Evoe!

Many are the wand-bearers;
Their windy shouts I hear
Along the hillside vineyard,
And where the wine runs clear;
They show the vine-leaf chaplet,
The ivy-wreathen spear,
But the god, the true Iacchus,
He does not hold them dear.

Many are the wand-bearers,
And bravely are they clad;
Yes, they have all the tokens
His early lovers had.
They sing the master passions,
Themselves unsad, unglad;
And the god, the true Iacchus —
He knows they are not mad!

Many are the wand-bearers;
The fawn-skin bright they wear;
There are among them maenads
That rave with unbound hair.
They toss the harmless firebrand —
It spends itself in air:
And the god, the true Iacchus,
He smiles — and does not care.

Many are the wand-bearers,
And who (ye ask) am I?
One who was born in madness,
"Evoe!" my first cry —
Who dares, before your spear-points,
To challenge and defy;
And the god, the true Iacchus,
So keep me till I die!

Many are the wand-bearers,
I bear with me no sign;
Yet, I was mad, was drunken,
Ere yet I tasted wine;
Nor bleeding grape can slacken
The thirst wherewith I pine;
And the god, the true Iacchus,
Hears now this song of mine.