Book III, Elegy 17

Now, O Bacchus, I cast me down before thine altars in lowly supplication; O father, give me peace and prosper my sails. Though Venus be frenzied, thou canst quell her scorn, and woes find healing from thy wine. By thee are lovers yoked, by thee set free; do thou, O Bacchus, wash this weakness from my soul. Thou also art not unversed in love; to that Ariadne rapt heavenward in thy lynx-drawn car bears witness among the stars. This curse that for many a year hath kept a fire ablaze within my bones only death or thy wine shall heal. For a sober night is always torment to lonely lovers, and hope and fear rack their spirits this way and that.

But if, O Bacchus, by thy gifts making my brain to burn thou shalt bring sleep to rest my bones, then will I sow vines and plant my hills with rows, and will watch that no beasts of the wild make havoc thereon. If only I may crown my vats with purple must and the new grape may dye my feet that tread the wine-press, then through all my life to come thou and thine horns shall give me life and men shall call me the poet of thy virtue, O Bacchus.

I will sing how the thunderbolt of Etna's forge blasted thy mother, and brought thee to the birth, how the warriors of Ind were driven in flight by Nysa's dancers, how Lycurgus maddened in vain over the new-found vine, how Pentheus' death brought joy to the three companies of Maenads, how the Tuscan sailors, turned to curved dolphin-shapes, leapt into the sea from the vine-clad ship, and how fragrant streams flowed for thee through Dia's midst and the folk of Naxos drank thy wine therefrom. While thy white neck bows beneath the trailing ivy-clusters, the Lydian turban shall crown thy hair, O Bassareus. Thy smooth throat shall stream with scented oil of olive, and thy flowing robe shall strike thy naked feet. Dircean Thebes shall beat the womanish timbrel for thee, and goat-footed Pans shall make music on the cloven reed. Hard by the great goddess, Cybelle, her head tower-crowned, shall clash the harsh cymbals to the Idaean dance. Before the temple gates shall stand the bowl, and the priest shall draw wine therefrom with golden ladle and pour it on thy sacrifice.

Of all this will I sing, things meet for no lowly accent, but with such voice as thundered from the lips of Pindar. Do thou only set me free from this haughty tyranny and vanquish mine anguished soul with slumber.