Well, I will go—perchanceTo march and scatter them with serried lance,Perchance to take thy plan. . . . I know not yet.
[ExitPentheusinto the Castle.
Dionysus.
Damsels, the lion walketh to the net!He finds his Bacchae now, and sees and dies,And pays for all his sin!—O Dionyse,This is thine hour and thou not far away.Grant us our vengeance!—First, O Master, stayThe course of reason in him, and instilA foam of madness. Let his seeing will,Which ne'er had stooped to put thy vesture on,Be darkened, till the deed is lightly done.Grant likewise that he find through all his streetsLoud scorn, this man of wrath and bitter threatsThat made Thebes tremble, led in woman's guise.I go to fold that robe of sacrificeOn Pentheus, that shall deck him to the dark,His mother's gift!—So shall he learn and markGod's true Son, Dionyse, in fulness God,Most fearful, yet to man most soft of mood.
[ExitDionysus,followingPentheusinto the Castle.
Chorus.
Some Maidens.
Will they ever come to me, ever again,The long long dances,On through the dark till the dim stars wane?Shall I feel the dew on my throat, and the streamOf wind in my hair? Shall our white feet gleamIn the dim expanses?Oh, feet of a fawn to the greenwood fled,Alone in the grass and the loveliness;Leap of the hunted, no more in dread,Beyond the snares and the deadly press:Yet a voice still in the distance sounds,A voice and a fear and a haste of hounds;O wildly labouring, fiercely fleet,Onward yet by river and glen . . .Is it joy or terror, ye storm-swift feet? . . .To the dear lone lands untroubled of men,Where no voice sounds, and amid the shadowy greenThe little things of the woodland live unseen.What else is Wisdom? What of man's endeavourOr God's high grace, so lovely and so great?To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait;To hold a hand uplifted over Hate;And shall not Loveliness be loved for ever?
Others.
O Strength of God, slow art thou and still,Yet failest never!On them that worship the Ruthless Will,On them that dream, doth His judgment wait.Dreams of the proud man, making greatAnd greater ever,Things which are not of God. In wideAnd devious coverts, hunter-wise,He coucheth Time's unhasting stride,Following, following, him whose eyesLook not to Heaven. For all is vain,The pulse of the heart, the plot of the brain,That striveth beyond the laws that live.And is thy Faith so much to give,Is it so hard a thing to see,That the Spirit of God, whate'er it be,The Law that abides and changes not, ages long,The Eternal and Nature-born—these things be strong?What else is Wisdom? What of man's endeavourOr God's high grace so lovely and so great?To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait;To hold a hand uplifted over Hate;And shall not Loveliness be loved for ever?
Leader.
Happy he, on the weary seaWho hath fled the tempest and won the haven.Happy whoso hath risen, free,Above his striving. For strangely gravenIs the orb of life, that one and anotherIn gold and power may outpass his brother.And men in their millions float and flowAnd seethe with a million hopes as leaven;And they win their Will, or they miss their Will,And the hopes are dead or are pined for still;But whoe'er can know,As the long days go,That To Live is happy, hath found his Heaven!
Re-enterDionysusfrom the Castle.
Dionysus.
O eye that cravest sights thou must not see,O heart athirst for that which slakes not! Thee,Pentheus, I call; forth and be seen, in guiseOf woman, Maenad, saint of Dionyse,To spy upon His Chosen and thine ownMother!
[EnterPentheus,clad like a Bacchanal, and strangely excited, a spirit of Bacchic madness overshadowing him.
Thy shape, methinks, is like to oneOf Cadmus' royal maids!
Pentheus.
Yea; and mine eyeIs bright! Yon sun shines twofold in the sky,Thebes twofold and the Wall of Seven Gates. . . .And is it a Wild Bull this, that walks and waitsBefore me? There are horns upon thy brow!What art thou, man or beast? For surely nowThe Bull is on thee!
Dionysus.
He who erst was wrath,Goes with us now in gentleness. He hathUnsealed thine eyes to see what thou shouldst see.
Pentheus.
Say; stand I not as Ino stands, or sheWho bore me?
Dionysus.
When I look on thee, it seemsI see their very selves!—But stay; why streamsThat lock abroad, not where I laid it, crossedUnder the coif?
Pentheus.
I did it, as I tossedMy head in dancing, to and fro, and criedHis holy music!
Dionysus(tending him).
It shall soon be tiedAright. 'Tis mine to tend thee. . . . Nay, but standWith head straight.
Pentheus.
In the hollow of thy handI lay me. Deck me as thou wilt.
