To Bacchus

Where art thou, Bacchus? On the vine-spread hills
Of some rich country, where the red wine fills
The cluster'd grapes — staining thy lips all red
With generous liquor — pouring on thy head
The odorous wine, and ever holding up
Unto the smiling sun thy brimming cup,
And filling it with light? Or doth thy car,
Under the blaze of the far northern star,
Roll over Thracia's hills, while all around
Are shouting Bacchanals, and every sound
Of merry revelry, while distant men
Start at thy noisings? Or in shady glen
Reclinest thou, beneath green ivy leaves,
And idlest off the day, while each Faun weaves
Green garlands for thee, sipping the rich bowl
That thou hast given him — while the loud roll
Of thy all-conquering wheels is heard no more,
And thy strong tigers have lain down before
Thy grape-stain'd feet '!
O, Bacchus! come and meet
Thy worshippers, the while, with merry lore
Of ancient song, thy godhead they do greet!
O, thou who lovest pleasure! at whose heart
Rich wine is always felt; who hast a part
In all air-swelling mirth; who in the dance
Of merry maidens join'st, where the glance
Of bright black eyes, or white and twinkling feet
Of joyous fair ones, doth thy quick eyes greet
Upon some summer-green: Maker of joy
To all care-troubled men! who dost destroy
The piercing pangs of grief; for whom the maids
Weave ivy garlands, and in pleasant glades
Hang up thy image, and with beaming looks
Go dancing round, while shepherds with their crooks
Join the glad company, and pass about,
With merry laugh and many a gleesome shmit,
Staining with rich, dark grapes each little cheek
They most do love; and then, with sudden freak,
Taking the willing hand, and dancing on
About the green mound: O, thou merry son
Of lofty Jove!
Where thou dost rove
Among the grape-vines, come, ere day is done,
And let us too thy sunny influence prove!
Where art thou, conqueror I before whom fell
The jewell'd kings of Ind, when the strong swell
Of thy great multitudes came on them, and
Thou hadst thy thyrsus in thy red, right hand,
Shaking it over them, till every soul
Grew faint as with wild lightning; when the roll
Of thy great chariot-wheels was on the neck
Of many a conqueror, when thou didst check
Thy tigers and thy lynxes at the shore
Of the broad ocean, and didst still the roar,
Pouring a sparkling and most pleasant wine
Into its waters; when the dashing brine
Toss'd up new odours, and a pleasant scent
Upon its breath, and many who were spent
With weary sickness, breathed of life anew,
When wine-inspired breezes on them blew; —
Bacchus! who bringest all men to thy feet!
Wine-god! with brow of light, and smiles most sweet!
Make this our earth
A sharer in thy mirth —
Let us rejoice thy wine-dew'd hair to greet,
And chant to thee, who gavest young Joy his birth.
Come to our ceremony! lo, we rear
An altar of bright turf unto thee here,
And crown it with the -vine and pleasant leaf
Of clinging ivy: Come, and drive sad Grief
Far from us! lo, we pour thy turf upon
Full cups of wine, bidding the westering sun
Fill the good air with odour; see, a mist
Is rising from the sun-touch'd wine! — (ah! hist! —
Alas! 'twas not his cry !) — with all thy train
Of laughing Satyrs, pouring out a strain
Of utmost shrillness on the noisy pipe —
O, come! — with eye and lip of beauty, ripe
And wondrous rare — O! let us hear thy wheels
Coming upon the hills, while twilight steals
Upon us quietly — while the dark night
Is hinder'd from her course by the fierce light
Of thy wild tigers' eyes; — O! let us see
The revelry of thy wild company,
With all thy train;
And, ere night, comes again,
We 'll pass o'er many a hill and vale with thee,
Raising to thee a loudly-joyous strain.