LORD BACCHUS

A POEM BY TORSTEN SCHWANKE

„I am the vine...“

(Gospel of John)

Great Zeus loved Semele and shared her bed,

In secret from his wife, his vows he spread.

But Hera tricked the girl with cunning art,

To ask of Zeus a wish within her heart:

To come to her as when he Hera wooed.

The god, bound by his oath in solemn mood,

In thundering chariot to her chamber hied,

Where by his bolt the scorched Semele died.

From fire, Zeus snatched the child of six months' growth,

And sewed it in his thigh to save them both.

Her sisters spread a tale of mortal shame,

That Zeus had struck her for a lying claim.

When time was ripe, the stitches Zeus undid,

And Dionysos from his flesh was rid.

To Hermes’ care the infant was assigned,

Who brought him where Queen Ino proved most kind.

They raised him as a maid by his decree,

Till Hera struck them with her lunacy.

Then Zeus, to shield his son from Hera’s hate,

Did Dionysos to a goat translate.

To Nysa’s nymphs the child was safely borne,

Whom Zeus as Hyades did stars adorn.

The vine, which brings us joy and holy peace,

Was found by him to grant the soul release.

But Hera struck him with a wandering mind;

Through Egypt and through Syria he pined.

King Proteus hailed him with a heart of grace,

The first to welcome him in any place.

To Phrygian Cybele he made his way,

To wash his madness and his sins away.

Her mystic rites and gear he learned to prize,

Then toward Thrace he turned his eager eyes.

"I crossed through Thrace and India’s distant land,

And raised my phallic stones on every strand."

Lycurgus, son of Dryas, Edon's king,

Was first to feel the god's avenging sting.

He spurned the god; Dionysos sought the deep,

Where Thetis took him in her care to keep.

The Maenads and the Satyrs were confined,

Till Edon’s lords Lycurgus fast did bind.

Upon Pangaion’s heights, by god’s decree,

Wild horses tore the king and set him free.

To Theban gates the God of Revels came,

And set the women's frantic souls aflame.

To Cithaeron they fled to dance and play;

Young Pentheus sought to block the holy way.

He went to spy upon the Bacchic rite,

But Agave, his mother, cursed his sight.

In madness, thinking him a beast of prey,

She tore her son and cast his life away.

In Attica, Icarius gave him rest,

And by the god with viticulture blessed.

The farmer wished to share the gift of wine,

And gave the shepherds draughts of the divine.

They drank it pure, and in their dazed delight,

They thought it poison in the dead of night.

They slew Icarius; when the sun arose,

They buried him to hide their bloody blows.

His daughter searched until her faithful hound,

Maera, revealed the body in the ground.

Erigone then hanged herself in grief,

In death alone she found her soul's relief.

To Naxos next he sought a steady sail,

But Tyrrhene pirates let their greed prevail.

They steered for Asia, purposing to sell

The captive youth they did not know too well.

The oars and mast he turned to writhing snakes;

The sound of flutes across the water breaks.

The boat with ivy thick was overgrown;

The men, by sudden madness overthrown,

Leaped in the waves as dolphins, wise and free,

To roam forever in the foaming sea.

On Naxos, Ariadne won his heart;

He took her where the Lemnian waters part.

The kings of many isles from them did spring:

Thoas and Oenopion, to whom we sing,

With Staphylos and Peparethos too,

By grace of him who makes the grapes turn blue.

When Argos failed to pay the honors due,

The god's wild frenzy through the city flew.

The women fled to mountains high and wild,

To feast upon the flesh of their own child.

By signs like these the stubborn folk were taught

To give the god the worship that they ought.

From Hades' realm he brought his mother's soul;

Thyone named, she reached the heavenly goal.

Be gracious, Eiraphiotes, lord of might,

Who fills the raving women with delight!

I sing of thee at start and at the end;

No song is holy if thou art not friend.

Farewell, O Son of Zeus and Semele,

Whom mortals name Thyone, blest and free.

I sing of Dionysos, Semele's son,

Whose glorious life and battles have been won.

The man who fails to hold thy name in heart,

Can never master the Muse’s golden art.

I praise the Ivy-Crowned, the Loud-of-Cry,

The splendid son of Him who rules the sky.

The nymphs of Nysa nursed him in their cave,

To whom the King of Gods the infant gave.

By Zeus's will he grew in fragrant shade,

And there among the gods his place was made.

Through laurel groves and ivy, thick and green,

The leader of the nymphs is clearly seen.

The forest rings with their ecstatic shout;

O God of Plenty, cast our sorrows out!

Grant us to see this season's joy once more,

And many years of plenty kept in store.

Come, blessed Dionysos, various named,

Bull-faced and thunder-born, as Bacchus famed.

O Bassaros, whose power is over all,

Whom swords and blood and holy rage enthrall.

In heaven thou joy’st, loud God of frantic soul,

Who makes the thyrsus dance and thunders roll.

From honored gods who with the mortal dwell,

Thou bringest grace and joy we love so well.

Divinely loud, I call thy sacred name,

In double form and attributes the same.

O First-born, Protogonos, thrice-begot,

In rustic Trigonos' bacchantian plot.

Dark, two-horned King, unutterable and pure,

Whose ivy crown and Euvian cries endure.

Bull-faced and martial, bearer of the vine,

With Eubuleus’ counsel, wise and fine.

From Zeus and Persephonia, born in shade,

In secret beds where mystic power was laid.

The mortals worship thee with triennial rite,

Immortal Spirit, hear my voice tonight!

Grant stainless wealth, and let my prayer be heard,

By graces and by holy sisters stirred.

O Liknitos, who bears the heavy vine,

I call on thee to bless these rites of thine.

With colorful blooms from Nymphs and beauty’s Queen,

Where Aphrodite’s joyful face is seen.

Thy frantic steps with frantic Nymphs do beat,

Through sacred groves with light and leaping feet.

By Zeus’ decree and Persephone’s atonement,

Born as a fear for every god’s enthronement.

O blessed God, give ear unto my plea,

And in these holy rites, find joy with me.

Bacchus Pericionius, hear my call,

Who built for Cadmus once a palace wall.

The pillars wound with strength as thunder broke,

And shook the solid ground in flame and smoke.

With ringing streams held fast within thy grip,

Support us now and let no blessing slip.

Come, mighty Bacchus, to this rite of praise,

And grant thy seekers joy for all their days.

Hear, son of Zeus, whom all the people prize,

The God of Wine with two-fold mother-rise.

Lysios Evius, named in many a tongue,

From whom the lineage of the gods has sprung.

O Secret, Holy, Fruitful, Nurturing One,

Whose liberal care provides beneath the sun.

Thou banish despair with thy magnanimous mind,

O Lenaeus, cure for all of humankind.

In thy sweet rest, the weary find their charm,

And Bromios keeps the laboring folk from harm.

With green-leafed staff and madness in thy train,

Come, gracious Power, and let the harvest rain.

If mortals find thy favor, or the blest,

Stay with thy mystic; grant us peace and rest.

O Phrenetic Bacchus, blessed and divine,

With bull-horns crowned, the bearer of the vine.

From Lerna's depths and fire thou didst descend,

To Nysa’s King, where holy rites attend.

O Liknitos, who wanders in the night,

On Mount Mero, with mystic, fiery light.

O Triple Power, Zeus' secret, blooming flower,

Erikepaios, god of ancient power.

Thou Leader of the Choir, with dancing feet,

Whose phrenic furies make the spirit beat.

When triennial troops are by thy spirit fired,

Omadion, with burning light inspired.

Born of two mothers, Amphietus bright,

In deerskin clad, thou mountain-wandering light.

Gold-natured Paian, whom the isles adore,

O Ivy-Crowned, grant plenty to our shore.

Young, Bassaros, virginal and most famed,

Behold the mystic who thy name has named.

Chthonic Dionysos, hear my prayer,

With lovely-haired Nymphs rising through the air.

Great Amphietus, who in seasons deep,

In Persephone’s holy house did sleep.

Awake from slumber! Let the feast begin,

And wash away the silence and the sin.

Thy pilgrims sing the hymns of ancient grace,

While dancing with the Hours in this place.

Come, Horned and Fruitful, with a lucky glow,

And let the incense and the harvest grow.

The Boiotian maids with noble titles call:

Lyaeus, Bromius, the Lord of all.

Twice-mothered child of fire and of flame,

The Planter of the Grape, whose holy name

Is Nyseus, Thyoneus, and the rest,

Whose flowing locks remain forever blest.

Iacchus, Evan, Liber, and the cry

Of Eleleus beneath the Grecian sky.

Let folk-songs ring with praise of Bacchus high,

And bind the nodding ivy while it’s dry.

Within thy soft hands take the Nysaean rod,

Bright Glory of the Heavens, holy God!

Come to the prayers that ancient Thebes has said,

With virgin face and stars around thy head.

Drive off the clouds and Erebus’ dark threat,

And let the spring with flowers thy brow beset.

With Tyrian turban or with ivy berry,

Bind up thy locks to make the people merry.

As when thou grew to manhood, hidden long,

A feigned maid with golden tresses strong.

In saffron belts and garments flowing wide,

Thou didst in golden, lion-chariot ride.

The Orient saw thee by the Ganges’ stream,

And where the frozen Araxes’ waters gleam.

Old Silenus follows on his weary ass,

While through the world thy wild initiants pass.

The Bassarids beat the ground in Edon's dance,

On Pangaeus’ height the Mänads do advance.

Agave leads the dames in frantic mood,

To tear the King within the sacred wood.

When madness fled, they saw the deed they’d done,

And mourned the body of the fallen son.

Ino now dwells within the deep-sea spray,

Where Nereids and Palaemon dance and play.

Thou, Boy, wert caught by pirates on the blue,

But Nereus calmed the waves for thee and you.

The mast grew vines, the oars with ivy clung,

While birds among the laurel branches sung.

A lion roared, a tiger lurked in wait,

Until the pirates met their dolphin fate.

The golden Pactolus thy birth did know,

And Ganges’ drinkers saw thy power grow.

Lycurgus felt thy reign, and Scythians cold,

Under the Wagon of the stars of old.

The Amazons gave up their bows and spears,

To join the Mänads, freed from all their fears.

Now Cithaeron with royal blood is stained,

And Argos knows that Bacchus truly reigned.

On Naxos, by the blue Aegean tide,

He took the lost Ariadne for his bride.

Her mortal loss a god’s embrace repaid,

While through the rocks a mystic liquor strayed.

Nyctelian spirits flowed from stony ground,

And streams of milk through grassy meads did sound.

Deep in the earth the thirsty juices grew,

With Lesbian wine and thyme of fragrant hue.

The new-made bride is led to realms on high;

Apollo sings his anthem through the sky.

His flowing locks across his shoulders fall,

While twin-born Loves with torches lead the call.

Great Jove lays down his weapons made of fire,

And yields his lightning to the god’s desire.