Dionysus.
Thy zoneIs loosened likewise; and the folded gownNot evenly falling to the feet.
Pentheus.
'Tis so,By the right foot. But here, methinks, they flowIn one straight line to the heel.
Dionysus(while tending him).
And if thou proveTheir madness true, aye, more than true, what loveAnd thanks hast thou for me?
Pentheus(not listening to him).
In my right handIs it, or thus, that I should bear the wand,To be most like to them?
Dionysus.
Up let it swingIn the right hand, timed with the right foot's spring. . . .'Tis well thy heart is changed!
Pentheus(more wildly).
What strength is this!Kithaeron's steeps and all that in them is—How say'st thou?—Could my shoulders lift the whole?
Dionysus.
Surely thou canst, and if thou wilt! Thy soul,Being once so sick, now stands as it should stand.
Pentheus.
Shall it be bars of iron? Or this bare handAnd shoulder to the crags, to wrench them down?
Dionysus.
Wouldst wreck the Nymphs' wild temples, and the brownRocks, where Pan pipes at noonday?
Pentheus.
Nay; not I!Force is not well with women. I will lieHid in the pine-brake.
Dionysus.
Even as fits a spyOn holy and fearful things, so shalt thou lie!
Pentheus(with a laugh).
They lie there now, methinks—the wild birds, caughtBy love among the leaves, and fluttering not!
Dionysus.
It may be. That is what thou goest to see,Aye, and to trap them—so they trap not thee!
Pentheus.
Forth through the Thebans' town! I am their king,Aye, their one Man, seeing I dare this thing!
Dionysus.
Yea, thou shalt bear their burden, thou alone;Therefore thy trial awaiteth thee!—But on;With me into thine ambush shalt thou comeUnscathed; then let another bear thee home!
Pentheus.
The Queen, my mother.
Dionysus.
Marked of every eye.
Pentheus.
For that I go!
Dionysus.
Thou shalt be borne on high!
Pentheus.
That were like pride!
Dionysus.
Thy mother's hands shall shareThy carrying.
Pentheus.
Nay; I need not such soft care!
Dionysus.
So soft?
Pentheus.
Whate'er it be, I have earned it well!
[ExitPentheustowards the Mountain.
Dionysus.
Fell, fell art thou; and to a doom so fellThou walkest, that thy name from South to NorthShall shine, a sign for ever!—Reach thou forthThine arms, Agâvê, now, and ye dark-browedCadmeian sisters! Greet this prince so proudTo the high ordeal, where save God and me,None walks unscathed!—The rest this day shall see.
[ExitDionysusfollowingPentheus.
Chorus.
Some Maidens.
O hounds raging and blind,Up by the mountain road,Sprites of the maddened mind,To the wild Maids of God;Fill with your rage their eyes,Rage at the rage unblest,Watching in woman's guise,The spy upon God's Possessed.
A Bacchanal.
Who shall be first, to markEyes in the rock that spy,Eyes in the pine-tree dark—Is it his mother?—and cry:"Lo, what is this that comes,Haunting, troubling still,Even in our heights, our homes,The wild Maids of the Hill?What flesh bare this child?Never on woman's breastChangeling so evil smiled;Man is he not, but Beast!Lion-shape of the wild,Gorgon-breed of the waste!"
All the Chorus.
Hither, for doom and deed!Hither with lifted sword,Justice, Wrath of the Lord,Come in our visible need!Smite till the throat shall bleed,Smite till the heart shall bleed,Him the tyrannous, lawless, Godless, Echîon's earth-born seed!
Other Maidens.
Tyrannously hath he trod;Marched him, in Law's despite,Against thy Light, O God,Yea, and thy Mother's Light;Girded him, falsely bold,Blinded in craft, to quellAnd by man's violence holdThings unconquerable.
A Bacchanal.
A strait pitiless mindIs death unto godliness;And to feel in human kindLife, and a pain the less.Knowledge, we are not foes!I seek thee diligently;But the world with a great wind blows,Shining, and not from thee;Blowing to beautiful things,On, amid dark and light,Till Life, through the trammellingsOf Laws that are not the Right,Breaks, clean and pure, and singsGlorying to God in the height!
All the Chorus.
Hither for doom and deed!Hither with lifted sword,Justice, Wrath of the Lord,Come in our visible need!Smite till the throat shall bleed,Smite till the heart shall bleed,Him the tyrannous, lawless, Godless, Echîon's earth-born seed!
Leader.
Appear, appear, whatso thy shape or nameO Mountain Bull, Snake of the Hundred Heads,Lion of Burning Flame!O God, Beast, Mystery, come! Thy mystic maidsAre hunted!—Blast their hunter with thy breath,Cast o'er his head thy snare;And laugh aloud and drag him to his death,Who stalks thy herded madness in its lair!
Enter hastily aMessengerfrom the Mountain, pale and distraught.
Messenger.
Woe to the house once blest in Hellas! WoeTo thee, old King Sidonian, who didst sowThe dragon-seed on Ares' bloody lea!Alas, even thy slaves must weep for thee!
Leader.
News from the mountain?—Speak! How hath it sped?
Messenger.
Pentheus, my king, Echîon's son, is dead!
Leader.
All hail, God of the Voice,Manifest ever more!
Messenger.
What say'st thou?—And how strange thy tone, as thoughIn joy at this my master's overthrow!
Leader.
With fierce joy I rejoice,Child of a savage shore;For the chains of my prison are broken, and the dreadwhere I cowered of yore!
Messenger.
And deem'st thou Thebes so beggared, so forlornOf manhood, as to sit beneath thy scorn?
Leader.
Thebes hath o'er me no sway!None save Him I obey,Dionysus, Child of the Highest, Him I obey and adore!
Messenger.
One can forgive thee!—Yet 'tis no fair thing,Maids, to rejoice in a man's suffering.
Leader.
Speak of the mountain side!Tell us the doom he died,The sinner smitten to death, even where his sin was sore!
Messenger.
We climbed beyond the utmost habitingsOf Theban shepherds, passed Asopus' springs,And struck into the land of rock on dimKithaeron—Pentheus, and, attending him,I, and the Stranger who should guide our way.Then first in a green dell we stopped, and lay,Lips dumb and feet unmoving, warilyWatching, to be unseen and yet to see.A narrow glen it was, by crags o'ertowered,Torn through by tossing waters, and there loweredA shadow of great pines over it. And thereThe Maenad maidens sate; in toil they were,Busily glad. Some with an ivy chainTracked a worn wand to toss its locks again;Some, wild in joyance, like young steeds set free,Made answering songs of mystic melody.But my poor master saw not the great bandBefore him. "Stranger," cried he, "where we standMine eyes can reach not these false saints of thine.Mount we the bank, or some high-shouldered pine,And I shall see their follies clear!" At thatThere came a marvel. For the Stranger straightTouched a great pine-tree's high and heavenward crown,And lower, lower, lower, urged it downTo the herbless floor. Round like a bending bow,Or slow wheel's rim a joiner forces to,So in those hands that tough and mountain stemBowed slow—oh, strength not mortal dwelt in them!—To the very earth. And there he set the King,And slowly, lest it cast him in its spring,Let back the young and straining tree, till highIt towered again amid the towering sky;And Pentheus in the branches! Well, I ween,He saw the Maenads then, and well was seen!For scarce was he aloft, when suddenlyThere was no Stranger any more with me,But out of Heaven a Voice—oh, what voice else?—'Twas He that called! "Behold, O damosels,I bring ye him who turneth to despiteBoth me and ye, and darkeneth my great Light.'Tis yours to avenge!" So spake he, and there came'Twixt earth and sky a pillar of high flame.And silence took the air, and no leaf stirredIn all the forest dell. Thou hadst not heardIn that vast silence any wild thing's cry.And up they sprang; but with bewildered eye,Agaze and listening, scarce yet hearing true.Then came the Voice again. And when they knewTheir God's clear call, old Cadmus' royal brood,Up, like wild pigeons startled in a wood,On flying feet they came, his mother blind,Agâvê, and her sisters, and behindAll the wild crowd, more deeply maddened then,Through the angry rocks and torrent-tossing glen,Until they spied him in the dark pine-tree:Then climbed a crag hard by and furiouslySome sought to stone him, some their wands would flingLance-wise aloft, in cruel targeting.But none could strike. The height o'ertopped their rage,And there he clung, unscathed, as in a cageCaught. And of all their strife no end was found.Then, "Hither," cried Agâvê; "stand we roundAnd grip the stem, my Wild Ones, till we takeThis climbing cat-o'-the-mount! He shall not makeA tale of God's high dances!" Out then shoneArm upon arm, past count, and closed uponThe pine, and gripped; and the ground gave, and downIt reeled. And that high sitter from the crownOf the green pine-top, with a shrieking cryFell, as his mind grew clear, and there hard byWas horror visible. 