Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • Bacchus I saw in mountain glades
  • Retired (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 rills
  • That run with milk, and honey-dew
  • That from the hollow trunk distils;
  • And I may sing thy consort's crown,
  • New set in heaven, and Pentheus' hall
  • With 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 harmlessly
  • Dost knot with living serpent-twine.