Thomas Moore ( )


From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 9


I pray thee, by the gods above,
Give me the mighty bowl I love,
And let me sing, in wild delight,
I will  I will be mad to-night!
Alcmæon once, as legends tell,
Was frenzied by the fiends of hell;
Orestes too, with naked tread,
Frantic paced the mountain-head;
And why? a murderd mothers shade
Haunted them still whereer they strayd.
But neer could I a murderer be,
The grape alone shall bleed by me;
Yet can I shout, with wild delight,
I will  I will be made to-night!
            Alcides self, in days of yore,
Imbrued his hands in youthful gore,
And brandishd, with a maniac joy,
The quiver of the expiring boy:
And Ajax, with tremendous shield,
Infuriate scourd the guiltless field.
But I, whose hands no weapon ask,
No armour but this joyous flask;
The trophy of whose frantic hours
Is but a scatters wreath of flowers,
Even I can sing with wild delight,
I will  I will be mad to-night.



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 72
  2. From Irish Melodies. 114. Ive a Secret to Tell Thee
  3. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 51
  4. From Irish Melodies. 70. Tis Gone, and for Ever
  5. From Irish Melodies. 102. And Doth Not a Meeting Like This


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