Poem by 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 murder’d mother’s shade
Haunted them still where’er they stray’d.
But ne’er 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 brandish’d, with a maniac joy,
The quiver of the expiring boy:
And Ajax, with tremendous shield,
Infuriate scour’d 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 scatter’s wreath of flowers,
Even I can sing with wild delight,
„I will — I will be mad to-night.”

1. From “Irish Melodies”. 41. Lesbia Hath a Beaming Eye
2. From “Irish Melodies”. 47. What the Bee Is to the Floweret
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 27
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 32
5. From “Irish Melodies”. 120. Oh, Could We Do with This World of Ours

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