While ancient stars through heaven’s pathways run,

And oceans circle earth beneath the sun;

While Luna’s beams their silver light restore,

And morning’s star stands guard at heaven’s door;

While northern bears the salt-sea spray do shun,

We’ll praise the face of Bacchus, Semele’s son.

Upon a cape above the barren deep,

He stood where rugged cliffs and waters meet.

A youth he seemed, in manhood’s earliest flower,

With dark hair blowing in the sea-wind’s power.

About his back a purple robe he wore,

A princely figure on that lonely shore.

The bull-horned god was crowned by Zeus’s hand,

With wreaths of snakes that came at his command.

Upon the hills the dance begins to rise,

While "Euhoi!" rings beneath the open skies.

The plains with milk and honey-nectar flow,

While Bacchus makes the pine-wood torches glow.

Like Syrian smoke, he leads the frantic race,

With shouts and laughter in the holy place.

He flings his heavy locks into the air,

And wakes the Mänads with his joyful flare.

A stranger comes, with gold within his hair,

Whose wine-dark eyes a grace of beauty bear.

"A soulful man!" the angry Pentheus cries,

To see the god within a youth's disguise.

"Thy form, O Stranger, has a graceful mold,

With charms for women, as I now behold.

Thy hair is long, not bound in ringlets tight,

But flowing o'er thy cheeks to spark delight.

Thy skin is white, preserved with tender care,

To seek for love within the shade’s cool air."

In old Olympia’s chest of cedar wood,

A bearded Bacchus in a cavern stood.

A golden cup he holds within his hand,

In trailing robes that touch the temple sand.

Around him vines and pomegranate trees,

Are carved to rustle in the holy breeze.

A thousand signs reveal the god to sight,

For any artist who would paint him right.

The ivy crown, though carved with clumsy art,

Proclaims the god who moves the dancer's heart.

A budding horn upon the forehead’s line,

Or spotted leopard, shows the power divine.

His brow was bright with every winning grace,

A tender bloom upon his youthful face.

He looked like Kairos, flushed with morning's red,

With beauty’s light about his features spread.

By Praxiteles’ hand the bronze did breathe,

As though a living soul the metal sheathe.

Within a grove the youthful god was seen,

With flesh as soft as though it once had been.

The solid bronze was worked with such a skill,

It seemed to yield to every finger’s will.

It blushed with life and glowed with young desire,

As if the metal held a hidden fire.

A crown of ivy rose above his head,

Where curly locks in rich profusion spread.

He laughed with joy; the very bronze did feign

The thrill of ecstasy and holy pain.

A fawn-skin wrap about his frame was cast,

So real it seemed to shiver in the blast.

His left hand leaned upon a leafy rod,

That seemed to grow beneath the touch of God.

His eyes were lit with madness, wild and bright,

Inspired by some celestial, inward light.

No heavy arms this boyish god requires,

No clashing steel nor war’s destructive fires.

He loves the garland and the scented tress,

The golden robe and purple’s rich excess.

The Tyrrhene pirates found upon a lonely strand

A boy who seemed a maid from some celestial land.

With wine and heavy sleep his senses appeared veiled;

I watched his noble brow as toward the ship we sailed.

His robes, his quiet air, his stature and his grace,

Proclaimed a god lived on within that youthful face.

But soon about the mast the creeping ivy wound,

And heavy clusters hung where'er the oars were found.

Then Bacchus stood revealed, with grapes about his head,

While o'er the wooden deck his leafy spear he spread.

At his divine command, the spotted lynx appeared,

And phantom tigers rose, by every sailor feared.

O Dionysos, youth is thine for evermore,

No age can touch thy light upon the heavenly floor.

When by thy golden horns thou liest in thy rest,

Thy face is like a maid's, with twenty summers blessed.

Yet dainty Bacchus felt no shame to scent his hair,

Or swing the slender rod with soft and graceful air.

With mincing gait he moved, in varied colors dressed,

With gold of foreign lands upon his flowing vest.

Come, Dionysos, bind thy locks with ivy green,

And let the Nysaean staff within thy hand be seen!

Twine spring-time flowers now about thy holy head,

Or let the Tyrian silk and ivy-fruit be spread.

Now let thy lawless hair in wild profusion flow,

Then bind it in a knot to let thy beauty show.

As when to manhood grown, in girlhood’s soft disguise,

To hide from Hera’s hate and ever-watchful eyes;

A saffron girdle then thy golden tresses bound,

And in those trailing robes a secret joy thou found.

Now in thy golden car the maned lions roar,

As when thou traveled far along the Orient shore.

From India’s distant land, where thyrsus-rods abound,

With tresses never shorn, thy holy head is crowned.

With vine-clad spear thou makes the forest tigers quail,

While o'er thy horned brow the turban’s folds prevail.

To Nysa’s distant hills, by Hermes’ hand conveyed,

The Nymphs did nurse the child within the leafy shade.

'Twas there he found the vine and learned the vintner’s art,

To bring a holy joy to every mortal heart.

But Hera struck his mind; through Syria he strayed,

Till in Cyrene’s land the sacred fruit was laid.

When childhood passed away and boyish days began,

He played among the youths before he was a man.

He struck the mountain rocks with fennel-stalks of green,

And from the wounded stone the flowing wine was seen.

Great Father Liber went to visit every race,

To show the sweetness born of his divine embrace.

He gave a skin of wine, a gift of liquid light,

And bade them spread the craft of Bacchus in his might.

When Bacchus saw the grapes with bellies full of red,

He thought of ancient words that Rhea once had said.

He carved the solid rock with sharp and pointed blade,

Until within the stone a hollow pit was made.

The first of wine-presses he fashioned in the ground,

And there the first of wine and holy taste was found.

When first the feast was done and new-found wine was poured,

The young and joyful God his foster-mother adored.

To Rhea’s mountain cave he brought the clusters fair,

And taught Maionia’s folk the Bacchic rites to share.

In Lydia’s lovely land, where Rhea’s cup was filled,

The first of vinegar from noble wine distilled.

They called the city there by Kerassai’s fair name,

Where first the blended draughts acquired a lasting fame.

When fierce Lycurgus rose to hunt the Bacchic train,

The God in terror fled into the salt-sea main.

But Thetis reached her arms from out the rolling deep,

To take the trembling God and in her bosom keep.

Thy mother Thetis gave, O Achilles, to the Greek,

A golden urn of old, for which the heroes seek.

A gift from Bacchus’ hand, the two-fold handle shined,

By limping Vulcan’s art and heavy forge refined.

When from Lycurgus’ wrath the God to ocean fled,

Fair Thetis welcomed him within her watery bed.

To her he gave the vase, the work of Vulcan’s hand,

Which later held the bones of Achilles on the strand.

So Stesichorus sang in ages long ago,

Of how the golden urn was gifted from below.

Lycurgus was the first to show his pride and hate,

And drive the God of Wine toward a watery fate.

But Thetis, wise and famed, received him in her bower,

And shielded Dionysos from the murderer's power.

The high Olympians keep these stories in their sight,

And honor Thetis now in realms of heavenly light.

The golden vessel used for great Achilles’ pyre,

Was Bacchus’ ancient gift, forged in the Smith-God’s fire.

A token of his thanks for refuge in the sea,

Crafted by Hephaistos’ hand for all the world to see.

Some say the flight of Bacchus to the ocean’s foam,

Proves that the vine of old found there a second home.

For wine is made more sweet, as ancient makers knew,

When salt of ocean waves is mingled with the brew.

The Hyades, who nursed the God in Nysa's shade,

Were by Lycurgus’ hand in sudden flight arrayed.

All save Ambrosia fled to Thetis in the deep,

As ancient poets tell, the sacred tale to keep.

When Bacchus heard the rolling thunder sound,

He feared that Zeus for King Lycurgus bound.

With winged feet he fled the monarch's hate,

And plunged beneath the Erythraean gate.

But Thetis, in her halls of coral deep,

The trembling god within her arms did keep.

She spoke with kindness to the downcast guest:

"Why does this sorrow weigh upon thy breast?

No mortal spear has made thy spirit flee,

No desert host has won the day o’er thee.

'Twas Hera's hand that armed the heavenly sky,

With Ares and with Uranus on high.

Though Hera fought against thee in her pride,

Oft has thy father had to step aside!

So let the world with future praise resound:

'The Queen of Heaven did Dionysos hound!'"

The Nereids joined to soothe his heavy soul,

While deep beneath the tides the waters roll.

Stretched out on seaweed by the Nereid's side,

He found a refuge from the stormy tide.

When Juno struck his mind with madness' blight,

Through Egypt's sands he took his weary flight.

King Proteus hailed him with a royal hand,

The first to greet him in that ancient land.

Within the Crab, two stars of silver hue,

Are known as Asses to the searching view.

For Bacchus, wandering in his frenzied state,

Sought Dodonaean Jove to learn his fate.

A vast and stagnant marsh blocked up his way,

Until two asses chanced to pass that day.

One bore him dry across the murky mud,

Unharmed by swamp or rising river flood.

The god, restored to health by Jove's decree,

Did set the beasts where all the world might see.

Some say he gave the ass a human tongue,

Whose fame by ancient poets has been sung.

Though slain by Priapus in later strife,

The god in pity gave it starry life;

Lest men should think he fled in cowardly fear,

He placed it high within the heavenly sphere.

When Bacchus led his host to India’s shore,

To nurse Nysa his Theban crown he bore.

But when he sought his kingdom to reclaim,

The nurse refused to yield in Bacchus’ name.

The god, unwilling with his nurse to fight,

Devised a ruse to take what was his right.

He dressed his troops as Maenads for the rite,

And seized the throne within the dead of night.

To Argos next the god of revels came,

With island women following his fame.

But Perseus blocked the gate with shield and spear,

And struck the god with unexpected fear.

Ariadne fell beneath the hero's blade,

And through the ranks a bloody path was made.

But soon the strife was hushed in holy peace,

And Argos bade the god's high cult increase.

When Argos failed to pay the honors due,

Once more the madness of the Bacchus flew.

The mothers fled into the mountain wild,

To feast upon the flesh of their own child.

The tomb of Chorea stands within the town,

A Maenad who attained a great renown.

When Perseus put the female host to flight,

She fell a victim in the bloody fight.

The "Women of the Sea" they also name,

The islanders who to the battle came.

Though Perseus fought the god in days of old,

Their ancient feud was turned to peace, we're told.

A sacred grove was built upon the plain,

Where Ariadne's earthly form was lain.

A coffin made of clay the builders found,

Deep hidden in the consecrated ground.

While India’s conqueror was hailed with song,

Acrisius alone maintained the wrong.

He barred the gates of Argos to the boy,

And sought the god’s high lineage to destroy.

He doubted Perseus was the son of Jove,

And against the power of Bacchus fiercely strove.

But soon the king did for his pride repent,

And to the god’s divinity consent.

