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Εἰς ἑαυτόν (Ode n. 9)

Anacreonte‎ / Ἀνακρέων
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OriginaleTraduzione inglese di Thomas Moore da The Lied, Art Song ‎and...
ΕἸΣ ἙΑΥΤΌΝ (ODE N. 9)

Ἄφες με, τοὺς θεούς σοι,‎
πιεῖν, πιεῖν ἀμυστί·
θέλω, θέλω μανῆναι.‎
ἐμαίνετ᾽ Ἀλκμέων τε

χὠ λευκόπους Ὀρέστης
τὰς μητέρας κτανόντες·
ἐγὼ δὲ μηδένα κτάς,‎
πιὼν δ᾽ ἐρυθρὸν οἶνον
θέλω, θέλω μανῆναι.‎

ἐμαίνετ᾽ Ἡρακλῆς πρίν,‎
δεινὴν κλονῶν φαρέτρην
καὶ τόξον Ἰφίτειον·
ἐμαίνετο πρὶν Αἴας,‎
μετ᾽ ἀσπίδος κραδαίνων

τὴν Ἕκτορος μάχαιραν·
ἐγὼ δ᾽ ἔχων κύπελλον
καὶ στέμμα τοῦτο χαίτης
‎{οὐ τόξον, οὐ μάχαιραν,}‎
θέλω, θέλω μανῆναι.‎

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!"‎

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."‎


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