The Bacchae of Euripides

And ramped and gloried, and the wilderness Was filled with moving voices and dim stress. Soon, as it chanced, beside my thicket-close The Queen herself passed dancing, and I rose And sprang to seize her. But she turned her face Upon me: "Ho, my rovers of the chase, My wild White Hounds, we are hunted! Up, each rod And follow, follow, for our Lord and God!" Thereat, for fear they tear us, all we fled Amazed; and on, with hand unweaponed They swept toward our herds that browsed the green Hill grass. Great uddered kine then hadst thou seen Bellowing in sword-like hands that cleave and tear, A live steer riven asunder, and the air Tossed with rent ribs or limbs of cloven tread, And flesh upon the branches, and a red Rain from the deep green pines. Yea, bulls of pride, Horns swift to rage, were fronted and aside Flung stumbling, by those multitudinous hands Dragged pitilessly. And swifter were the bands Of garbed flesh and bone unbound withal Than on thy royal eyes the lids may fall. Then on like birds, by their own speed upborne, They swept toward the plains of waving corn That lie beside Asopus' banks, and bring To Thebes the rich fruit of her harvesting. On Hysiae and Erythrae that lie nursed Amid Kithaeron's bowering rocks, they burst Destroying, as a foeman's army comes. They caught up little children from their homes, High on their shoulders, babes unheld, that swayed And laughed and fell not; all a wreck they made; Yea, bronze and iron did shatter, and in play Struck hither and thither, yet no wound had they; Caught fire from out the hearths, yea, carried hot Flames in their tresses and were scorched not! The village folk in wrath took spear and sword, And turned upon the Bacchae. Then, dread Lord, The wonder was. For spear nor barbed brand Could scathe nor touch the damsels; but the Wand, The soft and wreathed wand their white hands sped, Blasted those men and quelled them, and they fled Dizzily. Sure some God was in these things! And the holy women back to those strange springs Returned, that God had sent them when the day Dawned, on the upper heights; and washed away The stain of battle. And those girdling snakes Hissed out to lap the waterdrops from cheeks And hair and breast. Therefore I counsel thee, O King, receive this Spirit, whoe'er he be, To Thebes in glory. Greatness manifold Is all about him; and the tale is told That this is he who first to man did give The grief-assuaging vine. Oh, let him live; For if he die, then Love herself is slain, And nothing joyous in the world again! LEADER. Albeit I tremble, and scarce may speak my thought To a king's face, yet will I hide it not. Dionyse is God, no God more true nor higher! PENTHEUS. It bursts hard by us, like a smothered fire, This frenzy of Bacchic women! All my land Is made their mock.--This needs an iron hand! Ho, Captain! Quick to the Electran Gate; Bid gather all my men-at-arms thereat; Call all that spur the charger, all who know To wield the orbed targe or bend the bow; We march to war!--'Fore God, shall women dare Such deeds against us? 'Tis too much to bear! DIONYSUS. Thou mark'st me not, O King, and holdest light My solemn words; yet, in thine own despite, I warn thee still. Lift thou not up thy spear Against a God, but hold thy peace, and fear His wrath! He will not brook it, if thou fright His Chosen from the hills of their delight. PENTHEUS. Peace, thou! And if for once thou hast slipped thy chain, Give thanks!--Or shall I knot thine arms again? DIONYSUS. Better to yield him prayer and sacrifice Than kick against the pricks, since Dionyse Is God, and thou but mortal. PENTHEUS. That will I! Yea, sacrifice of women's blood, to cry His name through all Kithaeron! DIONYSUS. Ye shall fly, All, and abase your shields of bronzen rim Before their wands. PENTHEUS. There is no way with him, This stranger that so dogs us! Well or ill I may entreat him, he must babble still! DIONYSUS. Wait, good my friend! These crooked matters may Even yet be straightened. [PENTHEUS _has started as though to seek his army at the gate._ PENTHEUS. Aye, if I obey Mine own slaves' will; how else? DIONYSUS. Myself will lead The damsels hither, without sword or steed. PENTHEUS. How now?--This is some plot against me! DIONYSUS. What Dost fear? Only to save thee do I plot. PENTHEUS. It is some compact ye have made, whereby To dance these hills for ever! DIONYSUS. Verily, That is my compact, plighted with my Lord! PENTHEUS (_turning from him_). Ho, armourers! Bring forth my shield and sword!-- And thou, be silent! DIONYSUS (_after regarding him fixedly, speaks with resignation_). Ah!