Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me.FiIl'd with thy strength? What dens, what forests these,Thus in wildering race I see?What cave shall hearken to my melodies,Tuned to tell of Caesar's praiseAnd throne him high the heavenly ranks among?Sweet and strange shall be my lays,A tale till now by poet voice unsung.As the Evian on the height,Roused from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad,Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white,And Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod,So my truant eyes admireThe banks, the desolate forests. O great KingWho the Naiads dost inspire,And Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring!Not a lowly strain is mine,No mere man's utterance. O, 'tis venture sweetThee to follow, God of wine,Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!