He, on the other hand, the son of Semele,

Found out the grape’s rich juice, and taught us mortals

That which beguiles the miserable of mankind

Of sorrow, when they quaff the vine’s rich stream.

Sleep too, and drowsy oblivion of care

He gives, all-healing medicine of our woes.

He ’mong the gods is worshipped a great god,

Author confessed to man of such rich blessings

Him dost thou love to scorn, as in Jove’s thigh

Sewn up. This truth profound will I unfold:

When Jove had snatched him from the lightning-fire

He to Olympus bore the new-born babe.

Stern Herè strove to thrust him out of heaven,

But Jove encountered her with wiles divine:

He clove off part of th’ earth-encircling air,

There Dionysus placed the pleasing hostage,

Aloof from jealous Herè. So men said

Hereafter he was cradled in Jove’s thigh

(From the assonance of words in our old tongue

For thigh and hostage the wild fable grew).

A prophet is our god, for Bacchanalism

And madness are alike prophetical.

And when the god comes down in all his power,

He makes the mad to rave of things to come.

Of Ares he hath attributes: he the host

In all its firm array and serried arms,

With panic fear scatters, ere lance cross lance:

From Dionysus springs this frenzy too.

And him shall we behold on Delphi’s crags

Leaping, with his pine torches lighting up

The rifts of the twin-headed rock; and shouting

And shaking all around his Bacchic wand

Great through all Hellas. Pentheus, be advised!

Vaunt not thy power o’er man, even if thou thinkest

That thou art wise (it is diseased, thy thought),

Think it not! In the land receive the god.

Pour wine, and join the dance, and crown thy brows.

Dionysus does not force our modest matrons

To the soft Cyprian rites; the chaste by nature

Are not so cheated of their chastity.

Think well of this, for in the Bacchic choir

The holy woman will not be less holy.

Thou’rt proud, when men to greet thee throng the gates,

And the glad city welcomes Pentheus’ name;

He too, I ween, delights in being honoured.

I, therefore, and old Cadmus whom thou mock’st,

Will crown our heads with ivy, dance along

An hoary pair — for dance perforce we must;

I war not with the gods. Follow my counsel;

Thou’rt at the height of madness, there’s no medicine

Can minister to disease so deep as thine.

CHORUS

Old man! thou sham’st not Phoebus thine own god.

Wise art thou worshipping that great god Bromius.

CADMUS

My son! Tiresias well hath counselled thee;

Dwell safe with us within the pale of law.

Now thou fliest high: thy sense is void of sense,

Even if, as thou declar’st, he were no god,

Call thou him god. It were a splendid falsehood

If Semele be thought t’ have borne a god;

’Twere honour unto us and to our race.

Hast thou not seen Actæon’s wretched fate?