The great house glitters with bronze. War has patternedthe roof with shining helmets,their horsehair plumes waving in wind, headdressof fighting men. And pegsare concealed under bright greaves of brassthat block the iron-tipped arrows. Manyfresh-linen corslets are hanging and hollow shieldsare heaped about the floor,and standing in rows are swords of Chalkidian steel,belt-knives and warrior's kilts.We cannot forget our arms and armor when soonour dreadful duties begin.

It is late, for the harvest is in.Before, we hoped that the full vineswould bring a plenitude of fine grapes,but the clusters are slow to ripen and the landlordspicked unripe bunches from the branch.We have many grapes now—green and sour.

Not homes with beautiful roofs,nor walls of permanent stone,nor canals and piers for shipsmake the city—but men of strength.Not stone and timber, nor skillof carpenter—but men bravewho will handle sword and spear.With these you have a city and walls.

What birds are thesewildgeese—flying from precincts where the earthand oceans end—with their enormous wings and speckled throats?

Why water more wine in the great bowl?Why do you drown your gullet in grape?I cannot let you spill out your life on song and drink. Let us go to sea,and not let the wintry calm of morningslip by as a drunken sleep. Had weboarded at dawn, seized rudder and spunthe flapping crossjack into the wind,we would be happy now, happy as swimming in grape. But you draped a lazy armon my shoulder, saying: 'Sir, a pillow,your singing does not lead me to ships'.

Wash your gullet with wine for the Dog Star returnswith the hear of summer searing a thirsting earth.Cicadas cry softy under high leaves, and pour downshrill song incessantly from under their wings.The artichoke blooms, and women are warm and wanton—but men turn lean and limp for the burning Dog Star parches their brains and knees.

Zeus rumbles and a mammoth winter of snow pours from the sky; agile rivers are ice.Damn the winter cold! Pile up the burning logs and water the great flagons of red wine;place feather pillows by your head, and drink.Let us not brood about hard times. Bakchos,our solace is in you and your red wines:our medicine of grape. Drink deeply, drink.

Come with me now and leave the land ofPelops, mighty sons of Zeus and Leda,and in kindness spread your light on us,Kastor and Polydeukes.You who wander above the long earthand over all the seas on swift horses,easily delivering mariners from pitiful death,fly to the masthead of our swift ship,and gazing over foremast and forstays,light a clear path through the midnight gloomfor our black vessel.

One and all,you have proclaimed Pittakos, the lowborn,to be tyrant of your lifeless and doomed land. Moreover, you deafen him with praise.

Let us drink. Why wait for the lighting of the lamps?Night is a hair's breadth away. Take down the great gobletsfrom the shelf, dear friend, for the son of Semele and Zeusgave us wine to forget our pains. Mix two parts water, one wine,and let us empty the dripping cups—urgently.