Εἰς ἑαυτόν (Ode n. 9)
Anacreonte / ἈνακρέωνOriginale | Traduzione 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." |