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Poem by Thomas Moore

From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 38

Let us drain the nectard bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectard bowl, the choral swell;
The god who taught the sons of earth
To thread the tangled dance of mirth;
Him, who was nursed with infant Love,
And cradled in the Paphian grove;
Him, that the snowy Queen of Charms
So oft has fondled in her arms.
Which sweet intoxication knows;
With him the brow forgets its gloom,
And brilliant graces learn to bloom.
            Behold!  my boys a goblet bear,
Whose sparkling foam lights up the air.
Where are now the tear, the sigh?
To the winds they fly, they fly!
Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking,
Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!
Say, can the tears we lend to thought
In lifes account avail us aught?
Can we discern with all our lore,
The path weve yet to journey oer?
Alas, alas, in ways so dark,
Tis only wine can strike a spark.
Then let me quaff the foamy tide,
And through the dance meandering glide;
Let my imbibe the spicy breath
Of odours chafed to fragrant death;
Or from the lips of love inhale
A more ambrosial, richer gale!
To hearts that court the phantom Care,
Let him retire and shroud him there;
While we exhaust the nectars bowl,
And swell the choral song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectars bowl, the choral swell!

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 15
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 64
  3. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 75
  4. From Irish Melodies. 113. Alone in Crowds to Wander On
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 56

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