Aubrey de Vere.

Aubrey de Vere's poems : a selection online

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LIBRARY

^University of California!
IRVINE



AUBREY DE VERB'S POEMS.



THE POETICAL WORKS OF AUBREY DE VERB.



I. THE SEARCH AFTER PROSE LIPINE, AND OTHER PoKVS, CL*

S1CAL AS I) MElil'l ATI VK.

II. THE LEGENDS OF ST. PATRICK, AKD LEGENDS OK IRELAND'S
HEROIC AGE.

III. ALEXANDER THE GREAT; SAINT THOMAS OF CANTERBURY:
AND OTIIKB POKMS.



By the same Author.

LEGENDS OP SAXON SAINTS.

THE FORAY OF QUEEN HEAVE,

LEGENDS AND RECORDS OF THE CHURCH AND THE EMPIRE.
(KKGAK PAUL, TRENCH ASD Co.)

MAY CAROLS. Third Edition, Enlarged and Illustrated.
(BtTcxs AKD OATKS.)

SAINT PETER'S CHAINS. (BUBSS AND GATES.) I/-.



BY THE LATE SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART.

MARY TUDOR: AN HISTOUIOAL DHAMA.
(G. BELL AXD Soxs.) zi\

JULIAN THE APOSTATE, AND THE DUKE OF MEUCIA (PiCKEiusa.)
SONNETS. (PICKEKINQ.)



AUBREY DE VERB'S POEMS



fi. ^election.



JEDITJSD BY

JOHN DENNIS,

AUTHOR OF "STUDIES IN ENGLISH I.ITKRATURE," AND EDITOR OF
"ENGLISH SONNETS: A SELECTION."



CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:

LONDON, PARIS & MELBOURNE.

1890.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]



f/t




CONTENTS.



PAGE

PREFACE ... ... Vii

POEMS.

SONG WHEN I WAS YOUNG ... ... ... 15

,, LOVE LAID DOWN ... ... ... ... 15

GIVE ME BACK MY HEAKT ... ... 16

MY HOPE ix II.YPi'iEit DAYS ... ... 17

CHAUCER ... ... ... ... 17

THE SEARCH AFTER PROSERI-IN.: ... ... ... 19

GREEK IDYLLS I. GLAUCH ... ... .. 60

IT. IOXE 62

,, ,, III. Lvcius ... ... ... 6-3

ODE TO THE DAFFODIL ... ... ... ... 68

Soxa SOFTLY, O MIDNIGHT Houits! ... ... 72

LOVE AND SORROW ... ... ... ... ... 73

DEATH IN CHII,;>BIRTII ... ... ... ... 75

THE DIGNITY OF SORROW ... ... ... ... 75

LOVE AND CovxsF.r ... 77

ODE TO IRELAND ... ... ... .. ... 78

THE BARD ETHELL ... ... ... ... ... 82

THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS ... ... ... 94

UNA 96

FROM PSYCHE; OK, AN OLD POET'S Lovi: ... 97

A SONG OF AGE ... ... ... 105

AGE 106

To BURNS'S HIGHLAND MARY ... ... ... 106

ODE ON THE ASCENT OF THE ALPS ... ... 112

LINES WRITTEN UNDER DELPHI . ... 123



Vi CONTENTS.

SONNETS. PAGE

"FLOWERS I WOULD BRING" ... ... . 137

"SHE WHOM THIS HEART" ... ... ... 137

"THE HAPPIEST LOVERS"... ... ... .. 138

INCOMPATIBILITY ... ... ... ... ... 132

HUMAN LIFE ... ... .. ... ... ... 139

THE SUN GOD 140

URANIA ... ... ... ... 141

THE POETRY OF LIFE ... ... ... .. 141

SORROW ... ... ... ... ... ... 142

NATIONAL APOSTASY .. ... ... ... 143

UNIVERSAL HISTORY ... ... ... ... 143

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA ... ... ... ... 144

"Foil WE THE MIGHTY MOUNTAIN PLAINS" ... 145

"HAPPY ARE THEY" ... ... 145

"THE SPRING OF MY SWEET LIFE" ... . . 146

I. EOBERT BROWNING ... .. 147

II. ROBERT BROWNING ... ... ... ... 147

A WINTER NIGHT IN THE WOODS ... .. 148

I. MEMORIAL ... ... ... 149

II. MEMORIAL ... ... 149

III. MEMORIAL 150



THE BATTLE OF CLONTARF... ... ... ... 151

THE THREE STATES OF WOMANHOOD ... ... 158

THE COMBAT AT THE FORD ... ... ... 165

SCENES FROM 'ALEXANDER THE GREAT'... ... 180

C.V.DMON THE COWHERD ... ... ... ... 206

BEDE'S LAST MAY 230

ON VISITING A HAUNT OF COLERIDGE'S ... ... 252

THE DEATH OF COPERNICUS ... ... ... 256

AUTUMNAL ODE 273



PEEFACE.

