yless eyes
Reproach'd him. Angrily, his temples hoar
With reverend locks, the prophet shook, and said;--
"Happy for thee, if thus of light bereft,
"The Bacchanalian orgies ne'er to see!
"The day approaches, nor far distant now;
"My sight prophetic tells,--when here will come
"Bacchus new-born, of Semele the son,
"Whose rites, if thou with honor due, not tend'st
"In temples worthy,--scatter'd far and wide,
"Thy limbs dismember'd shall the ground bestrew:
"Thy blood the forests shall distain;--thy gore
"Thy aunts,--nay e'en thy mother, shall pollute:
"For thou such honors, as immortals claim,
"Shalt to the god deny; then wilt thou find
"Beneath this darkness I but see too well."
Thus speaking, Echion's son the prophet push'd
Harshly away; but his too faithful words
Time prov'd;--the threaten'd deeds accomplish'd all.

Lo! Bacchus comes, and all the country rings
With joyous outcries; crowds on crowds thick swarm;--
Matrons, and wives new-wedded, mixt with men;
Nobles, and commons; all the impulse bears,
To join the stranger's rites. But Pentheus thus;--
"Offspring of Mars! O nation, serpent born!
"What madness fills your minds? Can piercing sounds
"Of brass from brass rebounding; winding horns,
"And magic cheatings, then possess such power?
"You whom the warlike sword, the trumpet's clang,
"And battle's edge, dread bristling close with arms,
"Appal not; yield ye thus to female howls;
"Wine's maddening fumes; a filthy shameless crowd;
"And empty cymbals? In amaze, I see,
"You venerable men who plough'd the seas,
"And here, a refuge for your exil'd gods,
"This second Tyre have built,--without a blow,
"Yield it a spoil! Ye too, robuster youths,
"Of hardier age, and years more near my own;--
"Whom warlike arms, than Thyrsi more become;
"And brows with helmets than with leaves comprest:
"Think whence you sprang, and let the thought inspire
"Your souls with all the dragon's fierceness: he
Singly slew hosts: he for his fountain fell;
You for your honor vanquish. He destroy'd
The valiant; you th' effeminate expel;
And all the glory of your sire regain.
"If fate to Thebes a speedy fall decrees,
"May heroes, O, ye gods! with battering force
"O'erturn her walls;--may the sword rage, and flames
"Crackling, devour her. Wretched though our lot;
"Not criminal: our fate, though much bemoan'd,
"Would need concealment not: