Thomas Moore ( )


From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 47


Tis true, my fading years decline,
Yet can I quaff the brimming wine,
As deep as any stripling fair,
Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear;
And if, amidst the wanton crew
Im calld to wind the dances clue,
Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand,
Not faltering on the Bacchants wand,
But brandishing a rosy flask.
The only thyrsus eer Ill ask.
            Let those who pant for Glorys charms,
Embrace her in the field of arms;
While my inglorious placid soul
Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl.
Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,
And bathe me in its brimming wave.
For though my fading years decay,
Though manhoods prime hath passd away,
Like old Silenus, sire divine,
With blushes borrowd from my wine,
Ill wanton mid the dancing train,
And live my follies oer again!



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From Irish Melodies. 61. Id Mourn the Hopes
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 3
  3. From Irish Melodies. 10. Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore
  4. From Irish Melodies. 92. ODonohues Mistress
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 68


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