MR. DE VERB'S poetry, like good wine, needs no
bush ; but a few remarks by way of introducing
this selection to the public may not be out of
place.

Verse of a fine order is not necessarily popular.
If it deal with large issues and does not appeal to
momentary interests, if it be free from all attempts
to catch the trick of the time, and expresses the
nobler and more permanent aspects of human life,
it will in all likelihood fail for a while to reach the
position it can justly claim. A "fit audience"
will, indeed, gladly listen to the poetic voice and
appreciate its beauty ; but, invaluable though this
judgment may be, since it indicates in a measure the
verdict of futurity, it is not all-sufficing. A poet's
hope is to touch the heart of his nation, even if
like Milton he be content with a world so small
and it is his joy to know that thoughts which have
given pleasure to him are diffusing pleasure far and
wide. This is surely an ambition which a man



8 AUBEEY DE VERB'S POEMS,

conscious of high powers may not unreasonably
indulge.

It has been Mr. de Vere's object, as it was that
of his great predecessor Wordsworth, not only to
find his own reward in a career dedicated to poetry,
but to dignify life as well as to adorn it. Hi.s aim is
a high one, and is, therefore, not so readily un-
derstood, as if his mark were directed at a lower
object. One of the most thoughtful poets of the
age, it is possible that sometimes, though very
rarely, his weight of matter may interfere with his
art as a poet. The first object of poetry is to
give delight, and it is only through the joy
yielded by song that the poet can express his
wisdom. If he fail to please as a singer, his
efforts as a teacher will fail also. But the source
of pleasure may lie deep, and a poet may de-
mand much from his readers before he gives
them the delight they crave. It is so with
Mr. de Vere. Our love of his poetry is rarely love
at first sight. His genius burns with a steady
flame. He stands at the antipodes to the spas-
modic poets once so popular, whose every page
dazzled us, not indeed with fire from Heaven, but
with sudden flashes as from a policeman's lantern.



PREFACE.

Mr. de Yere makes no effort to allure the ears of
the groundlings. " No poet of our day," it has been
well said, "has done more to rouse his readers
from petty and passing interests ; no poet has
struggled with nobler perseverance to make his
readers look up towards the fountains of poetry."

Whether Mr. de Vere has been always happy in
the choice of subjects, it is difficult to say does;
not a poet make his subject as well as choose it 1
but it is not to be accounted strange that the
legends which he relates with such admirable
force and lucidity have in a measure failed to at-
tract the public. The simplicity and directness of
the epic are out of harmony with an age which
prefers melodious verbiage to thought, and delights
more in fantastical tricks of style than any period
since the days of Donne and Cowley. To conceits
of this kind no countenance has been given by
Lord Tennyson, or by his friend Mr. de Yere, who
while occupying a different and entirely original
place in the spacious realm of poetry, resembles
the Laureate in mastery of language, in vividness
of perception, and in freedom from eccentricity.

I have been suggesting a reason why Mr. de
Vere's poetry is not yet so widely known as one



10 AUBREY DE VERB'S POEMS.

may hope it will some day be. Perhaps there is
yet another. One of the signs of the times is
pessimism, and another is a disregard of conscience.
It has become a kind of fashion to extol the
philosophy of Schopenhauer, who declared human
life to be so wretched "that utter annihilation
would be decidedly preferable ; " and to praise
Walt Whitman, with his rejection of moral re-
sponsibility, and his nakedness that knows no
shame, as the great poet of the age. But Mr. de
Vere is a Christian poet, and it is not necessary to
accept all the dogmas of his Church I for one
am unable to do so in order to appreciate the
high standing he takes, and the faith and
cheerful hope with which this ^Christian belief
inspires his pages. His poetry appeals to us in our
best moments, not through the direct instruction
which is ever fatal to noble verse, but through
the spirit that animates the whole.

