 | Plays and poems |  |
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THE VISION OF THE GOBLET.
Evoe Bacche! wine hath seized my soul;
The fury of the jolly god is on!
Reach me the mighty ancient bowl:
Fill till the goblet weep,
Fill till the rushing current sweep
The dull, cold present to oblivion!
Now swing amain the mystic beaker tall,
And still to Bacchus breathe the potent spell;
Rouse the red-visaged god from slumbers deep
In green Arcadian dell!
Swing till the ruby breakers rise and fall,
Swing till the coursing bubbles leap
Above their crystal wall!
The fury of the jolly god is on!
Reach me the mighty ancient bowl:
Fill till the goblet weep,
Fill till the rushing current sweep
The dull, cold present to oblivion!
Now swing amain the mystic beaker tall,
And still to Bacchus breathe the potent spell;
Rouse the red-visaged god from slumbers deep
In green Arcadian dell!
Swing till the ruby breakers rise and fall,
Swing till the coursing bubbles leap
Above their crystal wall!
What gleams beneath the purple flood,
Far down upon the nether rim,
Glowing amid the vine's rich blood
As through a sunset's misty film?
'T is Attica, mild Attica, that sleeps
Embayed by heaven among her vine-grown hills;
Mantled with flowers and glossy grass she lies,
Smiling in all her rills;
Palace and temple-crowned she keeps
Her stately slumber 'neath the evening skies;
While Venus, brooding in a feathery cloud,
As in her nest the silver-breasted dove,
Peeps now and then above her dusky shroud
Upon the land of love.
Far down upon the nether rim,
Glowing amid the vine's rich blood
As through a sunset's misty film?
'T is Attica, mild Attica, that sleeps
Embayed by heaven among her vine-grown hills;
Mantled with flowers and glossy grass she lies,
Smiling in all her rills;
Palace and temple-crowned she keeps
Her stately slumber 'neath the evening skies;
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As in her nest the silver-breasted dove,
Peeps now and then above her dusky shroud
Upon the land of love.
Hark! the wine-waves, dashing, splashing,
Seem bacchantian cymbals clashing
To the rumbling drum,
And the shivering flutes' shrill singing,
And the jingling tabors' ringing;
While, anon, the hurly dying,
Syrinx softly breathes her sighing
From the warbling reed.
Caught in the Satyr's wily snare,
What throngs across the valley come;
As whirling in the eddying stream
Of music to the hills they speed,
While upturned Attic foreheads gleam
Amid their billowing hair!
Reeling, staggering, on they fly,
Wine in the blood and dizzy eye,
Wine in every sinew burning,
Onward still its minions spurning
Over hill, through lushy meadow,
Through the forest's glooming shadow,
Hither, thither, without caring
Where their guideless feet are bearing.
Seem bacchantian cymbals clashing
To the rumbling drum,
And the shivering flutes' shrill singing,
And the jingling tabors' ringing;
While, anon, the hurly dying,
Syrinx softly breathes her sighing
From the warbling reed.
Caught in the Satyr's wily snare,
What throngs across the valley come;
As whirling in the eddying stream
Of music to the hills they speed,
While upturned Attic foreheads gleam
Amid their billowing hair!
Reeling, staggering, on they fly,
Wine in the blood and dizzy eye,
Wine in every sinew burning,
Onward still its minions spurning
Over hill, through lushy meadow,
Through the forest's glooming shadow,
Hither, thither, without caring
Where their guideless feet are bearing.
Tossing aloft, with nods of drunken cheer,
Mark old Silenus on his ass appear;
Plashed is his hoary beard with purple wine,
Daggled his silver locks, his reeking brows
Crowned with the ivy and the twisted vine.
Mark how the dotard leers,
As through the maids he steers,
And tries to summon love within his filmy eyne!
Thick with the luscious grape
His mumbled words escape,
The barren echoes of his youthful vows.
Mark old Silenus on his ass appear;
Plashed is his hoary beard with purple wine,
Daggled his silver locks, his reeking brows
Crowned with the ivy and the twisted vine.
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As through the maids he steers,
And tries to summon love within his filmy eyne!
Thick with the luscious grape
His mumbled words escape,
The barren echoes of his youthful vows.
Lo! full-eyed Bacchus from triumphant war,
Rich with the trophied Orient's boast,
Goads through the crowd his flaming Indian car
Before the Satyr host,
That roaring straggle in their master's rear,
Twirling the ivied thyrsus as they bound,
And dance grotesque, and mingled laugh and jeer,
And cloven foot-falls shake the springing ground.
Rich with the trophied Orient's boast,
Goads through the crowd his flaming Indian car
Before the Satyr host,
That roaring straggle in their master's rear,
Twirling the ivied thyrsus as they bound,
And dance grotesque, and mingled laugh and jeer,
And cloven foot-falls shake the springing ground.
