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XXV.
Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me,
Fill'd with thy strength? What dens, what forests these,
Thus in wildering race I see?
What cave shall hearken to my melodies,
Tuned to tell of Caesar's praise
And throne him high the heavenly ranks among?
Sweet and strange shall be my lays,
A tale till now by poet voice unsung.
As the Evian on the height,
Housed from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad,
Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white,
And Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod,
So my truant eyes admire
The banks, the desolate forests. O great King
Who the Naiads dost inspire,
And Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring!
Not a lowly strain is mine,
No mere man's utterance. O, 'tis venture sweet
Thee to follow, God of wine,
Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!
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Quo Me, Bacche.
Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui
plenum? Quae nemora aut quos agor in specus
uelox mente noua? Quibus
antrum egregii Caesaris audiar
aeternum meditans decus 5
stellis inserere et consilio Iouis?
Dicam insigne, recens, adhuc
indictum ore alio. Non secus in iugis
exsomnis stupet Euhias,
Hebrum prospiciens et niue candidam 10
Thracen ac pede barbaro
lustratam Rhodopen, ut mihi deuio
ripas et uacuum nemus
mirari libet. O Naiadum potens
Baccharumque ualentium 15
proceras manibus uertere fraxinos,
nil paruum aut humili modo,
nil mortale loquar. Dulce periculum est,
o Lenaee, sequi deum
cingentem uiridi tempora pampino. 20
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