All critics will admit that Mr. de Vere is a
master of his instrument, and is capable of ex-
pressing a variety of harmonies. Each depart-
ment of his verse is, I hope, illustrated in this
Anthology. His sonnets may vie with the sweetest
and subtlest sonnets of the century ; his odes have



PKEFACE. 11

the " pride and ample pinion '' of a singer who
on rising to his heaven of invention has left the
earth far beneath him ; his classic fancy has
delightful play in the " Search after Proserpine,"
a comparatively early poem, while the influence
of Greece is expressed in another but not less sig-
nificant way in the " Lines written under Delphi."

Dramas written for the closet and not for the
stage are somewhat of an anomaly, but the success
of Sir Henry Taylor, and the achievement of Mr.
de Vere's father, Sir Aubrey de Vere, whose
" Mary Tudor " deserves far more recognition
than it has received, may well have led the poet
to make a similar venture. " Alexander the
Great " is a noble drama, and it seems almost a
sin to mutilate such a work of art by extracts.
Yet I am unwilling to pass it by altogether, and
I hope that the following passage from a review by
one of the first critics of the day will suffice, if my
selection fails, to show readers how worthy of
their study is this highly poetical work.

After alluding to the difficulty of composing a
drama, the scenes of which are always changing
as the hero passes from country to country, the
writer adds :



12 AUBREY DE VERE S POEMS.

" The apparent difficulty of the enterprise is,
when surmounted, a measure of the skill and im-
aginative insight of the poet ; and certainly in this
case the enterprise appears to us to have been
singularly successful. With hardly any of the
common materials of dramatic interest, without
any story of love that is not of the slightest kind,
and absolutely subordinate to religious or political
obligations, with nothing but the tale of heroic
ambition for the chief subject of the tragedy, Mr.
de Vere has yet not only rivetted our interest on
his drama from the very beginning, but deepened
that interest with every act and almost every
scene to the truly tragic, and yet, in the truest
sense, satisfying close."

Of Mr. de Vere's scope and charm as a writer
of songs and lyrics, this volume may convey
perhaps sufficient illustration. They will prove
to some readers the most attractive part of the
book, but apart from the odes and sonnets, I
venture to think that there is no portion of the
verse illustrated, more characteristic of the poet's
genius, which is both deeply reflective and vividly
imaginative, than such poems as " Csedmon the
Cowherd," "The Death of Copernicus," and



PKKFACE. 13

" Bede's Last May." " The Legends of St. Patrick "
having been already published in Messrs. Cassell's
National Library it has been thought well to
select nothing from a poem produced in so popular
a form, but this need not hinder me saying
that some of the poet's most characteristic verse is
to be found in that little volume. The poem
consists of fifteen legends, "The Striving of St.
Patrick on Mount Cruachan " being perhaps the
most striking.

Nothing more remains to be said, since this
is not the place for an elaborate criticism of Mr.
de Vere's poetry. All I have wished to do in
these introductory remarks is to point out to
readers at present ignorant of the poet's work a
few of its prominent features.

J.D.



IN A FEW POEMS OMISSIONS HAVE BEEN MADE
WITH THE AUTHOR'S APPKOVAL.



AUBREY DE VERB'S POEMS.

3^. Selection.
POEMS.

SONG.

WHEN I was young, I said to Sorrow
' Come, and I will play with, thee : '
He is near me now all day,
And at night returns to say,

I will come again to-morrow,

I will come and stay with thee.'

Through the woods we walk together ;

His soft footsteps rustle nigh me ;

To shield an unregarded head

He hath built a winter shed ;

And all night long in rainy weather,
I hear his gentle breathings by me.



SONG.

LOVE laid down his golden head

On his mother's knee ;
' The world runs round so fast,' he said,

' None has time for me.'



16 AUBREY DE VERB'S POEMS.

Thought, a sage unhonoured, turned
From the on-rushing crew ;

Song her starry legend spurned ;
Art her glass down threw.

lloll on, blind world, upon thy track
Until thy wheels catch fire !

But that is gone which comes not back
To seller nor to buyer !



80NO.

GIVE me back my heart, fair child ;

To you as yet 'twere worth but little ;
Half beguiler, half beguiled,

Be you warned, your own is brittle.