Around the hairy rout, with streaming hands,
Athena's maidens whirl the dripping urn;
Their floating vestures, loosed from jealous bands,
Half hide, half show, what charms beneath them burn.
There mellow Pan upon the Attic ear,
Framed with a dainty sense for melody,
Pours music from his pipe of knotted reeds,
Lifting the ravished soul to that high sphere
Where joy and pain contend for mastery.
Athena's maidens whirl the dripping urn;
Their floating vestures, loosed from jealous bands,
Half hide, half show, what charms beneath them burn.
There mellow Pan upon the Attic ear,
Framed with a dainty sense for melody,
Pours music from his pipe of knotted reeds,
Lifting the ravished soul to that high sphere
Where joy and pain contend for mastery.
Now tittering glee the grinning Satyr breeds,
Now flings the heart in tearful depths of woe,
Now big-eyed fear the shrinking crowd appalls,
Now to the blithesome dance the music calls;
Then with full power, and long, triumphant flow
Of swelling notes that shake the rooted soul,
And rise and fall with ocean's measured roll,
He lifts to Bacchus his resounding lay;
Tabor and drum confess the potent sway,
And join their muffled notes.
With nodding heads and brandished arms,
And flashing eyes, and swelling throats,
That heave with song's advancing tides,
The crowd obeys the cunning master's charms.
A murmured hum athwart the listeners glides,
While still the pipes their pealing notes prolong,
Piercing the heavens with wild exultant shout,
Till, maddened by fierce harmony, the throng
From end to end in ecstasy bursts out,
And thus to Bacchus pours its choral song.
Now flings the heart in tearful depths of woe,
Now big-eyed fear the shrinking crowd appalls,
Now to the blithesome dance the music calls;
Then with full power, and long, triumphant flow
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And rise and fall with ocean's measured roll,
He lifts to Bacchus his resounding lay;
Tabor and drum confess the potent sway,
And join their muffled notes.
With nodding heads and brandished arms,
And flashing eyes, and swelling throats,
That heave with song's advancing tides,
The crowd obeys the cunning master's charms.
A murmured hum athwart the listeners glides,
While still the pipes their pealing notes prolong,
Piercing the heavens with wild exultant shout,
Till, maddened by fierce harmony, the throng
From end to end in ecstasy bursts out,
And thus to Bacchus pours its choral song.
Joy, joy, with Bacchus and his Satyr train
In triumph throbs our merry Grecian earth!
Joy, joy, the golden time has come again,
A god shall bless the vine's illustrious birth!
Io, io, Bacche!
In triumph throbs our merry Grecian earth!
Joy, joy, the golden time has come again,
A god shall bless the vine's illustrious birth!
Io, io, Bacche!
O breezes, speed across the mellow lands,
And bear his coming to the joyous vine;
Make all the vineyards wave their leafy hands
Upon the hills, to greet this pomp divine!
Io, io, Bacche!
And bear his coming to the joyous vine;
Make all the vineyards wave their leafy hands
Upon the hills, to greet this pomp divine!
Io, io, Bacche!
O peaceful triumph, victory without tear,
Or human cry, or drop of conquered blood,
Save dew-beads bright, that on the vine appear,
The choral shouts, the trampled grape's red flood!
Io, io, Bacche!
Or human cry, or drop of conquered blood,
Save dew-beads bright, that on the vine appear,
The choral shouts, the trampled grape's red flood!
Io, io, Bacche!
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Shout, Hellas, shout! the lord of joy is come,
Bearing the mortal Lethe in his hands,
To make the wailing lips of sorrow dumb,
To bind sad memory's eyes with rosy bands.
Io, io, Bacche!
Bearing the mortal Lethe in his hands,
To make the wailing lips of sorrow dumb,
To bind sad memory's eyes with rosy bands.
Io, io, Bacche!
Shout, Hellas, shout! he bears the soul of love,
Within each glowing drop Promethean fire;
The coldest maids beneath its power shall move,
And bashful youths be bold with hot desire.
Io, io, Bacche!
Within each glowing drop Promethean fire;
The coldest maids beneath its power shall move,
And bashful youths be bold with hot desire.
Io, io, Bacche!
Long may the ivy deck thy sculptured brows,
Long may the goat upon thy altars bleed,
Long may thy temples hear our tuneful vows,
Chiming accordant to the vocal reed.
Io, io, Bacche!
Long may the goat upon thy altars bleed,
Long may thy temples hear our tuneful vows,
Chiming accordant to the vocal reed.
Io, io, Bacche!
Long may the hills and nodding forests move,
Responsive echoing thy festal drum,
Grief-scattering Bacchus, twice-born son of Jove—
Our hearts are singing, let our lips be dumb.
Io, io, Bacche!
Responsive echoing thy festal drum,
Grief-scattering Bacchus, twice-born son of Jove—
Our hearts are singing, let our lips be dumb.
Io, io, Bacche!
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