--Have then thy will! [_He fixes his eyes upon_ PENTHEUS _again, while the armourers bring out his armour; then speaks in a tone of command_. Man, thou wouldst fain behold them on the hill Praying! PENTHEUS (_who during the rest of this scene, with a few exceptions, simply speaks the thoughts that_ DIONYSUS _puts into him, losing power over his own mind_). That would I, though it cost me all The gold of Thebes! DIONYSUS. So much? Thou art quick to fall To such great longing. PENTHEUS (_somewhat bewildered at what he has said_). Aye; 'twould grieve me much To see them flown with wine. DIONYSUS. Yet cravest thou such A sight as would much grieve thee? PENTHEUS. Yes; I fain Would watch, ambushed among the pines. DIONYSUS. 'Twere vain To hide. They soon will track thee out. PENTHEUS. Well said! 'Twere best done openly. DIONYSUS. Wilt thou be led By me, and try the venture? PENTHEUS. Aye, indeed! Lead on. Why should we tarry? DIONYSUS. First we need A rich and trailing robe of fine-linen To gird thee. PENTHEUS. Nay; am I a woman, then, And no man more? DIONYSUS. Wouldst have them slay thee dead? No man may see their mysteries. PENTHEUS. Well said!-- I marked thy subtle temper long ere now. DIONYSUS. 'Tis Dionyse that prompteth me. PENTHEUS. And how Mean'st thou the further plan? DIONYSUS. First take thy way Within. I will array thee. PENTHEUS. What array? The woman's? Nay, I will not. DIONYSUS. Doth it change So soon, all thy desire to see this strange Adoring? PENTHEUS. Wait! What garb wilt thou bestow About me? DIONYSUS. First a long tress dangling low Beneath thy shoulders. PENTHEUS. Aye, and next? DIONYSUS. The said Robe, falling to thy feet; and on thine head A snood. PENTHEUS. And after? Hast thou aught beyond? DIONYSUS. Surely; the dappled fawn-skin and the wand. PENTHEUS (_after a struggle with himself_). Enough! I cannot wear a robe and snood. DIONYSUS. Wouldst liefer draw the sword and spill men's blood? PENTHEUS (_again doubting_). True, that were evil.--Aye; 'tis best to go First to some place of watch. DIONYSUS. Far wiser so, Than seek by wrath wrath's bitter recompense. PENTHEUS. What of the city streets? Canst lead me hence Unseen of any? DIONYSUS. Lonely and untried Thy path from hence shall be, and I thy guide! PENTHEUS. I care for nothing, so these Bacchanals Triumph not against me! . . . Forward to my halls Within!--I will ordain what seemeth best. DIONYSUS. So be it, O King! 'Tis mine to obey thine hest, Whate'er it be. PENTHEUS (_after hesitating once more and waiting_). Well, I will go--perchance To march and scatter them with serried lance, Perchance to take thy plan. . . . I know not yet. [_Exit_ PENTHEUS _into the Castle_. DIONYSUS. Damsels, the lion walketh to the net! He finds his Bacchae now, and sees and dies, And pays for all his sin!--O Dionyse, This is thine hour and thou not far away. Grant us our vengeance!--First, O Master, stay The course of reason in him, and instil A foam of madness. Let his seeing will, Which ne'er had stooped to put thy vesture on, Be darkened, till the deed is lightly done. Grant likewise that he find through all his streets Loud scorn, this man of wrath and bitter threats That made Thebes tremble, led in woman's guise. I go to fold that robe of sacrifice On Pentheus, that shall deck him to the dark, His mother's gift!--So shall he learn and mark God's true Son, Dionyse, in fulness God, Most fearful, yet to man most soft of mood. [_Exit_ DIONYSUS, _following_ PENTHEUS _into the Castle_. CHORUS. _Some Maidens._ Will they ever come to me, ever again, The long long dances, On through the dark till the dim stars wane? Shall I feel the dew on my throat, and the stream Of wind in my hair? Shall our white feet gleam In the dim expanses? Oh, feet of a fawn to the greenwood fled, Alone in the grass and the loveliness; Leap of the hunted, no more in dread, Beyond the snares and the deadly press: Yet a voice still in the distance sounds, A voice and a fear and a haste of hounds; O wildly labouring, fiercely fleet, Onward yet by river and glen . . . Is it joy or terror, ye storm-swift feet? . . . To the dear lone lands untroubled of men, Where no voice sounds, and amid the shadowy green The little things of the woodland live unseen. What else is Wisdom? What of man's endeavour Or God's high grace, so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait; To hold a hand uplifted over Hate; And shall not Loveliness be loved for ever? _Others._ O Strength of God, slow art thou and still, Yet failest never! On them that worship the Ruthless Will, On them that dream, doth His judgment wait. Dreams of the proud man, making great And greater ever, Things which are not of God. In wide And devious coverts, hunter-wise, He coucheth Time's unhasting stride, Following, following, him whose eyes