' Hid it ! dropt it on the moors !

' Lost it and you cannot find it '
My own heart I want, not yours :

You have bound and must unbind it

Fling it from you ; youth is strong ;

Love is trouble, love is folly ;
Love, that makes an old heart young

Makes a young heart melancholy.



CHAUCER. 17

SONG.

MY hope, in happier days than these ;

My love hope past ;
Memory's one star on lonely seas ;

My anchor, last !
Why ask'st thou with subdued surprise

And that mild glee
Wherefore I turn, still turn mine eyes

From all, to thee 1

The blind man turns and none forbids

Into sunshine
His filmy, cold, unlighted lids :

The deaf incline
Toward harps whence songs for them unborn

Float, light and free ;
To graves long cherished, hearts forlorn !

And I to thee.



CH AUGER.

ESCAPED from the city, its smoke, its glare,
'Tis pleasant, showers over and birds in chorus,

To sit in green alleys and breathe cool air
Which the violet only has breathed before us !

B



38 AUBREY DE VEKE'S POEMS.

Such healthful solace is ours, forsaking

The glass-growth of modern and modish rhyme

For the music of days when the Muse was breaking
On Chaucer's pleasance like dawn's sweet prime.

Hands rubbed together smell still of earth ;

The hot-bed verse has a hot-bed taint ;
'Tis sense turned sour, its cynical mirth ;

'Tis pride, its darkness ; its blush, 'tis paint.

His song was a feast where thought and jest
Like monk and franklin alike found place ;

Good Will's Round Table ! There sat as guest
Shakesperean insight with Spenser's grace.

His England lay laughing in Faith's bright morn !

Life in his eye looked as rosy and round
As the cheek of the huntsman that blows on the horn

When the stag leaps up and loud bays the hound.

King Edward's tourney, fair Blanche's court,
Their clarions, their lutes in his verse live on ;

But he loved better the birds' consort
Under oaks of Woodstock while rose the sun.

The cloister, the war-field tented and brave,
The shout of the burghers in hostel or hall,

The embassy grave over ocean's wave,

And Petrarch's converse he loved them all.



THE SEARCH AFTER PROSERPINE. 19

In Spring, when the breast of the lime-grove

gathers
Its roseate cloud ; when the flushed streams

sing,

And the mavis tricks her in gayer feathers,
Head Chaucer then ; for Chaucer is Spring !

On lonely evenings in dull Novembers,
When rills run choked under skies of lead,

And on forest-hearths the year's last embers,
Wind-heaped and glowing, lie, yellow and red,

Read Chaucer still ! In his ivied beaker
With knights and wood-gods and saints em-
bossed,

Spring hides her head till the wintry breaker
Thunders no more on the far-off coast.



THE SEARCH AFTER PROSERPINE.

OF all the beautiful fictions of Greek Mythology there are
few more exquisite than the story of Proserpine, and none
deeper in symbolical meaning. Considering the fable with
reference to the physical world, Bacon says, in his "Wisdom
of the Ancients," that by the Rape of Proserpine is signified
the disappearance of flowers at the end of the year, when
the vital juices are, as it were, drawn down to the central
darkness and held there in bondage. The fable has, how-
ever, its moral significance also, being connected with that



20 AUBREY DE VERB'S POEMS.

great mystery of Joy and Grief, of Life and Death, which
pressed so heavily on the mind of Pagan Greece, and im-
parts to the whole of her mythology a profound interest,
spiritual as well as philosophical.

SCENE I.

IN SICILY.

Ceres, Fountain Nymphs.

CERES.
I.

THROUGH every region I have sought her ;
Each shore has answered back my moan :
As Summer slides from zone to zone
Winding Earth's beauty in his own

Thus, seeking thee, my long lost daughter,
I wander ever, sad and lone.
Empty in Heaven my throne remains ;
Unblest expand my harvest plains.

n.
I've searched the deep Sicilian meads,

And sacred Latium, where of yore

Saturn hid his forehead hoar ;
I've sought her by the Alphean reeds ;

Where solitary Cyclops squanders

On the unlistening oleanders
Vain song that makes the sea-wells quiver
I've sought my child, and seek for ever.