'Twas his mother stoodO'er him, first priestess of those rites of blood.He tore the coif, and from his head awayFlung it, that she might know him, and not slayTo her own misery. He touched the wildCheek, crying: "Mother, it is I, thy child,Thy Pentheus, born thee in Echîon's hall!Have mercy, Mother! Let it not befallThrough sin of mine, that thou shouldst slay thy son!"But she, with lips a-foam and eyes that runLike leaping fire, with thoughts that ne'er should beOn earth, possessed by Bacchios utterly,Stays not nor hears. Round his left arm she putBoth hands, set hard against his side her foot,Drew . . . and the shoulder severed!—Not by mightOf arm, but easily, as the God made lightHer hand's essay. And at the other sideWas Ino rending; and the torn flesh cried,And on Autonoë pressed, and all the crowdOf ravening arms. Yea, all the air was loudWith groans that faded into sobbing breath,Dim shrieks, and joy, and triumph-cries of death.And here was borne a severed arm, and thereA hunter's booted foot; white bones lay bareWith rending; and swift hands ensanguinèdTossed as in sport the flesh of Pentheus dead.His body lies afar. The precipiceHath part, and parts in many an intersticeLurk of the tangled woodland—no light questTo find. And, ah, the head! Of all the rest,His mother hath it, pierced upon a wand,As one might pierce a lion's, and through the land,Leaving her sisters in their dancing place,Bears it on high! Yea, to these walls her faceWas set, exulting in her deed of blood,Calling upon her Bromios, her God,Her Comrade, Fellow-Render of the Prey,Her All-Victorious, to whom this dayShe bears in triumph . . . her own broken heart!For me, after that sight, I will departBefore Agâvê comes.—Oh, to fulfilGod's laws, and have no thought beyond His will,Is man's best treasure. Aye, and wisdom true,Methinks, for things of dust to cleave unto!
[TheMessengerdeparts into the Castle.
Chorus.
Some Maidens.
Weave ye the dance, and callPraise to God!Bless ye the Tyrant's fall!Down is trodPentheus, the Dragon's Seed!Wore he the woman's weed?Clasped he his death indeed,Clasped the rod?
A Bacchanal.
Yea, the wild ivy lapt him, and the doomedWild Bull of Sacrifice before him loomed!
Others.
Ye who did Bromios scorn,Praise Him the more,Bacchanals, Cadmus-born;Praise with soreAgony, yea, with tears!Great are the gifts he bears!Hands that a mother rearsRed with gore!
Leader.
But stay, Agâvê cometh! And her eyesMake fire around her, reeling! Ho, the prizeCometh! All hail, O Rout of Dionyse!
[Enter from the MountainAgave,mad, and to all seeming wondrously happy, bearing the head ofPentheusin her hand. TheChorus Maidensstand horror-struck at the sight; theLeader,also horror-struck, strives to accept it and rejoice in it as the God's deed.
Agave.
Ye from the lands of Morn!
Leader.
Call me not; I give praise!
Agave.
Lo, from the trunk new-shornHither a Mountain ThornBear we! O Asia-bornBacchanals, bless this chase!
Leader.
I see. Yea; I see.Have I not welcomed thee?
Agave(very calmly and peacefully).
He was young in the wildwood:Without nets I caught him!Nay; look without fear onThe Lion; I have ta'en him!
Leader.
Where in the wildwood?Whence have ye brought him?
Agave.
Kithaeron. . . .
Leader.
Kithaeron?
Agave.
The Mountain hath slain him!
Leader.
Who first came nigh him?
Agave.
I, I, 'tis confessèd!And they named me there by himAgâvê the Blessèd!
Leader.
Who was next in the band on him?
Agave.
The daughters. . .
Leader.
The daughters?
Agave.
Of Cadmus laid hand on him.But the swift hand that slaughtersIs mine; mine is the praise!Bless ye this day of days!
[TheLeadertries to speak, but is not able;Agavebegins gently stroking the head.
Agave.
Gather ye now to the feast!
Leader.
Feast!—O miserable!
Agave.
See, it falls to his breast,Curling and gently tressed,The hair of the Wild Bull's crest—The young steer of the fell!
Leader.
Most like a beast of the wildThat head, those locks defiled.
Agave(lifting up the head, more excitedly).
He wakened his Mad Ones,A Chase-God, a wise God!He sprang them to seize this!He preys where his band preys.
Leader(brooding, with horror).
In the trail of thy Mad OnesThou tearest thy prize, God!
Agave.
Dost praise it?
Leader.
I praise this?
Agave.
