And cool Ismenos’ waters; and survey

My mother’s grave, the thunder-slain, the ruins

Still smouldering of that old ancestral palace,

The flame still living of the lightning fire,

Herè’s immortal vengeance ’gainst my mother.

And well hath reverent Cadmus set his ban

On that heaven-stricken, unapproached place,

His daughter’s tomb, which I have mantled o’er

With the pale verdure of the trailing vine.

And I have left the golden Lydian shores,

The Phrygian and the Persian sun-seared plains,

And Bactria’s walls; the Medes’ wild wintry land

Have passed, and Araby the Blest; and all

Of Asia, that along the salt-sea coast

Lifts up her high-towered cities, where the Greeks,

With the Barbarians mingled, dwell in peace.

And everywhere my sacred choirs, mine Orgies

Have founded, by mankind confessed a God.

Now first in an Hellenic town I stand.

Of all the Hellenic land here first in Thebes,

I have raised my revel shout, my fawn-skin donned,

Ta’en in my hand my thyrsus, ivy-crowned.

But here, where least beseemed, my mother’s sisters

Vowed Dionysus was no son of Jove:

That Semele, by mortal paramour won,

Belied great Jove as author of her sin;

’Twas but old Cadmus’ craft: hence Jove in wrath

Struck dead the bold usurper of his bed.

So from their homes I’ve goaded them in frenzy;

Their wits all crazed, they wander o’er the mountains

And I have forced them wear my wild attire.

There’s not a woman of old Cadmus’ race,

But I have maddened from her quiet house;

Unseemly mingled with the sons of Thebes,

On the roofless rocks, ’neath the pale pines, they sit.

Needs must this proud recusant city learn,

In our dread Mysteries initiate,

Her guilt, and humbly seek to make atonement

To me, for Semele, mine outraged mother —

To me, the God confessed, of Jove begot.

Old Cadmus now his might and kingly rule

To Pentheus hath given up, his sister’s son,

My godhead’s foe; who from the rich libation

Repels me, nor makes mention of my name

In holy prayer. Wherefore to him, to Thebes,

And all her sons, soon will I terribly show

That I am born a God: and so depart

(Here all things well disposed) to other lands,

Making dread revelation of myself.

But if this Theban city, in her ire,

With arms shall seek to drive from off the mountains

My Bacchanal rout, at my wild Mænads’ head

I’ll meet, and mingle in the awful war.

Hence have I ta’en the likeness of a man,

Myself transmuted into human form.

But ye, who Tmolus, Lydia’s strength, have left

My Thyasus of women, whom I have led

From lands barbarian, mine associates here,

And fellow-pilgrims; lift ye up your drums,

Familiar in your native Phrygian cities,

Made by your mother Rhea’s craft and mine;

And beat them all round Pentheus’ royal palace,

Beat, till the city of Cadmus throngs to see.

I to the Bacchanals in the dim glens

Of wild Cithæron go to lead the dance.