The daughters of the king to forests fled,

While Argos bowed to Bacchus’ holy head.

Old Inachos beheld the battle line,

Where spears of bronze met ivy and the vine.

Mycenae's steel did fennel-stalks oppose,

As Perseus stood against his Bacchic foes.

The hero's sickle wavered in his hand,

Before the Satyrs and the frantic band.

With "Euoi!" ringing, Perseus threw his spear,

And struck the girl who knew no shield nor fear.

Poor Ariadne, in her bridal dress,

Died in the heat of Bacchus’ long caress.

I grant no praise to Perseus for the deed,

To make a bride in all her beauty bleed.

In that fierce strife, the son of Danae shook

Medusa's head with its horrific look;

The Gorgon's gaze turned Ariadne cold,

To marble stone, as ancient tales have told.

Then Bacchus raged to see his bride of light

Become a statue, motionless and white.

But Hermes came across the bloody field:

"The girl has died behind a glorious shield!

Lament her not; she found a hero’s hand

To send her spirit to the silent land.

Lay down thy staff, let all the shouting cease,

And mend her image in the halls of peace;

Where Hera’s statue stands in royal state,

Give Ariadne’s form a heavenly fate."

Once Hercules, with strength of limb and soul,

Challenged the God to drain the flowing bowl.

A friendly bout of drinking they began,

The son of Zeus against the god-made man.

To Hades' realm the God of Wine descended,

That Semele's long exile might be ended.

He sought his mother and his stone-turned wife,

To bring them back into the light of life.

Fair Semele, of Cadmus’ royal line,

Bore to a God a son who was divine.

Now mother and the son in glory reign,

Released forever from the reach of pain.

He led her up from out the dark abyss,

Thyone named, to share celestial bliss.

At Troizene, where Artemis is queen,

The altars of the underworld are seen.

'Tis said that Bacchus found the hidden way,

To lead his mother to the light of day,

Just as Alcides dragged the hound of hell

From out the caves where gloomy spirits dwell.

I scarce believe that Semele could die,

Who shared the bed of Him who rules the sky.

By Nemea's woods, the Alcyonian deep

Is where the Argives say the path is steep.

There Dionysos passed the water’s rim,

With Polmnos there to guide and follow him.

The nightly rites that guard this holy well,

To common ears I am not free to tell.

At Amyklai, upon the altar stone,

Are Hermes and great Zeus in relief shown.

Nearby stand Bacchus and his mother fair,

With Ino too, the heavenly light to share.

The myths declare he shared his endless days

With her he rescued from the ghostly haze.

The Fates allowed but few to turn their feet:

Great Father Liber and his mother sweet.

When Bacchus sought the way to shades below,

To bring his mother from the house of woe,

Hypolipnus showed the path the God must tread,

To reach the silent kingdoms of the dead.

Before he passed into the salty spray,

The God his golden crown aside did lay,

Lest Venus’ gift, by heavenly hands bestowed,

Be stained by contact with that dark abode.

When he returned with Semele in hand,

He set the Crown to light the starry land.

Another tale is told of one who led

The God into the regions of the dead:

Prosymnos asked a price of carnal lust,

To show the path through shadows and the dust.

The God gave oath the bargain to fulfill,

When he returned from Pluto’s frozen hill.

But when he rose, he found his guide was slain,

And sought the grave upon the lonely plain.

To keep his word, a fig-tree branch he took,

And carved a shape with a phallic look.

To pay the debt he owed the buried man,

The mystic use of phalli then began.

Without these songs and processions of the night,

The Bacchic rites would be a shameful sight.

By wonders such as these, the world was taught

That Bacchus was the God for whom they sought.

Both son and mother, born of mortal breath,

Achieved the stars and triumphed over death.

The Conqueror of India now resides

Where Ariadne’s Crown in glory glides.

Though Hercules by labor reached the sun,

The Drunken God his seat by joy has won.

His new-made bride is led through heaven's gate,

While Phoebus sings of her exalted state.

The twin Erotes swing their torches high,

To light her path across the velvet sky.

Great Jove beholds his son and puts away

The lightning bolts he wields in stormy fray.

In Athens' temple, Bacchus’ power is shown,

Who brought Hephaistos to the Father’s throne.

When Hera cast her limping son to earth,

He cursed the mother who had given birth.

A golden chair with hidden chains he sent,

To trap the Queen in bitter punishment.

No God could move his heart or break the spell,

Save Bacchus, whom the Smith-God trusted well.

With flowing wine, the God of Mirth prevailed,

And led him home while all the heavens hailed.

When Vulcan sat within his exile’s cave,

To every God a golden gift he gave;

But Hera’s shoes were made of adamant,

To bind her fast and make her spirit pant.

When called to free her from the magic chair,

He claimed he had no mother sitting there.

But Father Liber brought him, dazed with wine,

Back to the council of the powers divine.

And in the war when Giants rose to fight,

The God of Revels showed his holy might.

With pine-tipped staff he struck Eurytos low,

And laid the rebel Giant at his toe.

At Pallene’s fields, the Giants dared to rise,

To wage a war against the vaulted skies.

Great Zeus decreed that only those of might,

Who proved their valor in the bloody fight,

Should bear a name to set the brave apart

From every coward and the faint of heart.

Of all the sons of women, only two

Received the title that the Father knew:

Divine Alcides, for his labors famed,

And Dionysos, whom the stars proclaimed.

According to the ancient Grecian pen,

A tale of asses is preserved for men.

When Jove to war the high Olympians called,

The rebel Giants were not yet appalled.

But Bacchus, Vulcan, and the Satyr crew,

Upon their asses toward the battle drew.

The beasts, in terror at the sight of war,

Let out a braying never heard before.

The Giants, startled by the hideous sound,

Turned tail and fled across the shaking ground.

With ivy-wand and fennel-tipped with green,

The God of Revels on the field was seen.

The snake-haired brood, the sons of Mother Earth,

Were soon reminded of his holy birth.

He threw the fighting ivy with his hand,

To strike Porphyrion on the dusty sand;

Enceladus he smote with leafy showers,

And Alkyoneus felt his budding powers.

The Thyrsus flew where'er the rebels trod,

To guard the kingdom of the Father God.

Though Gaia’s sons with hundred hands did press

To crush the stars in infinite excess,

They bowed their knees before a spear of vine,

Subdued by Bacchus and his power divine.

More fell beneath the ivy’s soft embrace,

Than by the lightning in that holy place.

The champion of Zeus, with wand in hand,

Alone cut down the Giants from the land.

Though massive serpents hissed upon their backs,

And rose like stars to follow their attacks,

The Euvian God, with courage bright and high,

Restored the quiet of the summer sky.

But Hera, nursing still her ancient hate,

To Mother Gaia did her griefs relate.

She wept for Zeus's deeds and Bacchus’ pride,

And called the mountain-giants to her side:

"My sons, arise! Let heavy rocks be thrown,

Against the God who claims the vine his own.

Bring me this Indian-slayer, bound in chains,

To pay the Father for my bitter pains.

Let him be hurt by steel or captive led,

As Zagreus was, among the silent dead."

The Giants rose at her command to fight,

And tore the cliffs to show their rocky might.

Peloreus lifted Pilion in the air,

To strike the youth with tresses long and fair.

But Bacchus met them with a mountain-shield,

And forced the rebel Alkyoneus to yield.

No sword he drew, no pointed spear of steel,

But made the Giants with his clusters kneel.

He lopped the viper-locks from every head,

Until the dust with karmesin was red.

The earth-born snakes were filled with sudden dread,

To see their masters numbered with the dead.

Fire was a weapon in the Vintner's hand;

He threw his torches o'er the desert sand.

The Bacchic flame in rolling circles ran,

To scorch the limbs of Gaia’s rebel clan.

A serpent, hissing with a throat of flame,

Spat smoke and fire in the Bacchus’ name.

Enceladus was wrapped in burning heat,

Yet would not bow in darkness and defeat;

The God of Wine, with mercy in his breast,

Left him for Zeus to put to final rest.

The rocks of Haimos broke on Bacchus’ skin,

Which, like his soul, was free of mortal sin.

A younger Typhoeus threw the mountain peaks,

But found the ruin that a rebel seeks.

The God of Mirth, with ivy long and green,

Remained the master of the bloody scene.

He would have slain the whole of Gaia’s race,

But left the rest for Jove’s supreme embrace.

A curious man once asked of Aesop's wit,

How "gay" and "lesbian" souls were made to fit.

The ancient teller answered with a smile:

"Prometheus, working in his ancient style,

Had spent the day in molding limbs of clay,

To fashion humans in the proper way.

But Bacchus called him to a feast of wine,

To share the nectar and the juice divine.

Prometheus returned with heavy feet,

With senses clouded by the Bacchic heat.

In drunken haste, with mind in somber mist,

He joined the parts with an unsteady twist:

To male bodies, female parts he gave,

And made the women for the manly brave.

And thus, from Bacchus and the potter's cup,

The varied ways of modern love sprang up."

From Lydia’s gold and Phrygia’s wealthy soil,

I, Dionysus, come from sacred toil.

Through Persian plains, by burning suns oppressed,

And Bactria’s walls, I found no place to rest.

O’er Median snows and Arab lands I trod,

Through Asian realms to prove myself a god.

By salty shores where Greek and Tartar meet,

In crowded towns, I set my wandering feet;

To Thebes I come, the first of Grecian name,

To light my mysteries and my rites proclaim.

With dance and song, my godhead shall be shown,

And through the world my holy name be known.

Of Phrygian gods, Sabazios holds his place,

Born of Cabirus, king of Asian race.

From him the rites of Sabazia arose,

To honor him whom every Phrygian knows.

But Dionysus, touched by Hera’s spite,

Was struck with madness in his youthful light;

Through Syrian sands and Egypt’s ancient mud,

He fled the wrath of that celestial flood,

Till Proteus met him on the river’s side,

And gave him shelter from the vengeful tide.

Some say that Dionysus is the same

As Nile’s Osiris, great in Nysa’s fame.

When Liber sought for water in the waste,

And scorched by India’s heat, could find no taste,

A sudden ram from dusty earth did spring,

To lead the god to where the waters sing.

Thus Jove, entreated, set the ram on high,

To guide the stars across the vernal sky;

And where the fountain cooled the desert sand,

Did Ammon’s fane and Libyan temple stand.

Hermippus tells how Liber led his host

Through Ammodes, that dry and sandy coast;

The men were parched, their spirits began to fail,

Beneath the sun, their weary hearts did quail.

A wandering ram then chanced upon their sight,

And toward the hills it took its sudden flight;

The thirsty troops pursued through heat and flame,

Until to Jupiter’s own fount they came.

The beast was gone, but water flowed in store,

And Liber rejoiced to see the river’s shore.

A temple rose, with horned statues graced,

Where’er the ram the desert path had traced;

And since the ram did first the army lead,

It leads the Zodiac on its starry steed.

