Читать книгу Yale Classics - Ancient Greek Literature - Anacreon - Страница 115

DRINKING-SONGS

SPRING

I feel the coming of the flowery Spring,

Wakening tree and vine;

A bowl capacious quickly bring

And mix the honeyed wine.

Weave for my throat a garland of fresh dill,

And crown my head with flowers,

And o’er my breast sweet perfumes spill

In aromatic showers.

SUMMER

Come all and wet your throats with wine,

The dog-star reigns on high,

The Summer parches tree and vine,

And everything is dry.

Full cheerily the locust sings

Within the leafy shade,

Rasping away beneath his wings

A shrill-toned serenade.

Come all, and drink, the star is up!

Come all and drain the sparkling cup.

The artichokes are all ablow

And all the fields ablaze,

Where Phoebus draws his dazzling bow

And hurls his spreading rays.

The women bufn with fierce desire,

The men are dead with heat,

For Sirius sends a baleful fire

And parches head and feet.

Come all, and drink, the star is up!

Come all and drain the sparkling cup.

AUTUMN

A PARAPHRASE

Behold! the tender Autumn flower

Is purpling on the hill,

The roses wither on the bower,

And vanished is the dill.

The morning air is keen and bright,

The afternoon is full of light,

And Hesper ushers in the night

With breezes damp and chill.

The purple harvest of the vine

Is bleeding in the press,

And Bacchus comes to taste the wine

And all our labours bless.

Then bring a golden bowl immense,

And mix enough to drown your sense,

And care not if you soon commence

Your secrets to confess.

For wine a mirror is, to show

The image that is fair,

The friend of lightsome mirth, the foe

Of shadow-haunting care.

So fill your Teian goblet up,

And scatter jeweis from the cup,

And drink until the last hiccough

Shall drown your latest woe.

WINTER

Zeus hails. The streams are frozen. In the sky

A mighty winter storm is raging high.

And now the forest thick, the ocean hoar,

Grow clamorous with the Thracian tempest’s roar.

But drive away the storm, and make the fire

Hotter, and.pile the logs and faggots higher;

Pour out the tawny wine with lavish hand,

And bind about thy head a fleecy band.

It ill befits to yield the heart to pain.

What profits grief, or what will sorrow gain?

O Bacchus, bring us wine, delicious wine,

And sweet intoxication, balm divine.