Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD Dramatis Personæ

Euripides (480 or 485–406 B.C.). The Bacchæ.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

Lines 1–399

DIONYSUS

BEHOLD, God’s Son is come unto this landOf heaven’s hot splendour lit to life, when sheOf Thebes, even I, Dionysus, whom the brandWho bore me, Cadmus’ daughter Semelê,Died here. So, changed in shape from God to man,I walk again by Dirce’s streams and scanIsmenus’ shore. There by the castle sideI see her place, the Tomb of the Lightning’s Bride,The wreck of smouldering chambers, and the greatFaint wreaths of fire undying—as the hateDies not, that Hera held for Semelê.Aye, Cadmus bath done well; in purityHe keeps this place apart, inviolate,His daughter’s sanctuary; and I have setMy green and clustered vines to robe it round.Far now behind me lies the golden groundOf Lydian and of Phrygian; far awayThe wide hot plains where Persian sunbeams play,The Bactrian war-holds, and the storm-oppressedClime of the Mede, and Araby the Blest,And Asia all, that by the salt sea liesIn proud embattled cities, motley-wiseOf Hellene and Barbarian interwrought;And now I come to Hellas—having taughtAll the world else my dances and my riteOf mysteries, to show me in men’s sightManifest God.And first of Helene landsI cry this Thebes to waken; set her handsTo clasp my wand, mine ivied javelin,And round her shoulders hang my wild fawn-skin.For they have scorned me whom it least beseemed,Semelê’s sisters; mocked my birth, nor deemedThat Dionysus sprang from Dian seed.My mother sinned, said they; and in her need,With Cadmus plotting, cloaked her human shameWith the dread name of Zeus; for that the flameFrom heaven consumed her, seeing she lied to God.Thus must they vaunt; and therefore bath my rodOn them first fallen, and stung them forth wild-eyedFrom empty chambers; the bare mountain sideIs made their home, and all their hearts are flame.Yea, I have bound upon the necks of themThe harness of my rites. And with them allThe seed of womankind from hut and hallOf Thebes, bath this my magic goaded out.And there, with the old King’s daughters, in a routConfused, they make their dwelling-place betweenThe roofless rocks and shadowy pine trees green.Thus shall this Thebes, how sore soe’er it smart,Learn and forget not, till she crave her partIn mine adoring; thus must I speak clearTo save my mother’s fame, and crown me hereAs true God, born by Semelê to Zeus.Now Cadmus yieldeth up his throne and useOf royal honour to his daughter’s sonPentheus; who on my body hath begunA war with God. He thrusteth me awayFrom due drink-offering, and, when men pray,My name entreats not. Therefore on his ownHead and his people’s shall my power he shown.Then to another land, when all things hereAre well, must I fare onward, making clearMy godhead’s might. But should this Theban townEssay with wrath and battle to drag downMy maids, lo, in their path myself shall be,And maniac armies battled after me!For this I veil my godhead with the wanForm of the things that die, and walk as Man.O Brood of Tmolus o’er the wide world flown,O Lydian band, my chosen and mine own,Damsels uplifted o’er the orient deepTo wander where I wander, and to sleepWhere I sleep; up, and wake the old sweet sound,The clang that I and mystic Rhea found,The Timbrel of the Mountain! Gather allThebes to your song round Pentheus’ royal hall.I seek my new-made worshippers, to guideTheir dances up Kithaeron’s pine clad side.[As he departs, there comes stealing in from the left a band of fifteen Eastern Women, the light of the sunrise streaming upon their long white robes and ivy-bound hair. They wear fawn-skins over the robes, and carry some of them timbrels, some pipes and other instruments. Many bear the thyrsus or sacred Wand, made of reed ringed with ivy. They enter stealthily till they see that the place is empty, and then begin their mystic song of worship.

CHORUS

A MaidenFrom Asia, from the dayspring that uprises,To Bromios ever glorying we came.We laboured for our Lord in many guises;We toiled, but the toil is as the prize is;Thou Mystery, we hail thee by thy name!

Another

Who lingers in the road? Who espies us?We shall hide him in his house nor be bold.Let the heart keep silence that defies us;For I sing this day to DionysusThe song that is appointed from of old.

All the Maidens

Oh, blessèd he in all wise,Who hath drunk the Living Fountain,Whose life no folly staineth,And his soul is near to God;Whose sins are lifted, pall-wise,As he worships on the Mountain,And where Cybele ordaineth,Our Mother, he has trod:His head with ivy ladenAnd his thyrsus tossing high,For our God he lifts his cry;“Up, O Bacchæ, wife and maiden,Come, O ye Bacchæ, come;Oh, bring the Joy-bestower,God-seed of God the Sower,Bring Bromios in his powerFrom Phrygia’s mountain dome;To street and town and tower,Oh, bring ye Bromios home.”Whom erst in anguish lyingFor an unborn life’s desire,As a dead thing in the ThunderHis mother cast to earth;For her heart was dying, dying,In the white heart of the fire;Till Zeus, the Lord of Wonder,Devised new lairs of birth;Yea, his own flesh tore to hide him,And with clasps of hitter goldDid a secret son enfold,And the Queen knew not beside him;Till the perfect hour was there;Then a hornèd God was found,And a God of serpents crowned;And for that are serpents woundIn the wands his maidens bear,And the songs of serpents soundIn the mazes of their hair.

