Part 2 — HYDRO-BACCHUS.

Great Homer sings how once of old The Thracian women met to hold To "Bacchus, ever young and fair," Mysterious rites with solemn care. For now the summer's glowing face Had look'd upon the hills of Thrace; And laden vines foretold the pride Of foaming vats at Autumn tide. There, while the gladsome Evöe shout Through Nysa's knolls rang wildly out, While cymbal clang, and blare of horn, O'er the broad Hellespont were borne; The sounds, careering far and near, Struck sudden on Lycurgus' ear— Edonia's grim black-bearded lord, Who still the Bacchic rites abhorr'd, And cursed the god whose power divine Lent heaven's own fire to generous wine. Ere yet th' inspired devotees Had half performed their mysteries, Furious he rush'd amidst the band, And whirled an ox-goad in his hand. Full many a dame on earth lay low Beneath the tyrant's savage blow; The rest, far scattering in affright, Sought refuge from his rage in flight. But the fell king enjoy'd not long The triumph of his impious wrong: The vengeance of the god soon found him, And in a rocky dungeon bound him. There, sightless, chain'd, in woful tones He pour'd his unavailing groans, Mingled with all the blasts that shriek Round Athos' thunder-riven peak. O Thracian king! how vain the ire That urged thee 'gainst the Bacchic choir The god avenged his votaries well— Stern was the doom that thee befell; And on the Bacchus-hating herd Still rests the curse thy guilt incurr'd. For the same spells that in those days Were wont the Bacchanals to craze— The maniac orgies, the rash vow, Have fall'n on thy disciples now. Though deepest silence dwells alone, Parnassus, on thy double cone; To mystic cry, through fell and brake, No more Cithaeron's echoes wake; No longer glisten, white and fleet, O'er the dark lawns of Taÿgete, The Spartan virgin's bounding feet: Yet Frenzy still has power to roll Her portents o'er the prostrate soul. Though water-nymphs must twine the spell Which once the wine-god threw so well— Changed are the orgies now, 'tis true, Save in the madness of the crew. Bacchus his votaries led of yore Through woodland glades and mountains hoar; While flung the Maenad to the air The golden masses of her hair, And floated free the skin of fawn, From her bare shoulder backward borne. Wild Nature, spreading all her charms, Welcomed her children to her arms; Laugh'd the huge oaks, and shook with glee, In answer to their revelry; Kind Night would cast her softest dew Where'er their roving footsteps flew; So bright the joyous fountains gush'd, So proud the swelling rivers rush'd, That mother Earth they well might deem, With honey, wine, and milk, for them Most bounteously had fed the stream. The pale moon, wheeling overhead, Her looks of love upon them shed, And pouring forth her floods of light, With all the landscape blest their sight. Through foliage thick the moonshine fell, Checker'd upon the grassy dell; Beyond, it show'd the distant spires Of skyish hills, the world's grey sires; More brightly beam'd, where far away, Around his clustering islands, lay, Adown some opening vale descried, The vast Aegean's waveless tide. What wonder then, if Reason's power Fail'd in each reeling mind that hour, When their enraptured spirits woke To Nature's liberty, and broke The artificial chain that bound them, With the broad sky above, and the free winds around them! From Nature's overflowing soul, That sweet delirium on them stole; She held the cup, and bade them share In draughts of joy too deep to bear. Not such the scenes that to the eyes Of water-Bacchanals arise; Whene'er the day of festival Summons the Pledged t' attend its call— In long procession to appear, And show the world how good they are. Not theirs the wild-wood wanderings, The voices of the winds and springs: But seek them where the smoke-fog brown Incumbent broods o'er London town; 'Mid Finsbury Square ruralities Of mangy grass, and scrofulous trees; 'Mid all the sounds that consecrate Thy street, melodious Bishopsgate! Not by the mountain grot and pine, Haunts of the Heliconian Nine: But where the town-bred Muses squall Love-verses in an annual; Such muses as inspire the grunt Of Barry Cornwall, and Leigh Hunt. Their hands no ivy'd thyrsus bear, No Evöe floats upon the air: But flags of painted calico Flutter aloft with gaudy show; And round then rises, long and loud, The laughter of the gibing crowd. O sacred Temp'rance! mine were shame If I could wish to brand thy name. But though these dullards boast thy grace, Thou in their orgies hast no place. Thou still disdain'st such sorry lot, As even below the soaking sot. Great was high Duty's power of old The empire o'er man's heart to hold; To urge the soul, or check its course, Obedient to her guiding force. These own not her control, but draw New sanction for the moral law, And by a stringent compact bind The independence of the mind— As morals had gregarious grown, And Virtue could not stand alone. What need they rules against abusing? They find th' offence all in the using. Denounce the gifts which bounteous Heaven To cheer the heart of man has given; And think their foolish pledge a band More potent far than God's command. On this new plan they cleverly Work morals by machinery; Keeping men virtuous by a tether, Like gangs of negroes chain'd together. Then, Temperance, if thus it be, They know no further need of thee. This pledge usurps thy ancient throne— Alas! thy occupation's gone! From earth thou may'st unheeded rise, And like Astræa—seek the skies.