Poem by Thomas Moore

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 47

’Tis true, my fading years decline,
Yet can I quaff the brimming wine,
As deep as any stripling fair,
Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear;
And if, amidst the wanton crew
I’m call’d to wind the dance’s clue,
Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand,
Not faltering on the Bacchant’s wand,
But brandishing a rosy flask.
The only thyrsus e’er I’ll ask.
            Let those who pant for Glory’s charms,
Embrace her in the field of arms;
While my inglorious placid soul
Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl.
Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,
And bathe me in its brimming wave.
For though my fading years decay,
Though manhood’s prime hath pass’d away,
Like old Silenus, sire divine,
With blushes borrow’d from my wine,
I’ll wanton ’mid the dancing train,
And live my follies o’er again!

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 46
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 15
3. From “Irish Melodies”. 113. Alone in Crowds to Wander On
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 54
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 75

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