Yet Leon tells a tale of mortal men:

How Ammon came from Afric’s distant glen,

To Liber’s court he brought a fleecy prize,

To find more favor in the monarch’s eyes.

For this, the god bestowed a fertile plain,

Where Egyptian Thebes surveys the golden grain;

And thus the horns on Ammon’s brow are set,

Lest men the gift of herding should forget.

When Typhon rose to seize the heavenly throne,

The gods in terror fled to lands unknown.

To Egypt’s banks they sped in wild retreat,

And hid their glory from the monster’s heat.

Great Jove a ram, and Bacchus took the goat,

While Apollo’s form in hawk-like wings did float;

Hermis an ibis, Artemis a cat,

While Typhon’s shadow o’er the heavens sat.

He grieved to see young Bacchus in his car,

Or Pallas armed for terrifying war,

Whose snaky aegis and whose martial pride,

Did turn the monster from the gods aside.

Osiris, torn by Typhon’s cruel hand,

Left endless grief throughout the Egyptian land;

While Dionysus calls his Lydian throng,

From Tmolos' heights to join the sacred song.

“Ye women, leave the Phrygian drums behind,

And let our music drift upon the wind;

With Mother Rhea’s craft and my decree,

Come, serve the god and set your spirits free!”

From Asian lands and Tmolos' holy steep,

We run for Bromios, and our vigils keep.

O blest is he who knows the gods' design,

Whose soul is hallowed by the rites divine!

Who swings the thyrsus, crowned with ivy green,

And serves the Mother, Cybele the Queen.

In Dionysus' name we dance and sing,

And to the world his holy mysteries bring.

The triple-helmeted Corybantes high,

In Cybele's deep caves where shadows lie,

Invented for my hand the castanet,

With tightened hide and lively spirit set.

They mixed the wood with flutes of Phrygian breath,

To wake the soul and banish silent death.

To Mother Rhea then the prize was given,

To echo with the songs of earth and heaven.

The raging Satyrs joined the holy rite,

And danced for Bacchus in the festive light;

Each second year the joyful feast they hold,

In rites that Cybele had blessed of old.

To Phrygian hills the youthful Bacchus went,

On Cybele’s mysterious ways intent.

There Rhea cleansed him of the madness dire,

Which Hera breathed with all-consuming fire.

She taught the boy the initiations deep,

And gave the gear that holy revels keep;

Then through the Thracian woods he eager ran,

To spread the mysteries known to god and man.

Thus Pindar sings within his ancient strain,

Of Dithyrambs that march across the plain;

He tells of hymns both old and newly born,

That Dionysus’ sacred name adorn:

"To thee, Great Mother, whirls the cymbal’s round,

The clashing castanets in air resound;

The torch’s flame beneath the tawny pine,

Proclaims that Dionysus’ rites are thine."

The Lydian customs and the Phrygian ways,

Alike receive the poet’s song of praise;

"From Tmolos' walls," the Bacchant women cry,

"We bring the drums that lift the spirit high!

The Mother’s gift, with Bromios’ power combined,

To heal the soul and elevate the mind."

The infant Bacchus, on the lion-queen’s breast,

Was by the Mother’s milk and care caressed.

When jealous Hera sought the child to slay,

Whom Ino nursed within the light of day,

Swift Hermes snatched him to the mountain’s height,

Where Cybele abides in ancient light.

Though Hera followed with a rapid pace,

He donned the mask of Phanes’ primal face;

Before the First-Born’s glow she bowed her head,

And from the god’s deceptive splendor fled.

Then Hermes gave the boy with horned brow,

To Rhea’s arms, beneath the mountain bough:

"Receive, O Queen, the son of Zeus's love,

To fight the Indians and then mount above!

'Tis fit that Zeus’s mother should sustain

The child of Zeus, and ease his infant pain."

So Bacchus grew, a god in mortal mold,

Within the nursery of the lions bold.

The Corybantes stood in circle round,

And hid the child with clashing armor’s sound;

They struck their swords and made their bucklers ring,

To mask the presence of the growing king.

As Zeus was hidden by the shield’s alarm,

So Bacchus grew, secure from Hera’s harm.

At nine years old, he chased the mountain prey,

And led his hounds where forest shadows lay;

A striped tiger on his back he bore,

And laid the cubs at Rhea’s temple door.

Live lions to the Mother’s car he brought,

To serve the goddess whom he dearly sought.

Great Rhea laughed to see his manly pride,

And Kronion watched with joy from heaven’s side;

The boy would stand within the Mother’s wain,

And guide the galloping lions with the rein.

In glory now, fair Semele declares:

"See Dionysus, whom my Mother bears!

The Nurse of all, who fed the King of Heaven,

Has to my son her holy nursing given.

What pain did Hera for her offspring feel?

What nursing did Great Rhea’s love reveal?

But Cybele, who brought your Zeus to birth,

Now suckles Bacchus, pride of all the earth!

At one bright breast both son and father drank,

While all the gods gave holy praise and thank."

In Lydian fields he grew in youthful grace,

The first of all his wild and wandering race.

To him alone did Rhea’s hand bestow,

The Amethyst, with purple-tinted glow;

To guard the drinker from the wine’s dark spell,

And keep the mind where sober reason’s dwell.

In Lydia’s fields, where Kerassai is found,

The grape was crushed upon the holy ground;

There first for Rhea was the vintage poured,

And wine with vinegar in cups was stored.

In vine-clad Phrygia, Rhea’s ancient seat,

The infant Bromios found a safe retreat;

Nursed by the Mother with her sacred milk,

In mountain caves as soft as Tyrian silk.

The Amazons, who fled the god’s advance,

To Ephesus retired with broken lance;

Within the Virgin’s fane they found their rest,

By Artemis’s holy shadow blest.

In golden car, with lions’ shaggy hide,

Across the Orient did the victor ride.

From Ganges’ stream where dark-skinned Indians drink,

To where the Scythians break the frozen brink,

The Lydian Pactolus, with sands of gold,

Did see his banners in the wind unfold.

The Thracian tribes, who mix the milk and blood,

Bowed down their heads to Bacchus’ holy flood;

Lycurgus felt the weight of Bacchus’ hand,

And Boreas’ sons in many a wandering band.

The Gelonians fell beneath the god’s decree,

And warrior-maids were forced to bend the knee;

The Thermodontines dropped their arrows bright,

To join the Maenads in the dance of night.

Through Thrace and India did the conqueror pass,

To raise his pillars in the mountain grass;

Though some deny that such memorials stand,

The legends live throughout the eastern land.

'Twas Dionysus first who crossed the flood,

To tame the nations and to spare their blood;

Across Euphrates, with a vine-wrought rope,

He led his army with a celestial hope.

At Zeugma still the ivy-cords remain,

To mark the bridge across the watery plain;

While Egyptian hosts and Grecian tales agree,

That Bacchus tamed the nations to the sea.

Yet where the Brahmins dwell in silent thought,

A different battle by the gods was fought.

When Bacchus and the mighty Hercules,

Sought to bring the sages to their knees,

No spears were raised, no shouting filled the air,

For silent peace was all the foemen’s share.

But as the ranks of Greece approached the steep,

The rocks did wake and from their silence leap;

With bolts of fire and lightning from on high,

The sages drove the soldiers to the sky.

On Indian silver still the name is traced:

"To Delphic Bacchus, by the Indians graced."

When Liber led his host to Indian sands,

He left his kingdom in a tutor’s hands;

Old Nysus ruled until the god’s return,

But for the crown his greedy heart did burn.

He would not yield the scepter or the throne,

Till Bacchus claimed the kingdom as his own.

In those same days did old Silenus stray,

Till Midas led him on his weary way;

With regal care he entertained the guest,

And sent him back to Liber’s holy breast.

Across the East, where Ganges’ waters flow,

The banners of the Theban victor glow.

To feed his troops at the world’s furthest edge,

He crossed the desert and the mountain ledge;

The Arabs saw his fleeing riders pass,

Like shadows moving o’er the withered grass.

Then Rhea, seeing Bacchus’ work was done,

Sent Iris down to greet her foster-son:

"Go forth to Asia," spoke the King of Heaven,

"To those to whom no justice yet is given!"

Then All-Mother Rhea sent her heralds wide,

To gather heroes from the mountain side;

Pyrrhichus called the Corybantes’ might,

To arm for Bacchus and the coming fight.

The Goddess yoked her lions to the car,

And like a thought that travels from a star,

She crossed the firmament from North to West,

To summon all who follow her behest.

The Dryads, Nymphs, and spirits of the flood,

Arose to join the god of grape and blood;

The Cyclops, Centaurs, and the Cabir race,

All flew to find their Mother’s holy face.

O Bacchic Hermes, Jacchos, seed divine,

Born of the god who gave the world the vine;

And Aphrodite, queen of dark-eyed grace,

With kissing lips and beauty in her face.

In Lampsakos, where Mysian waters flow,

They honor one whom all the lovers know:

Priapus, son of Bacchus and the Queen,

The greatest god that ever they have seen.

For when the grape makes every limb feel tight,

The soul is stirred to seek the love’s delight;

A brawny son, though Hera’s jealous spite

Did mar his form and rob him of his light.

She touched the womb to make the babe appear

A thing of flesh, of mockery, and fear;

The mother cast him on the mountain wild,

Where shepherds found the strange and heavy child.

Old Oeneus took Althaea for his bride,

But Dionysus lingered by her side.

When Liber came to claim a guest’s repose,

Within the house a sudden passion rose;

The host, discerning that a god was there,

Gave up his home and left the royal fair.

Thus Deianeira, born of holy seed,

Became the fruit of Bacchus’ secret deed.

To thank the host for such a noble part,

The god bestowed the vintage of his heart;

He taught the planting of the sacred vine,

And named the juice Oinos for the wine.

With grapes of fraud did Liber once betray

Fair Erigone on a summer’s day.

And long he kept the memory of the bed

Where Astakos’s nymph was softly led;

Nikaia, drugged by potions sweet and deep,

Who lost her garland in a wine-drenched sleep.

So too did Aura, huntress of the hill,

Who mocked the marriage with a stubborn will;

A maid of Artemis, who lived to trace

The mountain-side and avoid the god’s embrace.

But Nemesis, with viper-woven thong,

Decreed a penance for the maiden’s wrong.

Eros, with arrows dipped in holy fire,

Consumed the god with all-devouring hire;

For Aura fled like wind across the glade,

Of every man and marriage-vow afraid.

"What medicine," cried Bacchus in his pain,

"Can win a heart that treats me with disdain?

She wears no girdle, heeds no lover’s sigh,

But like a hawk she sweeps across the sky.

Athena’s ear would sooner turn to me,

Than this cold maid beneath the forest tree."

