Out of the land of Asia,
down from holy Tmolus,
speeding the service of god,
for Bromios we come!
Hard are the labors of god;
hard, but his service is sweet.
Sweet to serve, sweet to cry:
Bacchus! Evohe!
- You on the streets!
- You on the roads!
- Make
way!
- Let every mouth be hushed. Let no ill-omened words
profane your tongues.
- Make way! Fall back!
- Hush.
- For now I raise the old, old hymn to Dionysos.
- Blessed, blessed are those who know the mysteries of god.
- Blessed is he who hallows his life in the worship of god,
he whom the spirit of god possesseth, who is one
with those who belong to the holy body of god.
- Blessed are the dancers and those who are purified,
who dance on the hill in the holy dance of god.
- Blessed are they who keep the rite of Kybele the mother.
- Blessed are the thyrsus-bearers, those who wield in their
hands the holy wand of god.
- Blessed are those who wear the crown of the ivy of god.
- Blessed, blessed are they: Dionysos is their god!
-On, Bacchae, on, you Bacchae,
bear your god in triumph home!
Bear on the god, son of god,
escort your Dionysos home!
Bear him down from Phrygian hill,
attend him through the streets of Hellas!
- So his mother bore him once
in labor bitter; lightning-struck,
forced by fire that flared from Zeus,
consumed, she died, untimely torn,
in childbed dead by blow of light!
Of light the son was born!
- Zeus it was who saved his son;
with speed outrunning mortal eye,
bore him to a private place,
bound the boy with clasps of gold;
in his thigh as a womb,
concealed his son from Hera's eyes.
- And when the weaving Fates fulfilled the time,
the bull-horned god was born of Zeus. In joy
he crowned his son, set serpents on his head -
wherefrom, in piety, descends to us
the Maenad's writhing crown, her chevelure of snakes.
- O Thebes, nurse of Semele,
crown your hair with ivy!
Grown green with bryony!
Redden with berries! O city,
with boughs of oak and fir,
come dance the dance of god!
Fringe your skins of dappled fawn
with tufts of twisted wool!
Handle with holy care
the violent wand of god!
And let the dance begin!
He is Bromios who runs
to the mountain!
to the mountain!
where the throng of women waits,
driven from shuttle and loom,
possessed by Dionysos!
- And I praise the holies of Crete,
the caves of the dancing Kyretes,
there where Zeus was born,
where helmed in triple tier
around the primal drum,
the Korybantes danced. They,
they were the first of all
whose whirling feet kept time
to the strict beat of the taut hide
and the squeal of the wailing flute.
Then from them to Rhea's hands
the holy drum was passed down;
but, stolen by the raving Satyrs,
fell at last to me and now
accompanies the dance
which every other year
celebrates your name:
Dionysos!
- He is sweet upon the mountains. He drops to the earth from the running
packs.
He wears the holy fawn-skin. He hunts the wild goat and kills it.
He delights in the raw flesh.
He runs to the mountains of Phrygia, to the mountains of Lydia he
runs!
He is Bromios who leads us! Evohe!
- With milk the earth flows! It flows with wine!
It runs with the nectar of bees!
- Like frankincense in its fragrance
is the blaze of the torch he bears.
Flames float out from his trailing wand
as he runs, as he dances,
kindling the stragglers,
spurring with cries,
and his long curls stream to the wind!
- And he cries, as they cry, Evohe! -
On, Bacchae!
On, Bacchae!
Follow, glory of golden Tmolus,
hymning god
with a rumble of drums,
with a cry, Evohe! to the Evian god,
with a cry of Phrygian cries,
when the holy flute like honey plays
the sacred song of those who go
to the mountain!
to the mountain!
- Then, in ecstasy, like a colt by its grazing mother,
the Bacchante runs with flying feet, she leaps!
- Euripides
(trans. William Arrowsmith)