Some Maidens

All hail, O Thebes, thou nurse of Semelê!With Semelê’s wild ivy crown thy towers;Oh, burst in bloom of wreathing bryony,Berries and leaves and flowers;Uplift the dark divine wand,The oak-wand and the pine-wand,And don thy fawn-skin, fringed in purityWith fleecy white, like ours.Oh, cleanse thee in the wands’ waving pride!Yea, all men shall dance with us and pray,When Bromios his companies shall guideHillward, ever hillward, where they stay,The flock of the Believing,The maids from loom and weavingBy the magic of his breath borne away.

Others

Hail thou, O Nurse of Zeus, O Caverned HauntWhere fierce arms clanged to guard God’s cradle rare,For thee of old crested CorybantFirst woke in Cretan airThe wild orb of our orgies,The Timbrel; and thy gorgesRang with this Strain; and blended Phrygian chantAnd sweet keen pipes were there.But the Timbrel, the Timbrel was another’s,And away to Mother Rhea it must wend;And to our holy singing from the Mother’sThe mad Satyrs carried it, to blendIn the dancing and the cheerOf our third and perfect Year;And it serves Dionysus in the end!

A Maiden

O glad, glad on the mountainsTo swoon in the race outworn,When the holy fawn-skin clings,And all else sweeps away,To the joy of the red quick fountains,The blood of the hill-goat torn,The glory of wild-beast ravenings,Where the hill-tops catch the day;To the Phrygian, Lydian, mountains!’Tis Bromios leads the way.

Another Maiden

Then streams the earth with milk, yea, streamsWith wine and nectar of the bee,And through the air dim perfume steamsOf Syrian frankincense; and He,Our leader, from his thyrsus sprayA torchlight tosses high and higher,A torchlight like a beacon-fire,To waken all that faint and stray;And sets them leaping as he sings,His tresses rippling to the sky,And deep beneath the Maenad cryHis proud voice rings:“Come, O ye Bacchæ, come!”

All the Maidens

Hither, O fragrant of Tmolus the Golden,Come with the voice of timbrel and drum;Let the cry of your joyance uplift and emboldenThe God of the joy-cry; O Bacchanals, come!With pealing of pipes and with Phrygian clamour,On, where the vision of holiness thrills,And the music climbs and the maddening glamour,With the wild White Maids, to the hills, to the hills!Oh, then, like a colt as he runs by a river,A colt by his dam, when the heart of him sings,With the keen limbs drawn and the fleet foot a-quiver,Away the Bacchanal springs!

Enter TEIRESIAS. He is an old man and blind, leaning upon a staff and moving with slow stateliness, though wearing the Ivy and the Bacchic fawn-skin.

TEIRESIAS

Ho, there, who keeps the gate?—Go, summon meCadmus, Agênor’s son, who crossed the seaFrom Sidon and upreared this Theban hold.Go, whosoe’er thou art. See he be toldTeiresias seeketh him. Himself will gaugeMine errand, and the compact, age with age,I vowed with him, grey hair with snow-white hair,To deck the new God’s thyrsus, and to wearHis fawn-skin, and with ivy crown our brows.

Enter CADMUS from the Castle. He is even older than TEIRESIAS, and wears the same attire.

CADMUS

True friend! I knew that voice of thine, that flowsLike mellow wisdom from a fountain wise.And, lo, I come prepared, in all the guiseAnd harness of this God. Are we not toldHis is the soul of that dead life of oldThat sprang from mine own daughter? Surely thenMust thou and I with all the strength of menExalt him.Where then shall I stand, where treadThe dance and toss this bowed and hoary head?O friend, in thee is wisdom; guide my greyAnd eld-worn steps, eld-worn Teiresias.—Nay;I am not weak.[At the first movement of worship his manner begins to change; a mysterious strength and exaltation enter into him.Surely this arm could smiteThe wild earth with its thyrsus, day and night,And faint not! Sweetly and forgetfullyThe dim years fall from off me!

TEIRESIAS

As with thee,With me ’tis likewise. Light am I and young,And will essay the dancing and the song.

CADMUS

Quick, then, our chariots to the mountain road.

TEIRESIAS

Nay; to take steeds were to mistrust the God.

CADMUS

So be it. Mine old arms shall guide thee there.

TEIRESIAS

The God himself shall guide! Have thou no care.

CADMUS

And in all Thebes shall no man dance but we?

TEIRESIAS

Aye, Thebes is blinded. Thou and I can see.

CADMUS

’Tis weary waiting; hold my hand, friend; so.

TEIRESIAS

Lo, there is mine. So linked let us go.