A Hamadryad, peeping from her oak,

In whispered tones to Bacchus softly spoke:

"No prayers will win her, no, nor lover's art,

Unless you bind the limbs to reach the heart;

A heavy sleep must shroud her sparkling eye,

Before beneath the yoke of love she’ll lie."

The god remembered then the clever snare

That won Nikaia with the golden hair.

Where Aura wandered, parched by noon-day heat,

He struck the rock beneath his holy feet;

The mountain split, and from its purple breast,

A stream of wine arose at his behest.

The Hours painted all the fountain’s rim

With flowers that nodded to the vintage-hymn;

The scent of nectar filled the summer air,

To lead the thirsty maiden to the lair.

At noon she came, with heavy, burning breath,

To find a spring that smelled of life—and death.

"What wonder’s this?" the dazed maiden cried,

"What milde water flows from the mountain-side?"

She drank the stream, she drained the Bacchic cup,

Until the fumes did take her spirit up.

"My feet are lead, my tongue begins to fail,

A heavy slumber spreads its misty veil."

She stumbled on, with temples throbbing fast,

Until beside a tree her form was cast;

The nackt earth received the virgin-treasure,

Awaiting now the god’s unholy pleasure.

Then Eros laughed, and from the sky did lean,

To view the sleeping huntress on the green:

"The hunt is done, the game is in your hand,

For Aura waits the master of the land!"

He flew to heaven, through the vernal light,

But wrote these words upon the blossoms bright:

"O Bridegroom, finish now the sacred deed,

While silence serves the sleeping maiden’s need."

So Bacchus crept on silent toes to find

Where Aura lay, to all the world resigned.

He moved like mist across the nackt ground,

Where lethic springs had made her sleep profound;

No voice she heard, no sound of foot she knew,

While o’er her form the heavy slumber grew.

He took her quiver, hid her bow away,

Lest she should wake and seek the god to slay;

With bonds of silk he bound her hands and feet,

To make the capture of the maid complete.

In dust she lay, a victim for the shrine,

Made heavy by the sweetness of the wine.

No wedding gifts the silent husband brought,

But stole the prize that he so long had sought.

Great Hypnos hovered o’er the wedding bed,

And through the air a cooling shadow spread;

The god of sleep, who knows the lover's way,

Did marshal all the rites in dark array.

The Hamadryads shook the ancient pine,

And danced in honor of the god of wine;

But Echo stayed within her rocky hall,

And would not join the festive mountain-call;

She hid her face beneath the stony floor,

Lest she should see what Bacchus had in store.

The god arose, and with a gentle bliss,

Bestowed upon the bride a parting kiss;

He loosed the bonds from ankle and from wrist,

And left the maid whom he had lately kissed.

The bow and quiver by her side he placed,

Then toward his Satyrs through the forest hasted.

When Aura woke and saw her mieder torn,

She felt the sting of bitter, silent scorn;

Her maiden-belt was loosed, her limbs were bare,

The marks of marriage stained the garment there.

Too late she bound the girdle to her waist!

The joy of youth was gone, by fraud displaced.

With shrieks of woe she through the forest ran,

To vent her rage on beast and mortal man;

The shepherds fell beneath her vengeful blade,

And blood did drench the green and leafy glade.

She slew the oxen and the goats in spite,

To punish Bacchus for the treacherous night.

The workers of the vine she put to death,

For drawing from the grape the god’s own breath.

Yet in her womb a double burden grew:

The seeds of Bacchus, whom she never knew.

Then Artemis beheld the maiden’s state,

And mocked the burden of her heavy fate:

"I saw the sleep that served the Papian king!

I saw the stream that did the marriage bring!

The yellow fountain made your spirit weak,

And brought the bloom of Bacchus to your cheek.

Go, drop your bow! Your hunting days are o’er;

You serve the god whom you did once abhor.

Take up the drum and join the frantic crowd,

With cymbals clashing and with voices loud!

Did Bacchus give a fawn-skin for your bed,

Or rattles for the babes when they are fed?"

The Goddess spoke the word that loosed the pain,

And twins were born upon the mountain plain.

From these Didymoi did the mountain take

The name of Dindymon, for Rhea’s sake.

Then Bacchus called Nikaia to his side:

"See Aura now, my second mountain-bride!

She suffers what you suffered in the past,

By wine and sleep in marriage-bonds held fast.

Go, lift my son, before her raging hand

Does sweep the infants from the living land!"

But Aura took the babes with heart of stone,

To leave them for a lioness alone.

Yet panthers came to lick the children’s face,

And serpents guarded all the holy place;

For Bacchus made the savage beasts grow mild,

To protect the beauty of the newborn child.

But Aura, like a lioness in rage,

Did seek the infants' life-blood to assuage;

She snatched one child and tossed him to the sky,

Then devoured him as he fell from high.

Fair Artemis, in horror at the sight,

Snatched up the second boy and took to flight;

She bore the infant Jacchos through the wood,

An alien burden for her maidenhood.

But Aura, shamed by all that she had done,

And by the murder of her infant son,

Fled to the banks where Sangarios flows,

To find a final end for all her woes.

She cast her bow into the deep-blue tide,

And plunged beneath the waves her face to hide;

To hide her eyes from every beam of light,

In waters dark as her own wretched night.

Then Jove, in pity for the maid distressed,

Turned her to water at his own behest;

A flowing fountain now she does remain,

To wash the memory of her ancient pain.

Then Artemis her brother Bacchus sought,

And gave the boy whom she had safely brought.

The gods received him with a holy name,

To share in Zagreus’ and in Bacchus’ fame.

The late-born son and he who came the first,

With young Jacchos, were by Athens nursed.

In three-fold rites the city did combine

The different aspects of the god of wine:

With Zagreus, Bromios, and Jacchos’ name,

They lit the fires of everlasting fame.

Three gods in one the Athenian dancers sing,

While through the streets the holy anthems ring.

Near Syrian cliffs, where ancient shadows lie,

Eros let two fiery arrows fly;

To kindle in two hearts a single fire,

And fill two mighty gods with one desire.

For Beroe’s hand, the King of Waves did wait,

While Bacchus came to seal his lovely fate;

From deep-sea roads the Shaker of the Earth,

Met him whose vine gives every spirit mirth.

By Lebanon’s high peaks the rivals stood,

While Eros struck them from the leafy wood.

He drove the wine-god mad with beauty’s light,

To offer Beroe treasures red and bright;

While Poseidon, lord of every salty tide,

Sought the sea-neighbor for his royal bride.

But Bacchus felt the hotter, fiercer flame,

For wine and youth the wildest spirits tame;

Eros, in form of birds that wheel on high,

Laughed as his spottish words did fill the sky:

"If Bacchus makes the minds of men expire,

Then I shall set the God of Wine on fire!"

With longing eyes, the long-haired maid he scanned,

While newborn love within his heart was planned;

He followed Beroe through the joyful glade,

A god enamored of a mortal maid.

He prayed to Helios: "Stay thy golden car!

Restrain thy steeds and hold the morning star!

Extend the light, and let the day be slow,

That I may watch where Beroe’s footsteps go."

Step after step, he measured out the ground,

Where'er the traces of her feet were found;

While Poseidon, with a heavy, lingering pace,

Turned oft to gaze upon her lovely face.

In Lebanon’s cool woods they stood alone,

A joy the wine-god claimed as all his own;

He kissed the very dust beneath her feet,

And found the earth where she had stepped more sweet.

No painted jewels graced her rosy cheek,

For natural beauty was not far to seek;

No brazen mirror did her image hold,

Nor was her hair in cunning ringlets rolled.

A schneeweiß face, by artifice untouched,

Is more by desperate, fevered lovers clutched;

The straying locks that o’er her forehead fell,

Did bind the god beneath a sturdier spell.

When Sirius parched the earth with summer heat,

She sought the spring with weary, dusty feet;

She scooped the water in her hollowed hand,

The cooling nectar of her native land.

When she was gone, the god did kneel and drink,

And found the water sweeter at the brink;

Yet fear and jealousy did cloud his mind,

That she to water—not to wine—was kind.

"O Virgin, drink the nectar!" was his cry,

"Leave this cold stream beneath the summer sky!

Beware the Sea-God, lest he steal away

Thy maidenhood beneath the salty spray;

As Tyro fell beneath the deceptive tide,

So guard thy belt against the Shaker’s pride!"

To win her heart, he changed his holy form,

And took the hunter’s shape to brave the storm;

With stolen looks, he watched the maiden near,

Yet held his tongue in shy and holy fear.

The words he formed did to his heart retreat,

Before the bitter-sweetness of the meet;

At last he spoke, with voice of soft deceit:

"Artemis, where is thy quiver, where thy feet?

Who stole thy arrows? Where is all thy pride?"

The maiden smiled to see him at her side;

She felt a pride to hear herself compared

To goddesses whose beauty she had shared.

But Bacchus grieved to see her simple mind,

To all his passion and his longing blind;

For when a woman knows, there’s hope for peace,

But ignorance brings a lover no release.

Day after day, beneath the mountain pine,

He watched for Beroe with a gaze divine;

He asked of her great father, whom he knew,

And near her breast his longing hand he drew.

He touched her belt, he felt her heart-beat fast,

Until his very hand grew numb at last.

In childish ways, she asked him of his race,

While searching out the secrets of his face;

He played the land-hand with a cunning art,

To hide the godhead in his burning heart.

He took her nets and praised the woven thread,

With many a question for the maid he led:

"What god made this? Did Vulcan’s jealous hand

Prepare this gear to sweep across the land?"

He lay at last upon a flowery bed,

With Anemone-leaves beneath his head;

He saw the maid in bridal-robes of white,

A vision sent to haunt the lonely night.

He tossed the thyrsus, wore the spotted skin,

To mask the fire that burned so deep within.

But Beroe veiled her cheeks to shun his eye,

Which made the lover for her beauty sigh;

For men desire the face that’s hidden more,

Than all the beauties on the open shore.

At last he stood, his human form cast by,

A god revealed beneath the Syrian sky;

He told his name, his deeds in Indian lands,

The gifts of wine he brought to mortal hands.

Then, casting off his modesty and pride,

He sought to claim the maiden for his bride:

"Sweet maid, for thee I leave the heavens above,

To seek the sanctuary of thy love!"

"Thy father’s caves are better than the height

Of proud Olympus and its starry light;

I love thy hills more than the heavens above,

And crave thy hand more than my father’s love.

Thy beauty breathes a scent more rich and rare

Than all the nectar in the sacred air.

If Cypris is thy mother, then I feel

The Kestus should thy secret heart reveal;

Why flee the mysteries that thy mother taught,

And leave the joys of holy love unsought?

Disgrace her not! If thou art truly seed

Of fair Adonis, then to marriage speed;

For Eros punishes with heavy hand

The maids who dare his holy laws withstand.

Spare not thy belt, but come as comrade true,

To taste the pleasures that are ever new.

What gifts can Poseidon offer to a bride?