THE SEARCH AFTER PROSERPINE. 21

TIL

By Cretan lawns and vales oak-sprinkled,
By sands of Libya, brown and wrinkled,
And where for leagues, o'er Nile, is borne
The murmur of the yellowing corn,
And where o'er Ida's sea-like plain
White, waving harvests mock the main ;
Past Taurus, and past Caucasus,
Have I been vainly wandering thus ;

In vain the Heavens my absence mourn,
And Iris' self in vain is faint
With wafting down their old complaint ;

O'er earth, unresting though outworn,

I roam for aye a shape forlorn.
Hark, hark they sing

FOUNTAIN NYMPHS.

I.

Proserpina was playing

In the soft Sicilian clime,
'Mid a thousand damsels maying

All budding to their prime :
From their regions azure-blazing
The Immortal Concourse gazing
Bent down and sought in vain
Another shape of earth so meet with them to
reign.



22 AUBREY DE VERB'S POEMS.

n.

The steep blue arch above her

In Jove's own smiles arrayed
Shone mild, and seemed to love her :

His steeds Apollo stayed :
Soon as the God espied her
Nought else he saw beside her,
Though in that happy clime

A thousand maids were verging to the fulness of
their prime.

in.
Old venerable Ocean

Against the meads uprolled
With ever-young emotion

His tides of blue and gold :
He had called with pomp and paean
From his well -beloved ^Egean

All billows to one shore,

To fawn around her footsteps aud in murmurs to
adore.

IV.

Proserpina was playing

Sicilian flowers among ;
Amid the tall flowers straying :

Alas ! she strayed too long !



THE SEARCH AFTER PROSERPINE. 23

Sometimes she bent and kissed them,
Sometimes her hands caressed them,

And sometimes, one by one,
She gathered them and tenderly enclosed them in
her zone.

Lay upon your lips your fingers

Ceres comes, and full of woe ;
Sad she comes, and often lingers ;

Well that grief divine I know :
Lay upon your lips your fingers ;
Crush not as you run the grass ;
Let the little bells of glass

On the fountain blinking
Burst, but ring not till she pass,

Down in silence sinking.
By the green scarf arching o'er her,

By her mantle yellow-pale,
By those blue weeds bent before her,

Bent as in a gale,

Well I know her hush, descend
Hither her green-tracked footsteps wend.

CERES.

Fair nymphs ! whose music o'er the meadows

gliding

Hath been your gentle herald, and for me
A guide obsequious to this spot fair nymphs !



24 ATTBERY DE VEEE'S POEMS.

Fair graceful nymphs, my daughter's sweet com-
panions,

Say, say but where she dwells ; claiming from me,
In turn, what boon you will

NYMPHS.

Alas, we know not !

CEEES.

May the pure ripple of your founts for ever
Leap up, unsoiled, against their verdurous banks ;
May your fresh kisses ripple up as lightly,
As softly, and with undiscovering noise,
Against the embowering arms of prisoning lovers,
Shadowing the charms they seek !

NYMPHS.

We have no lovers.
CEBES.

No, and need none. Alas, Proserpina,
Thou wert as these ! so innocent no fountain,
Nor half so gay ; no flower so light, so fair.
Ah, fair mild Nymphs, my daughter's sweet com-
panions !

May Jove, as ye run by, make blind the eyes
Of Wood-gods and the Fauns ; in matted ivy
Tangle their beards ; catch them in sudden clefts



THE SEARCH AFTEE PROSERPINE. 25

Of deep-mossed stems, till ye have glided by
But tell me where she dwells.

NYMPHS.

Goddess ! we know not.

CERES.

Tell me then how ye lost her

NYMPHS.

We were playing

After our caverned sleep which the high Clods
Sent us while Phoebus flamed too near the earth,
We played like summer bees involved and

sang;
Some combing pearls from sandy slopes, some

blowing

In shells, or lily-tubes our watery conchs ;
When suddenly rolled forth long peals of thunder
Far, far below. Earth shook ; trembling we sank
Into our beds, amazed : when up we floated
A divine darkness hovered o'er the earth,
And from that moment we have had no flowers ;
No flower since then in flower-famed Sicily !
And we no more behold Proserpina
That played with us so sweetly. We have made
A melody that tells of her and sing it
Lest we should grieve.



26 AUBREY DE VERB'S POEMS.

CERES.

Yes, I have heard your song :
Still the same tale the words themselves un-
changed
Know yon no more ?

