Bacchus I saw in mountain gladesRetired (believe it, after years!)Teaching his strains to Dryad maids,While goat-hoof'd satyrs prick'd their ears.Evoe! my eyes with terror glare;My heart is revelling with the god;'Tis madness! Evoe! spare, O spare,Dread wielder of the ivied rod!Yes, I may sing the Thyiad crew,The stream of wine, the sparkling rillsThat run with milk, and honey-dewThat from the hollow trunk distils;And I may sing thy consort's crown,New set in heaven, and Pentheus' hallWith ruthless ruin thundering down,And proud Lycurgus' funeral.Thou turn'st the rivers, thou the sea;Thou, on far summits, moist with wine,Thy Bacchants' tresses harmlesslyDost knot with living serpent-twine.