despair, remember that even Odysseus, storm-tossed for years, at last reached home. To live with the myths is to live with courage, to stand in a line of heroes stretching beyond time.

Thus Gilbert Murray spoke truth: the highest poetry is not fiction, but revelation. It does not invent; it reminds. It does not distract; it awakens. Let us not lose the sacred thread of story, lest we wander in darkness. Instead, let us bind ourselves once more to the sagas of the past, and in them find strength to write our own deeds into the eternal chorus of humanity.