Bacchus, from his Indic triumphs return’d,

Receives the world which once his godhood spurn’d.

See, how grov’ling Pentheus finds it meet

To lay fair flow’rs at Bacchus’ hoovèd feet!

 

Or still, amidst the grape-god’s madden’d train,

Debauchèd Mænads that rend the youths in twain!

 

Unto the distant temple-hill on high,

Proceeds the host, in chorus makes reply:

 

“Hail Bacchus! To him pledge we our bloodied drunken pow’r.

“Let us with him make glad the victor’s hour.”

Ah, what sorried woe from scene disconsolate,

Portendeth ill to befall th’unhappy State:

Let Grecians mourn! Yea, Athens, see we yon,

The bloodlust driv’n before a darken’d dawn!