The stinking monsters of the salty tide?

His seal-skin blankets and his briny bed,

Where only cold and bitter things are wed?

Avoid his trident and his restless noise,

And come to taste the Satyrs’ festive joys!"

"No gold I bring to Aphrodite’s child,

Nor silver from the mountains dark and wild;

No amber from Eridanos’s shore,

For thou art rich with nature’s golden store.

Thy blushing white makes every jewel old,

And turns to dross the Heliades’ gold.

Thy neck is brighter than the morning rays,

And in thy form the light of heaven plays.

No lamps I bring, for light is in thy sight;

No roses, for thy cheeks are red and bright."

So Bacchus spoke; but Beroe closed her ears,

To block the words that stirred her maiden fears;

She loathed the thought of marriage and the vine,

And turned away from every Bacchic sign.

Then whipped by Kestus and by wild desire,

The god pursued her with a heart of fire,

While far away, across the thirsty hill,

The Shaker of the Earth pursued her still.

From out the sea, with heavy, watery tread,

The Lord of Waves his azure footsteps led;

He scanned her beauty with a longing eye,

And breathed for her a deep and briny sigh.

Then Aphrodite, filled with anxious care,

Beheld the passion of the divine pair;

She saw in both a fierce and equal flame,

And did the terms of holy war proclaim:

"I have no twins to give to each a bride,

To rule the land or dwell beneath the tide;

Since nature gives us but a single prize,

Let battle decide before our waiting eyes.

The winner takes the maid without a fee,

To rule the earth or dwell within the sea;

But swear an oath: the loser shall not tear

The city’s walls or drive men to despair.

Let not the trident strike the fertile ground,

Nor Bacchus' wrath within the vines be found;

But when the fight is done, let friendship grow,

To bless the city that the winners know."

The suitors swore; and from the peaks of light,

The gods descended to behold the fight.

Upon the rocks of Lebanon they stood,

To watch the struggle for the maidenhood.

Fair Beroe trembled at the coming gale,

For at the thought of sea-loves she grew pale;

She feared the watery bower in the deep,

Where only cold and silent shadows sleep.

The heavens trumpeted the call to war!

The Blue-Haired God let out a mighty roar;

He shook his spear and held his trident high,

While Bacchic thunders filled the Syrian sky.

With ivy-leaves and thyrsus for a blade,

The King of Satyrs charged across the glade;

He rode the lions of his mother's wain,

To challenge Poseidon on the dusty plain.

The spirits of the woods and of the wave,

Met in a struggle, fierce and wild and brave.

But Zeus, the Father, saw the conflict grow,

And struck the earth to end the rivals' woe.

He granted Beroe to the Shaker’s hand,

And stilled the riot in the weary land;

He sent his lightnings through the darkened air,

To end the wine-god’s longing and despair.

The King of Vines, by Eros deeply stung,

Beheld the prize that from his grasp was wrung;

But at the thunder of his father’s voice,

He yielded up the battle and the choice.

With heavy steps he turned his face away,

And left the victors to their wedding day;

With jealous ears he heard the ocean-song,

As Beroe joined the Shaker’s salty throng.

The Vintager's bright sign demands a pause,

To teach the student of its ancient cause.

Fair Ampelos, a Satyr’s beardless heir,

Was born of Nymphs and felt the god’s fond care.

On Thracian hills, young Bacchus loved the boy,

And gave a vine to be his leafy joy.

It draped an elm—now bearing Ampelos’ name—

Until the youth, too reckless for his fame,

Plucked purple grapes and from the branches fell;

Great Liber raised his soul in stars to dwell.

By Nemea’s side, where Alcyon’s waters flow,

To Argos’ depths did Dionysus go.

The Argives say he braved the gates of gloom,

To lead his mother from her somber tomb.

A man named Polymnus marked out the way,

To where the light of Semele should stray.

The midnight rites that guard this holy ground,

By mortal tongue must never be unbound.

When Zeus gave leave for Liber to descend,

The god sought out a path and found a friend—

Or so he thought. Hypolipnus was the guide,

Who saw the boy and felt a lustful pride.

The mortal asked a price for showing the road:

A shameful debt to be in full bestowed.

Young Liber, desperate for his mother’s face,

Swore to return and grant the man’s embrace.

He left the Crown, which Venus once had wrought,

At Stephanus, the place where help was sought.

Through Prosymnos the path to Hell was shown,

But for a price that Bacchus must bemoan.

A gift of lust the guide required of the god,

Before he’d lead him o’er the Stygian sod.

The god agreed, but when he rose again,

He found his guide among the quiet slain.

To keep his oath, he carved a fig-tree bough,

And paid the dead his dark and solemn vow.

Thus Phalloi stand in every city’s street,

Lest Heraclitus find the rite unmeet.

Within the Roman realm we name a throng,

To whom the titles of the God belong.

First, Zagreus, whom Proserpina did bear;

Next, Egypt’s Osiris, Nysa’s slayer fair.

The third, Sabazios, Phrygia’s ancient king;

The fourth, a Moon-child, of whom Orphics sing.

The fifth is Semele’s, the Theban light,

Who set the Trieteric feast aright.

From Dionysus, lovely Charis rose;

Through him, the joy of every banquet flows.

Though Hera labored with the Graces’ choir,

From Kronois’ bed they caught the god-lit fire.

Fair Pasithea serves the God of Wine,

And tells of suffering in his holy line;

While Hymenaios, god of wedding-bands,

Takes up the torch from Dionysus’ hands.

Then Methe came, the child of drunken trance,

And Thysa joined the Idaean tambour-dance.

From Ariadne’s love, bold Keramos was born;

And Phlias too, the Peloponnesian morn.

Eurymedon and Narkaios took their place,

As noble scions of the vine-god’s race.

Even Althaia felt the god’s embrace,

And gave to Heracles a bride of grace.

From Naxos' shore, the God his prize conveyed,

And deep in Lemnos' woods with beauty strayed.

There Ariadne felt the divine fire,

And bore four sons to match her lord’s desire:

Staphylos, Thoas, and Peparethos bold,

With Oinopion, cast in his mother's mold.

Though some claim Theseus was the father’s name,

The Naxian folk give Dionysus claim;

They say the Vine-God took her as his bride,

With grape-born sons forever at her side.

To Oinopion, Rhadamanthys gave the key

To Chios’ isle, set in the wine-dark sea.

'Twas there he taught the art of pruning vines,

To fill the golden cups with noble wines.

On Thasos' shores, where Staphylos did rest,

The vintage takes a flavor of the best.

While Phanos joined the Argo’s daring crew,

To prove what blood from Bacchus can pursue.

In Caria's halls, where Lyrkos came to dine,

The son of Bacchus shared the gift of wine.

In every tribe that bears the holy sign,

A son of Bacchus founds a royal line.

From Thoas comes the race of Thoantin,

Where Ariadne’s legacy is seen.

Young Maron, too, though several steps removed,

Is by the god’s own lineage approved.

From Evineers to Staphyliers, they trace

Their ancient glory to the Vine-God’s face;

Each family boasts a son of holy birth,

To spread the joy of Bacchus o'er the earth.

Where vines are lush and loins are fierce and strong,

Priapos claims the worship of the throng.

In Lampsakos, they hail him as the heir

Of Bacchus and of Aphrodite fair.

And young Nikaia, bathed in holy dew,

Bore Telete to join the revel’s crew;

A midnight dancer, she with drums and light,

Attends the God through every sacred night.

With Aura, too, he shared a swift embrace,

To bring twin boys to lead the mystic chase.

Let Satyros the ancient scrolls unfold,

To tell how kings are cast in Bacchus’ gold.

From Althaea, who Deianeira bore,

The blood of Bacchus reached the Grecian shore.

Through Heracles the mighty line descends,

Until with Macedonian kings it blends.

From Hyllos down to Philip, great and brave,

The spark of wine the gods to mortals gave.

Thus Ptolemy, who ruled the Nile’s domain,

Could claim the God of Joy within his vein.

When Attalus the Great sought wisdom’s light,

The Pythia spoke to set his path aright:

"Be of good courage, Bull-horned King," she cried,

Invoking Bacchus as the royal guide.

The Attalids thus claimed a holy trace,

Descended from the Vine-God’s horned face.

But woe to those who met his divine hate,

Like Pentheus and Lycurgus, sealed by fate;

The God who tames the red and salty sea,

Has crushed the pride of mortal tyranny.

Young Dionysos, eager for his home,

Through Thracian wilds and Phrygian hills did roam.

But Dryas' son, Lycurgus, rose in pride,

To turn the rushing holy tide aside.

With ox-goad armed, he struck the sacred band,

And scattered holy staves across the sand.

The God, in terror, dived beneath the wave,

Where Thetis’ arms a silver refuge gave.

For this, the Father struck the king with night;

Blind and abhorred, he perished from the light.

The Edonian King, who once had mocked the vine,

Was driven mad by Bacchus' power divine.

He thought he pruned a branch of ripening fruit,

But hacked his son from limb to severed foot.

Some say he struck his mother in his haze,

Lost in a wine-dark, mind-destroying maze.

He deemed the grape a medicine of ill,

Until the God subdued his stubborn will;

On Rhodope, where mountain panthers prowl,

He fell beneath the wine-god's vengeful scowl.

When drought had parched the Edonians' weary soil,

An oracle relieved them of their toil:

"The King must die," the Pythian voice declared,

"If fertile harvests are to be repaired."

To Mount Pangaion was the tyrant led,

By Bacchus’ will to join the quiet dead;

Between the horses was he bound and torn,

A sacrifice to end the land’s forlorn.

Now in the Attic fane, his image stands,

A warning to the kings of distant lands.

The Hyades, who nursed the infant God,

Once fled the king across the thirsty sod.

From Naxos driven by Lycurgus’ spear,

They sought the sea to hide their divine fear.

The Dodon-Nymphs, in number seven told,

Now shine in heaven, bright with starry gold.

Ambrosia and Polyxo lead the flight,

Set by the Father in the halls of night;

They who once shielded Bacchus from the blow,

Now watch the seasons from the heavens' glow.

From Massagetic tribes who drink of blood,

To frozen lands where Boreas’ waters flood,

The axe-swinging Lycurgus and his kin,

Have paid the price of their blaspheming sin.

The God who hides a spear beneath the vine,

Has made the wildest realms his sacred shrine.

The Tyrrhene pirates sank beneath the deep,

While Pentheus’ mother woke from bloody sleep.

Let every mortal fear the Thyrsus rod,

And bow before the Bull-horned, wine-bright God.

Of Semele’s bright son I now shall sing,

Who stood where barren seaside grasses cling.

A youth he seemed, in manhood’s earliest flush,

With dark and waving hair, a morning blush.

Across his back a purple robe was spread;

The Tyrrhene pirates, by a dark fate led,

Saw him and leaped—a wretched, lawless crew—

To seize the boy they deemed of royal hue.

