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!"

Alcmaeon once, as legends tell,

Was frenzied by the fiends of hell;

Orestes, too, with naked tread,

Frantic paced the mountain-head;

And why? a murdered mother's shade

Haunted them still where'er they strayed.

But ne'er could I a murderer be,

The grape alone shall bleed for me;

Yet can I shout, with wild delight,

"I will—I will be mad to-night."

Alcides' self, in days of yore,

Imbrued his hands in youthful gore,

And brandished, with a maniac joy,

The quiver of the expiring boy:

And Ajax, with tremendous shield,

Infuriate scoured the guiltless field.

But I, whose hands no weapon ask,

No armor but this joyous flask;

The trophy of whose frantic hours

Is but a scattered wreath of flowers,

Ev'n I can sing, with wild delight,

"I will—I will be mad to-night!"