Odes Of Anacreon - Ode IX.

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!"     Alcmaeon once, as legends tell,     Was frenzied by the fiends of hell;     Orestes, too, with naked tread,     Frantic paced the mountain-head;     And why? a murdered mother's shade     Haunted them still where'er they strayed.     But ne'er could I a murderer be,     The grape alone shall bleed for me;     Yet can I shout, with wild delight,     "I will--I will be mad to-night."     Alcides' self, in days of yore,     Imbrued his hands in youthful gore,     And brandished, with a maniac joy,     The quiver of the expiring boy:     And Ajax, with tremendous shield,     Infuriate scoured the guiltless field.     But I, whose hands no weapon ask,     No armor but this joyous flask;     The trophy of whose frantic hours     Is but a scattered wreath of flowers,     Ev'n I can sing, with wild delight,     "I will--I will be mad to-night!"