The Bacchae of Euripides Part 12

What say'st thou?--And how strange thy tone, as though In joy at this my master's overthrow!

LEADER.

With fierce joy I rejoice, Child of a savage sh.o.r.e; For the chains of my prison are broken, and the dread where I cowered of yore!

MESSENGER.

And deem'st thou Thebes so beggared, so forlorn Of manhood, as to sit beneath thy scorn?

LEADER.

Thebes hath o'er me no sway!

None save Him I obey, Dionysus, Child of the Highest, Him I obey and adore!

MESSENGER.

One can forgive thee!--Yet 'tis no fair thing, Maids, to rejoice in a man's suffering.

LEADER.

Speak of the mountain side!

Tell us the doom he died, The sinner smitten to death, even where his sin was sore!

MESSENGER.

We climbed beyond the utmost habitings Of Theban shepherds, pa.s.sed Asopus' springs, And struck into the land of rock on dim Kithaeron--Pentheus, and, attending him, I, and the Stranger who should guide our way.

Then first in a green dell we stopped, and lay, Lips dumb and feet unmoving, warily Watching, to be unseen and yet to see.

A narrow glen it was, by crags o'ertowered, Torn through by tossing waters, and there lowered A shadow of great pines over it. And there The Maenad maidens sate; in toil they were, Busily glad. Some with an ivy chain Tracked a worn wand to toss its locks again; Some, wild in joyance, like young steeds set free, Made answering songs of mystic melody.

But my poor master saw not the great band Before him. "Stranger," cried he, "where we stand Mine eyes can reach not these false saints of thine.

Mount we the bank, or some high-shouldered pine, And I shall see their follies clear!" At that There came a marvel. For the Stranger straight Touched a great pine-tree's high and heavenward crown, And lower, lower, lower, urged it down To the herbless floor. Round like a bending bow, Or slow wheel's rim a joiner forces to, So in those hands that tough and mountain stem Bowed slow--oh, strength not mortal dwelt in them!-- To the very earth. And there he set the King, And slowly, lest it cast him in its spring, Let back the young and straining tree, till high It towered again amid the towering sky; And Pentheus in the branches! Well, I ween, He saw the Maenads then, and well was seen!

For scarce was he aloft, when suddenly There was no Stranger any more with me, But out of Heaven a Voice--oh, what voice else?-- 'Twas He that called! "Behold, O damosels, I bring ye him who turneth to despite Both me and ye, and darkeneth my great Light.

'Tis yours to avenge!" So spake he, and there came 'Twixt earth and sky a pillar of high flame.

And silence took the air, and no leaf stirred In all the forest dell. Thou hadst not heard In that vast silence any wild thing's cry.

And up they sprang; but with bewildered eye, Agaze and listening, scarce yet hearing true.

Then came the Voice again. And when they knew Their G.o.d's clear call, old Cadmus' royal brood, Up, like wild pigeons startled in a wood, On flying feet they came, his mother blind, Agave, and her sisters, and behind All the wild crowd, more deeply maddened then, Through the angry rocks and torrent-tossing glen, Until they spied him in the dark pine-tree: Then climbed a crag hard by and furiously Some sought to stone him, some their wands would fling Lance-wise aloft, in cruel targeting.

But none could strike. The height o'ertopped their rage, And there he clung, unscathed, as in a cage Caught. And of all their strife no end was found.

Then, "Hither," cried Agave; "stand we round And grip the stem, my Wild Ones, till we take This climbing cat-o'-the-mount! He shall not make A tale of G.o.d's high dances!" Out then shone Arm upon arm, past count, and closed upon The pine, and gripped; and the ground gave, and down It reeled. And that high sitter from the crown Of the green pine-top, with a shrieking cry Fell, as his mind grew clear, and there hard by Was horror visible. 'Twas his mother stood O'er him, first priestess of those rites of blood.

He tore the coif, and from his head away Flung it, that she might know him, and not slay To her own misery. He touched the wild Cheek, crying: "Mother, it is I, thy child, Thy Pentheus, born thee in Echion's hall!

Have mercy, Mother! Let it not befall Through sin of mine, that thou shouldst slay thy son!"

But she, with lips a-foam and eyes that run Like leaping fire, with thoughts that ne'er should be On earth, possessed by Bacchios utterly, Stays not nor hears. Round his left arm she put Both hands, set hard against his side her foot, Drew . . . and the shoulder severed!--Not by might Of arm, but easily, as the G.o.d made light Her hand's essay. And at the other side Was Ino rending; and the torn flesh cried, And on Autonoe pressed, and all the crowd Of ravening arms. Yea, all the air was loud With groans that faded into sobbing breath, Dim shrieks, and joy, and triumph-cries of death.

And here was borne a severed arm, and there A hunter's booted foot; white bones lay bare With rending; and swift hands ensanguined Tossed as in sport the flesh of Pentheus dead.

His body lies afar. The precipice Hath part, and parts in many an interstice Lurk of the tangled woodland--no light quest To find. And, ah, the head! Of all the rest, His mother hath it, pierced upon a wand, As one might pierce a lion's, and through the land, Leaving her sisters in their dancing place, Bears it on high! Yea, to these walls her face Was set, exulting in her deed of blood, Calling upon her Bromios, her G.o.d, Her Comrade, Fellow-Render of the Prey, Her All-Victorious, to whom this day She bears in triumph . . . her own broken heart!

For me, after that sight, I will depart Before Agave comes.--Oh, to fulfil G.o.d's laws, and have no thought beyond His will, Is man's best treasure. Aye, and wisdom true, Methinks, for things of dust to cleave unto!

[_The_ MESSENGER _departs into the Castle_.

CHORUS.

_Some Maidens._

Weave ye the dance, and call Praise to G.o.d!

Bless ye the Tyrant's fall!

Down is trod Pentheus, the Dragon's Seed!

Wore he the woman's weed?

Clasped he his death indeed, Clasped the rod?

_A Baccha.n.a.l._

Yea, the wild ivy lapt him, and the doomed Wild Bull of Sacrifice before him loomed!

_Others._

Ye who did Bromios scorn, Praise Him the more, Baccha.n.a.ls, Cadmus-born; Praise with sore Agony, yea, with tears!

Great are the gifts he bears!

Hands that a mother rears Red with gore!

LEADER.

But stay, Agave cometh! And her eyes Make fire around her, reeling! Ho, the prize Cometh! All hail, O Rout of Dionyse!

[_Enter from the Mountain_ AGAVE, _mad, and to all seeming wondrously happy, bearing the head of_ PENTHEUS _in her hand. The_ CHORUS MAIDENS _stand horror-struck at the sight; the_ LEADER, _also horror-struck, strives to accept it and rejoice in it as the G.o.d's deed_.

AGAVE.

Ye from the lands of Morn!

LEADER.

Call me not; I give praise!

AGAVE.

Lo, from the trunk new-shorn Hither a Mountain Thorn Bear we! O Asia-born Baccha.n.a.ls, bless this chase!

LEADER.

I see. Yea; I see.

Have I not welcomed thee?

AGAVE (_very calmly and peacefully_).

He was young in the wildwood: Without nets I caught him!

Nay; look without fear on The Lion; I have ta'en him!

LEADER.

Where in the wildwood?

Whence have ye brought him?