The Bacchae of Euripides

Or prove our wit on Heaven's high mysteries? Not thou and I! That heritage sublime Our sires have left us, wisdom old as time, No word of man, how deep soe'er his thought And won of subtlest toil, may bring to naught. Aye, men will rail that I forget my years, To dance and wreathe with ivy these white hairs; What recks it? Seeing the God no line hath told To mark what man shall dance, or young or old; But craves his honours from mortality All, no man marked apart; and great shall be!

Scarce had I crossed our borders, when mine ear Was caught by this strange rumour, that our own Wives, our own sisters, from their hearths are flown To wild and secret rites; and cluster there High on the shadowy hills, with dance and prayer To adore this new-made God, this Dionyse, Whate'er he be!—And in their companies Deep wine-jars stand, and ever and anon Away into the loneliness now one Steals forth, and now a second, maid or dame, Where love lies waiting, not of God! The flame, They say, of Bacchios wraps them. Bacchios! Nay, 'Tis more to Aphrodite that they pray. Howbeit, all that I have found, my men Hold bound and shackled in our dungeon den; The rest, I will go hunt them! Aye, and snare My birds with nets of iron, to quell their prayer And mountain song and rites of rascaldom! They tell me, too, there is a stranger come, A man of charm and spell, from Lydian seas, A head all gold and cloudy fragrancies, A wine-red cheek, and eyes that hold the light Of the very Cyprian. Day and livelong night He haunts amid the damsels, o'er each lip Dangling his cup of joyance!—Let me grip Him once, but once, within these walls, right swift That wand shall cease its music, and that drift Of tossing curls lie still—when my rude sword Falls between neck and trunk! 'Tis all his word, This tale of Dionysus; how that same Babe that was blasted by the lightning flame With his dead mother, for that mother's lie, Was re-conceived, born perfect from the thigh Of Zeus, and now is God! What call ye these? Dreams? Gibes of the unknown wanderer? Blasphemies That crave the very gibbet?

Stay! God wot, Here is another marvel! See I not In motley fawn-skins robed the vision-seer Teiresias? And my mother's father here— O depth of scorn!—adoring with the wand Of Bacchios?—Father!—Nay, mine eyes are fond; It is not your white heads so fancy-flown! It cannot be! Cast off that ivy crown, O mine own mother's sire! Set free that hand That cowers about its staff. 'Tis thou hast planned This work, Teiresias! 'Tis thou must set Another altar and another yet Amongst us, watch new birds, and win more hire Of gold, interpreting new signs of fire! But for thy silver hairs, I tell thee true, Thou now wert sitting chained amid thy crew Of raving damsels, for this evil dream Thou hast brought us, of new Gods! When once the gleam Of grapes hath lit a Woman's Festival, In all their prayers is no more health at all!

Good words, my son, come easily, when he That speaks is wise, and speaks but for the right. Else come they never! Swift are thine, and bright As though with thought, yet have no thought at all. Lo, this new God, whom thou dost flout withal, I cannot speak the greatness wherewith He In Hellas shall be great! Two spirits there be, Young Prince, that in man's world are first of worth. Dêmêtêr one is named; she is the Earth— Call her which name thou will!—who feeds man's frame With sustenance of things dry. And that which came Her work to perfect, second, is the Power From Semelê born. He found the liquid shower Hid in the grape. He rests man's spirit dim From grieving, when the vine exalteth him. He giveth sleep to sink the fretful day In cool forgetting. Is there any way With man's sore heart, save only to forget? Yea, being God, the blood of him is set Before the Gods in sacrifice, that we For his sake may be blest.—And so, to thee, That fable shames him, how this God was knit Into God's flesh? Nay, learn the truth of it, Cleared from the false.—When from that deadly light Zeus saved the babe, and up to Olympus' height Raised him, and Hera's wrath would cast him thence, Then Zeus devised him a divine defence. A fragment of the world-encircling fire He rent apart, and wrought to his desire Of shape and hue, in the image of the child, And gave to Hera's rage. And so, beguiled By change and passing time, this tale was born, How the babe-god was hidden in the torn Flesh of his sire. He hath no shame thereby. A prophet is he likewise.

Prophecy Cleaves to all frenzy, but beyond all else To frenzy of prayer. Then in us verily dwells The God himself, and speaks the thing to be. Yea, and of Ares' realm a part hath he. When mortal armies, mailèd and arrayed, Have in strange fear, or ever blade met blade, Fled maddened, 'tis this God hath palsied them. Aye, over Delphi's rock-built diadem Thou yet shalt see him leaping with his train Of fire across the twin-peaked mountain-plain, Flaming the darkness with his mystic wand, And great in Hellas.—List and understand, King Pentheus! Dream not thou that force is power; Nor, if thou hast a thought, and that thought sour And sick, oh, dream not thought is wisdom!—Up, Receive this God to Thebes; pour forth the cup Of sacrifice, and pray, and wreathe thy brow. Thou fearest for the damsels? Think thee now; How toucheth this the part of Dionyse To hold maids pure perforce? In them it lies, And their own hearts; and in the wildest rite Cometh no stain to her whose heart is white. Nay, mark me! Thou hast thy joy, when the Gate Stands thronged, and Pentheus' name is lifted great And high by Thebes in clamour; shall not He Rejoice in his due meed of majesty? Howbeit, this Cadmus whom thou scorn'st and I Will wear His crown, and tread His dances! Aye, Our hairs are white, yet shall that dance be trod! I will not lift mine arm to war with God For thee nor all thy words. Madness most fell Is on thee, madness wrought by some dread spell, But not by spell nor leechcraft to be cured!

My son, right well Teiresias points thy road. Oh, make thine habitation here with us, Not lonely, against men's uses. Hazardous Is this quick bird-like beating of thy thought Where no thought dwells.—Grant that this God be naught, Yet let that Naught be Somewhat in thy mouth; Lie boldly, and say He Is! So north and south Shall marvel, how there sprang a thing divine From Semelê's flesh, and honour all our line.

Is there not blood before thine eyes even now? Our lost Actaeon's blood, whom long ago His own red hounds through yonder forest dim Tore unto death, because he vaunted him Against most holy Artemis? Oh, beware, And let me wreathe thy temples. Make thy prayer With us, and walk thee humbly in God's sight.

This Thy folly's head and prompter shall not miss The justice that he needs!—Go, half my guard, Forth to the rock-seat where he dwells in ward O'er birds and wonders; rend the stone with crow And trident; make one wreck of high and low, And toss his bands to all the winds of air! Ha, have I found the way to sting thee, there? The rest, forth through the town! And seek amain This girl-faced stranger, that hath wrought such bane To all Thebes, preying on our maids and wives. Seek till ye find; and lead him here in gyves, Till he be judged and stoned, and weep in blood The day he troubled Pentheus with his God!

Hard heart, how little dost thou know what seed Thou sowest! Blind before, and now indeed Most mad!—Come, Cadmus, let us go our way, And pray for this our persecutor, pray For this poor city, that the righteous God Move not in anger.—Take thine ivy rod And help my steps, as I help thine. 'Twere ill, If two old men should fall by the roadway. Still, Come what come may, our service shall be done To Bacchios, the All-Father's mystic son. O Pentheus, named of sorrow! Shall he claim From all thy house fulfilment of his name, Old Cadmus?—Nay, I speak not from mine art, But as I see—blind words and a blind heart!