CADMUS

Shall things of dust the Gods’ dark ways despise?

TEIRESIAS

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

CADMUS (after looking away toward the Mountain).

Teiresias, since this light thou canst not read,I must be seer for thee. Here comes in speedPentheus, Echîon’s son, whom I have raisedTo rule my people in my stead.—AmazedHe seems. Stand close, and mark what we shall hear.[The two stand back, partially concealed, while there enters in hot haste PENTHEUS, followed by a bodyguard. He is speaking to the SOLDIER in command.

PENTHEUS

Scarce had I crossed our borders, when mine earWas caught by this strange rumour, that our ownWives, our own sisters, from their hearths are flownTo wild and secret rites; and cluster thereHigh on the shadowy hills, with dance and prayerTo adore this new-made God, this Dionyse,Whate’er he be!—And in their companiesDeep wine-jars stand, and ever and anonAway into the loneliness now oneSteals forth, and now a second, maid or dame,Where love lies waiting, not of God! The flame,They say, of Bacchios wraps them. Bacchios! Nay,’Tis more to Aphrodite that they pray.Howbeit, all that I have found, my menHold bound and shackled in our dungeon den;The rest, I will go hunt them! Aye, and snareMy birds with nets of iron, to quell their prayerAnd mountain song and rites of rascaldom!They tell me, too, there is a stranger come,A man of charm and spell, from Lydian seas,A head all gold and cloudy fragrancies,A wine-red cheek, and eyes that hold the lightOf the very Cyprian. Day and livelong nightHe haunts amid the damsels, o’er each lipDangling his cup of joyance!—Let me gripHim once, but once, within these walls, right swiftThat wand shall cease its music, and that driftOf tossing curls lie still—when my rude swordFalls between neck and trunk! ’Tis all his word,This tale of Dionysus; how that sameBabe that was blasted by the lightning flameWith his dead mother, for that mother’s lie,Was re-conceived, born perfect from the thighOf Zeus, and now is God! What call ye these?Dreams? Gibes of the unknown wanderer? BlasphemiesThat crave the very gibbet?Stay! God wot,Here is another marvel! See I notIn motley fawn-skins robed the vision-seerTeiresias? And my mother’s father here—O depth of scorn!—adoring with the wandOf Bacchios?—Father!—Nay, mine eyes are fond;It is not your white heads so fancy-flown!It cannot be! Cast off that ivy crown,O mine own mother’s sire! Set free that handThat cowers about its staff.’Tis thou bast plannedThis work, Teiresias! ’Tis thou must setAnother altar and another yetAmongst us, watch new birds, and win more hireOf gold, interpreting new signs of fire!But for thy silver hairs, I tell thee true,Thou now wert sitting chained amid thy crewOf raving damsels, for this evil dreamThou hast brought us, of new Gods! When once the gleamOf grapes hath lit a Woman’s Festival,In all their prayers is no more health at all!

LEADER OF THE CHORUS (the words are not heard by PENTHEUS)

Injurious King, hast thou no fear of God,Nor Cadmus, sower of the Giants’ Sod,Life-spring to great Echîdon and to thee?

TEIRESIAS

Good words, my son, come easily, when heThat speaks is wise, and speaks but for the right.Else come they never! Swift are thine, and brightAs though with thought, yet have no thought at all.Lo, this new God, whom thou dost flout withal,I cannot speak the greatness wherewith HeIn Hellas shall be great! Two spirits there be,Young Prince, that in man’s world are first of worth.Dêmêtêr one is named; she is the Earth—Call her which name thou will!—who feeds man’s frameWith sustenance of things dry. And that which cameHer work to perfect, second, is the PowerFrom Semelê born. He found the liquid showerHid in the grape. He rests man’s spirit dimFrom grieving, when the vine exalteth him.He giveth sleep to sink the fretful dayIn cool forgetting. Is there any wayWith man’s sore heart, save only to forget?Yea, being God, the blood of him is setBefore the Gods in sacrifice, that weFor his sake may be blest.—And so, to thee,That fable shames him, how this God was knitInto God’s flesh? Nay, learn the truth of it,Cleared from the false.—When from that deadly lightZeus saved the babe, and up to Olympus’ heightRaised him, and Hera’s wrath would cast him thence,Then Zeus devised him a divine defence.A fragment of the world-encircling fireHe rent apart, and wrought to his desireOf shape and hue, in the image of the child,And gave to Hera’s rage. And so, beguiledBy change and passing time, this tale was born,How the babe-god was hidden in the tornFlesh of his sire. He hath no shame thereby.A prophet is he likewise. ProphecyCleaves to all frenzy, but beyond all elseTo frenzy of prayer. Then in us verily dwellsThe God himself, and speaks the thing to be.Yea, and of Ares’ realm a part hath he.When mortal armies, mailèd and arrayed,Have in strange fear, or ever blade met blade,Fled maddened, ’tis this God hath palsied them.Aye, over Delphi’s rock-built diademThou yet shalt see him leaping with his train