Array Anacreon - Yale Required Reading - Collected Works (Vol. 1)

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Tossed on a sea of troubles, Soul, my Soul,

Thyself do thou control;

And to the weapons of advancing foes

A stubborn breast oppose;

Undaunted 'mid the hostile might

Of squadrons burning for the fight.

Thine be no boasting when the victor's crown

Wins thee deserved renown;

Thine no dejected sorrow, when defeat

Would urge a base retreat:

Rejoice in joyous things—nor overmuch

Let grief thy bosom touch

Midst evil, and still bear in mind

How changeful are the ways of humankind.

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The Life and Work of Alcaeus

Longer Fragments

Shorter Fragments

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ALCÆUS spent his life in wars, first against Athens for the possession of Sigêum, where, like Archilochus, he left his shield for the enemy to dedicate to Athena; then against the democratic tyrant Melanchrôs and his successor Myrsilos. At last the Lesbians stopped the civil strife by appointing Pittacus, the 'Wise Man,' dictator, and Alcæus left the island for fifteen years. He served as a soldier of fortune in Egypt and elsewhere: his brother Antimenidas took service with Nebuchadnezzar, and killed a Jewish or Egyptian giant in single combat. Eventually the poet was pardoned and invited home. His works filled ten books in Alexandria; they were all 'occasional poetry,' hymns, political party-songs (στασιωτικá), drinking-songs, and love-songs. His strength seems to have lain in the political and personal reminiscences, the "hardships of travel, banishment, and war," that Horace speaks of. Sappho and Alcæus are often represented together on vases, and the idea of a romance between them was inevitable. Tradition gives a little address of his in a Sapphic metre, "Thou violet-crowned, pure, softlysmiling Sappho," and an answer from Sappho in Alcaics -- a delicate mutual compliment. Every line of Alcaeus has charm. The stanza called after him is a magnificent metrical invention. His language is spontaneous and musical; it seems to come straight from a heart as full as that of Archilochus, but much more generous. He is a fiery Æolian noble, open-handed, free-drinking, frank, and passionate; and though he fought to order in case of need, he seems never to have written to order.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

Let us drink, and pledge the night!

Wherefore wait the torches’ light?

Twilight’s hour is brief.

Pass the ample goblet 'round,

Gold-enwrought, whereon is wound

Many a jewelled leaf.

Sprung from Semele and Zeus

Dionysus gave to us

Care-dispelling wine.

Pouring out the liquid treasure

With one part of water measure

Two parts from the vine.

Mix it well, and let it flow,

Cup on cup shall headlong go,

While we drink and laugh,

While we sing and quaff.

The happiest hours are in the cup,

But O beware the waking up

If you but drink too deep.

For miserable is the wight —

Ay! doubly wretched is his plight —

Who woos a drunkard’s sleep.

Imprimis comes a Splitting head,

Secundo comes, in pleasure’s stead,

Remorse his heart to rend.

But if you ’d taste of joys divine,

Nor yet offend the god of wine,

Drink wisely, O my friend!

Alcaeus:

Pure, violet-crowned Lesbian maid,

Sweet-smiling Sappho, I had paid

An amorous suit to thee, but shame

Permits me scarce to breathe thy name.

Sappho:

Alcaeus, were thy heart and thought

With pure and noble feeling fraught,

And were thy torigue from evil free,

Nor framing double speech for me,

Shame had not driven away thy smile,

But thou hadst spoken free from guile.

Ah hapless me! O miserable me!

Wretched and all forlorn!

Driven from home, and on the raging sea

Hither and thither borne!

My land a tyrant’s sport, my comrades dead,

My city torn apart,

There is no peaceful pillow for my head,

No haven for my heart.

But in thine eyes I see my beacon light,

For love is throned there,

And as Apollo triumphs over night

So Eros conquers care.

Then hear my song, O hear the love I sing,

I pray thee, O I pray!

And thou wilt make me soon forget the sting

Of sorrow passed away.

No more for Lycus will I sigh,

Or seek his fond caresses,

Or sing his darkly flashing eye,

His wealth of raven tresses.

No joyous paean will I raise

While near to him I linger;

Nor chant again his name, nor praise

The mole upon his finger.

But raise a song for her, O Muse!

The violet-crowned maiden,

And praise her soft throat’s changing hues,