And I leaped forth, as though to seize on her,

Leaving the sedge where I had hidden myself.

But she shrieked out, “Ho, my swift-footed dogs!

These men would hunt us down, but follow me —

Follow me, all your hands with thyrsi armed.”

We fled amain, or by the Bacchanals

We had been torn in pieces. They, with hands

Unarmed with iron, rushed on the browsing steers.

One ye might see a young and vigorous heifer

Hold, lowing in her grasp, like prize of war.

And some were tearing asunder the young calves;

And ye might see the ribs or cloven hoofs

Hurled wildly up and down, and mangled skins

Were hanging from the ash boughs, dropping blood.

The wanton bulls, proud of their tossing horns

Of yore, fell stumbling, staggering to the ground,

Dragged down by the strong hands of thousand maidens.

And swifter were the entrails torn away

Than drop the lids over your royal eyeballs.

Like birds that skim the earth, they glide along

O’er the wide plains, that by Asopus’ streams

Shoot up for Thebes the rich and yellow corn;

And Hysiæ and Erythræ, that beneath

Cithæron’s crag dwell lowly, like fierce foes

Invading, all with ravage waste and wide

Confounded; infants snatched from their sweet homes;

And what they threw across their shoulders, clung

Unfastened, nor fell down to the black ground.

No brass, nor ponderous iron: on their locks

Was fire that burned them not. Of those they spoiled

Some in their sudden fury rushed to arms.

Then was a mightier wonder seen, O king:

From them the pointed lances drew no blood

But they their thyrsi hurling, javelin-like,

Drave all before, and smote their shameful backs:

Women drave men, but not without the god.

So did they straight return from whence they came,

Even to the fountains, which the god made flow;

Washed off the blood, and from their cheeks the drops

The serpents licked, and made them bright and clean.

This godhead then, whoe’er he be, my master!

Receive within our city. Great in all things,

In this I hear men say he is the greatest —

He hath given the sorrow-soothing vine to man

For where wine is not love will never be,

Nor any other joy of human life.

CHORUS

I am afraid to speak the words of freedom

Before the tyrant, yet it must be said:

“Inferior to no god is Dionysus.”

PENTHEUS

’Tis here then, like a wild fire, burning on,

This Bacchic insolence, Hellas’ deep disgrace.

Off with delay! Go to the Electrian gates

And summon all that bear the shield, and all

The cavalry upon their prancing steeds,

And those that couch the lance, and of the bow

Twang the sharp string. Against these Bacchanals

We will go war. It were indeed too much

From women to endure what we endure.

DIONYSUS

Thou wilt not be persuaded by my words

Pentheus! Yet though of thee I have suffered wrong

I warn thee, rise not up against the god.