Odes 3.25 (Martin): Quo Me, Bacche

Whither, whither, full of thee,
Bacchus, dost thou hurry me?
Say, what groves are these I range,
Whirl'd along by impulse strange.
What the caves, through which I fly?
Tell me, in what grot shall I
Swell illustrious Caesar's praise,
Striving to the stars to raise
Worth that worthy is to shine
In Jove's council-hall divine?

I a strain sublime shall pour,
Ne'er by mortal sung before,
As the Eviad, from some height,
Sleepless through the livelong night,
With a thrill of wild amaze
Hebrus at his feet surveys
Thrace, enwrapp'd in snowy sheet,
Rhodope by barbarous feet
Trodden, so where'er I rove
Far from human haunts, the grove,
Rock, and crag, and woodland height
Charm me with a wild delight.

O thou, who dost the Naiads, and
The Bacchanalian maids command.
"Whose hands uproot, such strength have they,
Ash-trees with storms of ages grey,
No mean, no mortal theme is mine,
Nor less my numbers than divine!
Though perilous, 't is glorious too,
O great Lenaeus, to pursue
The god, who round his forehead twines
Leaves gather'd freshly from the vines.