To the rash ones, yet a word!
Ay, my voice shall now be heard,
As a peal of thunder, strong!
Words as poets' arms were made,—
When the god will be obeyed.
Follow fast his darts ere long.
Was it possible that ye
Thus your godlike dignity
Should forget? The Thyrsus rude
Must a heavy burden feel
To the hand but wont to steal
O'er the lyre in gentle mood.
From the sparkling waterfalls,
From the brook that purling calls.
Shall Silenus' loathsome beast
Be allowed at will to feast?
Aganippe's[1] wave he sips
With profane and spreading lips,—
With ungainly feet stamps madly,
Till the waters flow on sadly.
Fain I'd think myself deluded
In the saddening sounds I hear;
From the holy glades secluded
Hateful tones assail the ear.
Laughter wild (exchange how mournful!)
Takes the place of love's sweet dream;
Women-haters and the scornful
In exulting chorus scream.
Nightingale and turtle-dove
Fly their nests so warm and chaste,
And, inflamed with sensual love.
- ↑ A spring in Bœotia, which arose out of Mount Helicon, and was sacred to Apollo and the Muses.
