Sophron's Hymn to Bakkos

Stand afar off, irreverent and profane,
While I ascend the temple of a God
Miraculously born; a woman's child,
The nurseling of no woman, but en wrapt
In the soft swatheing of a father's thigh.
Hail, earthborn son of Semele and Zeus!
Earthborn yet more, and in more lands, adored
Than Zeus himself. Grant me the power to sing
Thy praise, thy glorious conquests to rehearse
Beyond the Ganges and Gangetic iles
Numberless, where fierce tigers didst thou quell,
Stripping their skins from off them ere half-dead.
And whirling round thy neck their tawny legs,
And round thy shoulders to thy loins the length
Of their rich spoils: then first did Greece behold
Fangs such as never since hath Calydon
Yielded, when Melcager was avenged.
Better than victories are benefits;
And these are thine too; greater none the Gods
Bestow on mortal. By thy hand the chain
Is loosened on the captive, and holds down
The neck of kings, who toss and toss in vain
And change the pillow, right and left, and start,
Dreaming they hear the heavy scepter drop.
Who praises now Lykourgos? who but shrinks
At that accursed name? 'twas he that spurn'd
Thy precious gift, nor spared the graceful curl
Of lucid tendril, nor pubescent down.
Nor fragrant bloom that waits the later spring.
We hear what nectar is, we hear whose hand
Presents it in her golden cup to Zeus,
Tasting it at his nod and smile; then he
Drinks from the margin which her lips had toucht;
The nectar is not nectar until then:
Thou knowest, Dionysos, thou alone.
Whether it came from his own native Crete,
Or from his daughter's Cypros; both produce
Beverage which Hebe need not blush to bear.
Is there a city, hamlet, woodland, croft,
A festival without thy genial gifts.
Thy presence, tho' unseen? Is there a birth
Of infant but thou gladdenest more the sire,
And the sire's friends, who sing thy praise aloud?
Thou knowest I was ever temperate
And worshipt thee in purity; thou knowest
I loved the Nymphs because they fondled thee
And carried thee an infant in their arms.
Modest as these am I; therefor unblamed
I may invoke thee in the midst of them.
One there is, Dionysos, at whose song
Sorrow hath often fled from me; do thou
Incline thine ear, and haply she may sing,
Altho' her songs were never framed for thee.
Hail, Dionysos, once again, and bless
This hospitable city; bless the sires
Of her brave sons, and them! long may they raise
The ancestral cup, and pass it friend to friend!