Sweep down the slope of Olympus, uptossing thy thyrsus golden:
Come to us, King, and the murderer's insolent fury refrain.
(Epode)
Ah, where dost thou linger on Nysa the mother of beasts of the wold,
Waving thy revellers on with thy wand, or where heavenward soar
Crests of Corycia, or haply where far forest-solitudes fold 560
Round the flanks of Olympus, where Orpheus constrained by his minstrelsy-lore
Trees round him adoring to press, and the beasts of the wilderness,
As he harped of yore?
Thrice-blessèd Pieria-land,
Evius honoureth thee!—lo, he cometh, he cometh, on-leading
His dances with Bacchanal chants, over Axius' flood swift-speeding
He shall pass, he shall marshal the leaping feet in the dance-rings sweeping,
The feet of his Maenad-band. 570
On shall he haste over Lydias the river,
O'er the father of streams, the blessing-giver,
Whose waters fair, as the tale hath told,
O'er the land of the gallant war-steed rolled,
Spread fatness on every hand.
Dionysus (within).
What ho! Give heed to my voice, give heed!
Ho, Bacchanal-train, my Bacchanal-train!