NYMPHS.

Goddess, not wide our knowledge !
Phoebus cares nought for Nymphs, lonely flower-
bathers ;

Nor other prophet see we. Yet of late
Our vales are flushed with new strange visitants ;
Their tumult ofttimes as the sun descends
Shakes us within our lily -paved pavilions ;
And when we look abroad along the marge
The inland vales, shaggy with pine and ilex,
That catch like nets those boy-nymphs, the light

Zephyrs,

Are filled with riot. From all sides they rush
Mad Gods, with russet brows the west outfacing,
And wands tossed high ; in song the lawns are

drowned.

Help us, great Jove ! Fair Goddess, once it chanced
As this red festival came reeling by,
Over the fount in which trembling we lay
Some Wood-god crushed a wreath of poisonous
berries



THE SEABCH AFTEE PROSERPINE. 27

Laughing ; and our bright home all crimson grew,
So that we wept I pray you, gentle Goddess,
Protect us from these Gods.

CERES.

Ha ! Bacchus here !
I thought my little late-born enemy
Lay hid in Hellas. What, and merry grown,
With revellers ! then haply he hath stolen
My beauteous child. Mild nymphs, my child's

companions !

Mild, silver-footed nymphs with silver songs !
Where dwell those Wood-gods when they come
not hither ?

NYMPHS.
At Naxos, Fame reports ; an unblessed isle.

CERES.
Farewell, sweet nymphs ; from them, and from all

perils

May Jove defend you well ! I seek those Gods,
And I will pray them that they hurt you not.

NYMPHS.

First Semichorus.
Without aid of plumes

Light-footing the sea brino,
The dimness she illumes

Of evening's gray decline ;



28 AUBREY DE VEKE's POEMS.

The wild streams, proud to waft her,

In dappled purple glide,
With- a shadowed green track after,

And a sunny green beside.

Second Semichorus.
Down, nymphs, into the waters !

The air is rough with sighs,
The earth is red with slaughters ;

Down, down, and seldom rise !
Our crystal dome above us,

And the star-dome yet more high,
Nor care nor pain can move us

Whilst here we laugh and lie !

SCENE II.

NAXOS.

Ceres, Wood-gods.
CEEES.

A Bacchic wood ! the pine stems and old oaks
Are swathed with crimson under their green

shadows !

A wilderness of wood ! within its ambush
Armies of men might lurk. Above the trees
A gloom voluptuous undulates and hovers
Like a dark fleece of wine-dewed gossamer.
The caverns, as I pass them, mildly breathe



THE SEARCH AFTER PROSERPINE. 29

A colder current of wine-scented air

Into my face. Ha, ha, a tiger's roar !

And now a din of resonant wild laughter

That makes the forest like a reed-pipe ring.

The very beasts have caught the infectious

madness,

And ramp with sport irreverent on high Gods.
Down, leopard, down ha, myriad-mooned panther,
Away ! 'tis well for you this almond branch
Is sheathed in flowers Sicilia feeds no longer ;
That cry had else been louder. Hark, they come !

FAUNS AND WOOD-GODS.

First Strophe.
Lift, lift the vine-wreathed goblet up,

Where lies the tierce wine darkling ;
Now Bacchus leaps from out the cup :

See, see his black eyes sparkling !
Hark, how the bubbles upward throw

A low song and soft coiling ;
'Tis Bacchus' self that laughs below,

To keep his red fount boiling 1

First Antistrophe.
Great Bacchus with his conquering hands

Upraised the far-sought treasure
Of all the oceans, all the lands

Afloat in one wild pleasure.



30 AUBREY DE VERB'S POEMS.

Lo ! how it plunges, rolls, and sweeps !

Great Bacchus bathes beneath it ;
What odour from the eddy leaps !

Great Bacchus' self doth breathe it.

Second Strophe.
Through us he rises from the ground ;

These sharp-leaved chaplets draw him
Into our tresses ivy-crowned :

In purple flames I saw him !
Lift every thyrsus high and higher ;

While round and round ye wind them
Great Bacchus turns the air to fire,

Wide crowns of fire behind them !

Second Antistrophe.
Drink, drink to Bacchus, every limb

With wine will soon be glowing :
He drinks to those that drink to him,

Himself on all bestowing.
Into the hearts of all his wards

He pours, like streams from Pindus,


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