They tried to bind him with a heavy cord,

But shackles fell before the youthful lord;

With smiling eyes he sat, unchained and free,

While only one, the Steersman, chanced to see.

"Madmen!" he cried, "Release this divine guest!

What god is this who puts our ship to test?

Is it great Zeus, or He of Silver Bow?

No mortal man has such a heavenly glow.

Release him now, lest rising gales of hate

Should dash our vessel to a bitter fate!"

The Master mocked and bade the sails be spread:

"By Egypt’s sun or Cyprus’ heat," he said,

"This boy shall tell us where his riches lie;

The gods have sent him for our luck to ply."

But as the wind began to fill the sheet,

A miracle made every heart retreat:

First, fragrant wine ran through the blackened hold,

And heavenly odors turned the pirates cold.

Then vines along the sail-top took their root,

Heavy with leaves and clusters of the fruit;

Dark ivy climbed the mast with berries bright,

And flowered garlands hid the oars from sight.

In fear, they begged to turn the ship to shore,

But Dionysus was a boy no more.

Amidst the deck a Lion roared in rage,

As if a beast had broken from its cage.

A shaggy Bear arose with savage cry,

While grimmest lightnings flashed from Leo’s eye.

The sailors fled to seek the Steersman’s side,

But on the Captain sprang the Lion’s pride.

In frantic dread, the crew dived o’er the rail,

Escaping death to wear a finny scale;

For as they struck the bright and salty wave,

The form of dolphins was the shape he gave.

But to the Steersman, Bacchus showed his grace:

"Fear not," he said, with mercy in his face,

"In me the son of Zeus and Semele,

The lord of joy and holy vine, you see."

Now see the painting where two ships contend:

One holy bark, where Bacchic shouts ascend,

And one of pirates, lurking for their prey,

Who hoped to carry Lydian girls away.

The pirate ship with painted eyes looks grim,

With scythes and spears along its armored rim;

But Bacchus’ ship has cymbals on its side,

To wake the Satyrs drifting on the tide.

A golden Leopard at the bow is seen,

To leap at foes with spirit fierce and keen.

The Thyrsus serves as mast, and on the sail,

Are Lydian scenes that shimmer in the gale;

A fount of wine within the hollow hull,

Keeps every cup and every spirit full.

While Bacchus laughs upon the vessel’s prow,

The Tyrrhene men are changing even now.

Their hands dissolve, their sides grow dark and sleek,

As disappearing feet the waters seek;

One grows a fin, another finds a tail,

Until as fish they skim the ocean gale.

"Be better fish than men," the God commands,

As they are banished from the mortal lands.

Now Palaimon upon a dolphin sleeps,

While Arion his tuneful vigil keeps;

For dolphins love the music of the soul,

And guard the singer where the billows roll.

So hail the God who turns the sea to wine,

The son of Semele, the Lord Divine!

Twelve lawless men, of old Tyrrhenian name,

Once sought to soil young Bacchus’ holy fame.

Among them Lycabas, for murder known,

With Libys, Melas, and Opheltes shown;

Medon and Dictys, and Aethalides,

With rough Alcimedon, who braved the seas;

Epopeus, Simon, and Athalion’s pride—

All joined the theft, with gold as their only guide.

But one among them, Acoetes the wise,

Beheld the God through mortal boy's disguise;

He begged for mercy, but the greedy crew

Mocked at his prayers and from the right withdrew.

"This prize is sacred!" brave Acoetes cried,

As he stepped forth to stem the sinful tide.

But Lycabas, with exile’s bitter heart,

Struck at the pilot, playing the rebel’s part;

He nearly hurled the master to the deep,

While justice seemed in silent halls to sleep.

The boy-god woke, as if from wine and rest,

To put their treacherous promises to test:

"What is this noise? To Naxos I must go;

Is this the shore you promised to bestow?"

The liars swore and turned the painted prow,

While forswearing every holy, ancient vow.

Beneath a sky that promised swift advance,

The vessel halted in a sudden trance.

It stood as still as in a builder’s dock,

Unmoved by oars or by the water’s shock.

Then ivy crept along the wooden side,

To choke the oars and on the canvas ride;

The ropes grew heavy with the leafy green,

And purple clusters on the mast were seen.

The God arose, with grapes upon his head,

And o’er the deck a fearful wonder spread:

Phantoms of lynx and spotted panther lay,

Where tigers prowled in search of mortal prey.

In frantic fear, the crew began to change,

As human forms took shapes both dark and strange.

First Medon blackened, and his spine grew curved;

From Lycabas his human features swerved.

The wide-mouthed Libys found his hands were gone,

As flippers grew where fingers once had shone.

With sickle-tails, they leaped into the spray,

To dance as dolphins in the ocean’s play;

They breathe the brine and spout it to the sky,

Beneath the gaze of Bacchus’ smiling eye.

Of all the twenty, Acoetes stood alone,

To whom the mercy of the God was shown.

To Pentheus' court the faithful pilot came,

To tell the story of the sacred name.

The King, in fury, bade his guards prepare

To slay the man with torture and despair.

"Lock him in iron! Let the fires glow!

Send him to Styx and to the world below!"

But as the steel and instruments were brought,

The God worked wonders passing human thought:

The heavy chains fell from Acoetes' wrist,

Like morning dew or like a rising mist;

The prison doors swung open of their own,

For Bacchus guards the seed that he has sown.

Lest men forget the power of the Vine,

The God has placed a clear and starry sign.

Great Aglaosthenes, in Naxian lore,

Records the wonders seen on Dia's shore.

Because the Tyrrhenes felt the divine song,

And danced in madness with the dolphin throng,

One shape was lifted to the halls of night,

To shine as Delphinus with silver light.

A monument of passion and of change,

Within the heavens’ vast and starry range;

It warns the sailor on the trackless deep:

The oaths you swear, the Gods shall make you keep.

Most honored Dionysus, by your decree,

Tyrrhenian sailors sailed the rushing sea;

From Maeon’s coast they came, a lawless crew,

Till power divine their mortal forms o'erthrew.

The tamer of Lycurgus and the main,

Whose hidden spear the vine-clad staffs contain;

A boy in looks, he met the pirate band,

And quelled the waves at Nereus' command.

The azure waters turned to meadows green,

Where laurel groves and plane-tree leaves are seen;

Through blooming boughs the birds begin to cry,

As ivy climbs the oars and reaches high.

The grapes entwine the mast in purple clusters,

While on the bow a mountain lion blusters.

A Ganges tiger at the stern lies low;

The frightened pirates leap to waves below.

Their bodies change beneath the salt-sea foam:

The robbers’ arms fall off within their home.

Their breasts and bellies join in seamless skin,

As tiny hands are drawn and tucked within.

With curving backs they dive into the deep,

And through the swelling waves they nimbly sweep;

With crescent tails they cleave the ocean’s spray,

As dolphins following the sails away.

Yet Minyas' daughter, bold Alcithoe,

Refused the god and mocked his deity.

With sisters joined, she scorned the sacred rite,

And denied that Jove had sired the God of Light.

The priest proclaimed a holy day of rest:

From toil and task let every maid be blest.

In skins of fawn, with hair unbound and free,

With garlands crowned, they join the revelry.

The leafy thyrsus in each hand was borne,

Lest Bacchus strike the impious with scorn.

Both young and old obeyed the priest’s command,

And incense smoke rose thick across the land.

"Come in thy grace, O gentle God!" they cry,

As Ismenian women lift their songs on high.

But Minyas’ daughters stay within their hall,

To spoil the feast and heed no sacred call.

They pull the wool and turn the spindle round,

To useful labor all their hours are bound.

Then one suggests, while drawing out the thread,

"Since others follow rites by folly led,

Let us, for Pallas, keep a wiser pace,

And lighten toil with tales of ancient grace."

Then Pyramus and Thisbe’s fate was told;

The sisters marveled as the scenes unroll’d.

They doubt that gods such magic could employ,

For Bacchus brought them neither fear nor joy.

Alcithoe then took the weaver's lead,

To tell how Salmacis performed her deed.

The tale was done, yet still they worked in pride,

And all the power of the god defied;

When suddenly, a din of drums arose,

And unseen pipes destroyed their calm repose.

The air grew sweet with myrrh and saffron scent,

As through the loom a leafy greenness went.

The hanging cloth to ivy leaves gave way;

The threads to vines and purple grapes did stray.

The day was spent, and light began to fail,

In that dim hour when all the world turns pale.

The shaking house with crimson fire did glow,

As phantom beasts went howling to and fro.

To flee the flames, the sisters sought the shade,

But as they hid, their human features fade.

A membrane thin across their limbs was spread,

And tiny wings from withered arms were fed.

No feathered plumes assist them in their flight,

On parchment wings they wander through the night.

Their voices, shrunk to high and squeaky cries,

Reflect the change of shape and stunted size.

They haunt the house and shun the forest tree,

From twilight’s gloom they take their pedigree.

The name of Nyx within their title stays:

The Bat, who hates the sun’s revealing rays.

The three were wrapped in wings of strange design,

For scorning Dionysus, the divine.

Then Proetus’ daughters felt the stinging rod,

For they refused the madness of the god.

Lysippe and her sisters fled in dread,

By Dionysus' holy frenzy led.

Through Argos and Arcadia’s wild domain,

They ran distracted, howling in their pain.

The god, to prove his power to the state,

In Argos dealt a most horrific fate:

The mothers, driven mad by his decree,

Devoured their babes in wild insanity.

Pentheus, the king, in sacrilegious pride,

The lineage of the god did still deride:

"If King Acrisius shut the city gate,

Then I shall force this fraud to meet his fate!"

But Proetus' kin to forest thickets fled,

And Argos bowed to Bacchus' name instead.

Of Orpheus next, the ancient records tell,

Who would not heed the god he knew too well.

He turned to Helios as the god of all,

And on the sun as Phoebus he would call.

To Mount Pangaios' peak he made his way,

To catch the first glimpse of the rising day.

Then Dionysus, in his vengeful ire,

Sent forth the Bassarids with hearts of fire.

In Thracian robes and caps of fox-skin hide,

They tore the singer on the mountainside.

The Muses gathered every scattered limb,

To bury deep the man who sang for them.

The torch of Orpheus once had brightly shone,

Before the god claimed vengeance for his own.

For neglecting rites, or viewing them too near,

The poet paid in blood and mortal fear.

Orpheus, the singer, tuned his sacred string,

While rocks and woods followed to hear him sing;

The wild-born creatures gathered in a throng,

Entranced and captured by his holy song.

When suddenly, a band of women came,

With minds distorted and with hearts aflame;

In skins of beasts, the Cicones drew near,

And filled the air with cries of rage and fear.

"Behold the man who holds us in disdain!"

Cried one, and hurled her spear with might and main.

