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O BACCHUS, what a world of toil, both now
you, I put to sea With all my children quaint in search of you, And I myself stood on the beaked prow And fixed the naked mast; and all my boys, Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain
Made white with foam the green and purple
sea, — And so we sought you, king. We were sailing Near Malea, when an eastern wind arose, And drove us to this wild Ætnean rock ; The one-eyed children of the Ocean God, The man-destroying Cyclopses inhabit, On this wild shore, their solitary caves ; And one of these, named Polypheme, bas
caught us To be his slaves; and so, for all delight Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody, We keep this lawless giant's wandering flocks. My sons indeed, on far declivities, Young things themselves, tend on the youngling
sheep, But I remain to fill the water casks, Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering Some impious and abominable meal To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it! And now I must scrape up the littered floor With this great iron rake, so to receive My absent master and his evening sheep In a cave neat and clean. Even now I see My children tending the flocks hitherward. Ha ! what is this ? are your Sicinnian measures Even now the same as when with dance and
song You brought young Bacchus to Athæa's halls ?
CHORUS OF SATYRS.
Where has be of race divine
EPODE.* An Iacchic melody To the golden Aphrodite Will I lift, as erst did I Seeking her and her delight With the Mænads, whose white feet To the music glance and fleet. Bacchus, O beloved, where, Shaking wide thy yellow hair, Wanderest thou alone, afar ? To the one-eyed Cyclops, we,
* The Antistrophe is omitted.
Who by right thy servants are,
Be silent, sons; command the slaves to drive
Go ! But what needs this serious baste, O father?
I see a Grecian vessel on the coast,
Friends, can you show me some clear water spring,
Ha! what is this? We seem to be arrived
Hail thou, O Stranger! Tell thy country and thy race.
The Ithacan Ulysses and the king
Oh! I know the man, Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus.
I am the same, but do not rail upon me.-
Whence sailing do you come to Sicily?
From Ilion, and from the Trojan toils.
How touched you not at your paternal shore ?
The strength of tempests bore me here by force.