Ah, soon shall the land praise!
Leader.
And Pentheus, O Mother,Thy child?
Agave.
He shall cry onMy name as none other,Bless the spoils of the Lion!
Leader.
Aye, strange is thy treasure!
Agave.
And strange was the taking!
Leader.
Thou art glad?
Agave.
Beyond measure;Yea, glad in the breakingOf dawn upon all this land,By the prize, the prize of my hand!
Leader.
Show then to all the land, unhappy one,The trophy of this deed that thou hast done!
Agave.
Ho, all ye men that round the citadelAnd shining towers of ancient Thêbê dwell,Come! Look upon this prize, this lion's spoil,That we have taken—yea, with our own toil,We, Cadmus' daughters! Not with leathern-setThessalian javelins, not with hunter's net,Only white arms and swift hands' bladed fall.Why make ye much ado, and boast withalYour armourers' engines? See, these palms were bareThat caught the angry beast, and held, and tareThe limbs of him! . . . Father! . . . Go, bring to meMy father! . . . Aye, and Pentheus, where is he,My son? He shall set up a ladder-stairAgainst this house, and in the triglyphs thereNail me this lion's head, that gloriouslyI bring ye, having slain him—I, even I!
[She goes through the crowd towards the Castle, showing the head and looking for a place to hang it. Enter from the MountainCadmus,with attendants, bearing the body ofPentheuson a bier.
Cadmus.
On, with your awful burden. Follow me,Thralls, to his house, whose body grievouslyWith many a weary search at last in dimKithaeron's glens I found, torn limb from limb,And through the interweaving forest weedScattered.—Men told me of my daughters' deed,When I was just returned within these walls,With grey Teiresias, from the Bacchanals.And back I hied me to the hills againTo seek my murdered son. There saw I plainActaeon's mother, ranging where he died,Autonoë; and Ino by her side,Wandering ghastly in the pine-copses.Agâvê was not there. The rumour isShe cometh fleet-foot hither.—Ah! 'Tis true;A sight I scarce can bend mine eyes unto.
Agave(turning from the Palace and seeing him).
My father, a great boast is thine this hour.Thou hast begotten daughters, high in powerAnd valiant above all mankind—yea, allValiant, though none like me! I have let fallThe shuttle by the loom, and raised my handFor higher things, to slay from out thy landWild beasts! See, in mine arms I bear the prize,That nailed above these portals it may riseTo show what things thy daughters did! Do thouTake it, and call a feast. Proud art thou nowAnd highly favoured in our valiancy!
Cadmus.
O depth of grief, how can I fathom theeOr look upon thee!—Poor, poor, bloodstained hand!Poor sisters!—A fair sacrifice to standBefore God's altars, daughter; yea, and callMe and my citizens to feast withal!Nay, let me weep—for thine affliction most,Then for mine own. All, all of us are lost,Not wrongfully, yet is it hard, from oneWho might have loved—our Bromios, our own!
Agave.
How crabbèd and how scowling in the eyesIs man's old age!—Would that my son likewiseWere happy of his hunting, in my way,When with his warrior bands he will essayThe wild beast!—Nay, his valiance is to fightWith God's will! Father, thou shouldst set him right. . . .Will no one bring him hither, that mine eyesMay look on his, and show him this my prize!
Cadmus.
Alas, if ever ye can know againThe truth of what ye did, what pain of painThat truth shall bring! Or were it best to waitDarkened for evermore, and deem your stateNot misery, though ye know no happiness?
Agave.
What seest thou here to chide, or not to bless?
Cadmus(after hesitation, resolving himself).
Raise me thine eyes to yon blue dome of air!
Agave.
'Tis done. What dost thou bid me seek for there?
Cadmus.
Is it the same, or changèd in thy sight?
Agave.
More shining than before, more heavenly bright!
Cadmus.
And that wild tremor, is it with thee still?
Agave(troubled).
I know not what thou sayest; but my willClears, and some change cometh, I know not how.
Cadmus.
Canst hearken then, being changed, and answer, now?
Agave.
I have forgotten something; else I could.
Cadmus.
What husband led thee of old from mine abode?
Agave.
Echîon, whom men named the Child of Earth.
Cadmus.
And what child in Echîon's house had birth?
Agave.
Pentheus, of my love and his father's bred.
Cadmus.
Thou bearest in thine arms an head—what head?
Agave(beginning to tremble, and not looking at what she carries).
A lion's—so they all said in the chase.
Cadmus.
Turn to it now—'tis no long toil—and gaze.
Agave.