The leafy tip but bruised the poet's face;

Another threw a stone with hurried pace,

Which, charmed by music, fell before his feet,

As if to crave his pardon, soft and sweet.

But soon the madness of the Furies rose,

And drowned the lyre beneath a storm of blows.

The Berecyntian pipe and drums resound,

Till every note of Orpheus was drowned.

Then flowed his blood to stain the silent stone,

While birds and beasts made lamentable moan.

The Maenads turned their hands to bloody deed,

Like owls by day from forest shadows freed;

They tore the branches from the ancient trees,

As Orpheus fell, exhausted, to his knees.

Though laborers fled and left their tools behind,

The frenzied women kept their dark design;

They tore the oxen, limb from sturdy limb,

And turned their weapons and their wrath on him.

His voice, which once the stubborn rocks could move,

No longer could their stony hearts reprove.

He breathed his last into the passing wind,

Leaving a world of grief and gloom behind.

But Dionysus would not let them go,

Who laid the master of his mysteries low.

He fixed their feet within the forest floor,

To walk the paths of mortal men no more.

As birds in snares will flutter wings in vain,

The women struggled in their wooden chain;

Their shapely calves were wrapped in rising bark,

As limbs grew stiff and heavy, cold and dark.

Their arms to branches, breasts to oak were turned,

A bitter prize for all the hate they burned.

Thus did the god avenge the singer's fate,

And trapped the murderers in their leafy state.

On Icarus, the nymph of ancient fame,

Psalacantha, played a subtle game;

She promised aid to win fair Ariane,

If Dionysus followed her own plan.

The god refused; the nymph in jealous spite,

Hid Ariane away from heaven’s light.

Transformed to plane-tree by his holy breath,

She stands in silence, past the reach of death.

Some say that Midas, by a false decree,

Gained donkey’s ears for all the world to see;

Or since he wronged the god’s companions' rest,

With long and furry ears he was distressed.

In Syracuse, where Cyanippus reigned,

The rites of Bacchus were by him disdained.

The god in anger sent a drunken cloud,

Till Cyane was shamed and cried aloud.

An oracle declared the sin was great:

The impious must meet a bloody fate.

The daughter led her father to his doom,

And joined him in the darkness of the tomb.

So too in Rome, where Aruntius stood,

A hater of the vine and all its good.

Sent into madness by the god of wine,

He wronged his daughter by a dark design.

Young Medullina, wise beyond her years,

Wiped from her eyes the bitter, burning tears;

She crowned the man with wreaths of festive grace,

And slew the father who had brought disgrace.

King Athamas, in Thessaly’s domain,

Took young Themisto for his wife again;

But finding Ino on the mountain height,

He brought her home to restore his ancient right.

When Phrixus stood prepared for sacrifice,

Ino revealed the queen's dark, cold device.

The King delivered Ino and her son,

But Bacchus saved them ere the deed was done.

While Phrixus and his sister Helle strayed,

By Bacchus’ madness in the woods delayed,

Their mother Nephele brought the ram of gold,

And bade them flee to Colchis, brave and bold.

Ino, the nurse of Bacchus, spread his fame,

And gloried in her foster-child’s great name.

Proud of her husband and her children’s grace,

She stood the first among her royal race.

Yet Hera's rage pursued the holy child,

And drove the house of Athamas to wild;

The King, distracted, slew his eldest son,

While Ino, thinking all the world undone,

Leapt with her child into the boiling deep,

Where Nereids their eternal vigil keep.

As Leucothea now, she guards the sail,

When sailors tremble in the rising gale.

And Sisyphus, to honor the deceased,

Began the games when all the sorrow ceased.

King Athamas, by Jove’s dark hand made blind,

Destroyed Learchus with a maddened mind.

But Ino, with her Melicertes, fled

And plunged beneath the waves to join the dead.

Yet Liber called her Leucothea there,

And gave the boy Palaemon’s holy care;

As Mater Matuta we speak her name,

While Portunus secures the youngster’s fame.

Each fifth year now the Isthmian games arise,

To honor them beneath the Grecian skies.

Great mortals thus were made immortal powers:

Kadmus’ daughter haunts the ocean bowers;

And Melicertes, from his father’s strife,

Was granted an eternal, godly life.

Aristaios gained a glory most divine,

From those who press the olive for its wine.

To Thracian lands he traveled from afar,

To follow Dionysus’ holy star.

On Haimos' peak he vanished from the sight,

To dwell forever in celestial light;

A demigod to Greek and stranger too,

He left the earth to join the chosen few.

Young Dionysus, by the Herald’s hand,

Was taken to the Nymphs of Nysa’s land.

To pay the debt, great Jove then set them high,

As Hyades, the watchers of the sky.

On Nysa’s mount, these Dodonides dwelt,

And Medea’s ancient magic there was felt;

At Bacchus’ plea, she turned their age to youth,

A miracle of wonder and of truth.

Old Atlas had twelve daughters, so 'tis said,

By Pleione or Ozeanide bred.

Five of their number mid the stars were placed,

And by the Bull’s bright horns are ever graced;

Named for their brother Hyas, there they shine,

For nursing Pater Liber, the divine,

When Lycurgus from Naxos drove the God,

A weary refugee on foreign sod.

Seven nurses, Pherecydes doth declare,

Became the stars that outline Taurus’ glare.

From Nysa’s slopes to Thebes the child they bore,

And gave to Ino’s care the God of lore;

For this, Jove moved them to the starry height,

To guide the traveler through the dark of night.

When Bacchus saw Medea’s art so strange,

That could the fate of aged Aeson change,

He sought the Colchian's help for those who cared

For him in youth, and thus their age repaired.

In boiling cauldrons, youth was born anew,

As Aristophanes once wrote for you:

"I cooked the Demos, made him fair and grand,"

As Medea changed the nurses of the land.

The leopards, once the nurses of the Vine,

Now revel in the gift of juice divine.

The grape’s great Giver they with joy obey,

And in their spotted muzzles hold his sway.

Once they were women, mortal and refined,

Before the God transformed their human kind;

But of that change, my lyre shall stay its string,

For of such transformations none should sing.

Yet hunters know that leopards yield to wine,

Drunk on the fury of the God divine.

Bright-eyed and bold, they once were women fair,

With flower-crowns and braided, silken hair;

They nursed the infant Bacchus in his play,

Until to Thebes he made his royal way.

But Pentheus, in his pride, the God did bind,

With murderous heart and sacrilegious mind.

The worshippers in terror dropped their signs,

And wept beneath the shadow of the pines.

"O Dionysus!" cried the grieving throng,

"Avenge the tyrant’s arrogance and wrong!

Turn Pentheus to a bull upon the steep,

And let us as wild beasts upon him leap!"

The Lord of Nysa heard the frantic prayer,

And changed the King within his mountain lair.

With deadly gaze and horns upon his head,

The bull-like Pentheus filled the air with dread.

But to the women, Bacchus gave the prize:

The spotted hide and gray of panthers’ eyes.

With sharpened claws they tore the King apart,

And satisfied the hunger of the heart.

Of such great wonders let our songs be bold,

And in our hearts believe the tales of old.

In Thebes, Queen Dirce held Antiopa fast,

In darkness and in chains her life was cast.

But Amphion and Zethos found their dame,

And for their mother sought a bloody fame.

To an untamed bull they bound the cruel Queen,

A more horrific death was never seen.

Yet Bacchus, for his follower, showed grace,

And turned her to a spring in that wild place.

To Athens then the God of Vine descended,

Where by Ikarios he was befriended.

He gave the pruning-hook and taught the art,

To stir the blood and gladden every heart.

But shepherds, tasting wine without the water,

Thought they were poisoned, and began the slaughter.

They slew Ikarios in their drunken fear,

And buried him while none were standing near.

His daughter Erigone, in her grief,

Found through the noose a permanent relief.

Her faithful dog, the Maira, led the way,

To where the murdered father’s body lay.

Then Dionysus sent a dark disease,

Until the Pythian voice the land did appease:

"To heal the state, give honors to the pair,

And offer to the dead a solemn prayer."

The dog, who would not leave his master’s side,

Lay on the grave and there in silence died.

When Pater Liber walked among the race of men,

To show the sweetness of the vine within the glen,

He found Ikarios, a host of noble mind,

With Erigone, the gentlest of her kind.

He gave them wine, a gift of pure delight,

And bade them share its power and its light.

Upon a wagon then Ikarios took his way,

With dog and daughter through the summer day.

They reached the shepherds on the Attic plain,

And poured the drink that eases every pain;

But drinking deep, the woodsmen fell to ground,

As heavy sleep their weary senses bound.

"He gives us poison!" cried the frantic crew,

And in their rage, the noble host they slew.

With heavy clubs they struck him to the earth,

Unmindful of his kindness and his worth.

The faithful Maera, with a mournful cry,

Showed Erigone where her sire did lie;

And when she saw him, cold and past relief,

She sought the noose to end her bitter grief.

A curse she whispered with her dying breath:

May Attic maidens share my lonely death!

And soon from rafters many a girl did swing,

Until the city sought the Delphic King.

"Avenge the blood of those the shepherds slew!"

The god replied, "And give the dead their due."

They sought the murderers, and to soothe the shade,

A festival of swinging then they made;

With ropes and planks beneath the leafy boughs,

They pay the debt and keep their solemn vows.

They call her Aletis, the wanderer lone,

Whose heavy sorrow reached the golden throne.

By Jove’s decree, their forms were set on high,

To shine forever in the midnight sky:

Ikarios as Boötes, or the Guard,

Who keeps his vigil, silent and unmarred;

The Virgin is the daughter, fair and bright,

Whom we call Justice in the halls of night.

And Maera, constant to the master’s hand,

As Procyon guards the borders of the land.

Some say Boötes is that man of old,

Whose piety and faith were brave and bold;

To whom the God of Wine the cluster gave,

From drought and bitter thirst the world to save.

When first he planted rows of budding vine,

A goat broke through to ruin the design;

Ikarios slew the beast and took its skin,

To hold the juice and let the dance begin.

Around that bag they leapt in rhythmic pace,

The first to give the tragic chorus grace.

Others maintain that when he drove the wain,

Laden with skins across the Attic plain,

He earned the name Boötes for his deed,

The driver of the ox in time of need.

The shepherds woke and found their senses clear,

Repenting of the murder born of fear.

They fled to Ceos, where they built their home,

No more the hills of Attika to roam.

But Erigone, by her father’s tree,

Ended her life in dark extremity.

The dog made sated for the master’s life,

And shared the end of all the mortal strife;

One threw himself within the Anigrus well,

Where nevermore the drinking-waters swell.

But Jupiter, who pities mortal woe,

Raised up the three from all the world below.

He drew their likeness in the starry field,

Where to the ages all their grief is healed.

Before the Greater Dog, the Lesser stands—

The faithful hound from Attic mountain lands.

And still the maidens on the ropes do swing,

In memory of the daughter and the King.