Loitering and leaping,
With saunter, with bounds,
Flickering and circling
In files and in rounds,
Gayly their pine-staff green
Tossing in air,
Loose o'er their shoulders white
Showering their hair,
See! the wild Mænads
Break from the wood,
Youth and Iacchus
Maddening their blood.
See! through the quiet land
Rioting they pass,
Fling the fresh heaps about,
Trample the grass,
Tear from the rifled hedge
Garlands, their prize;
Fill with their sports the field,
Fill with their cries.
Shepherd, what ails thee, then?
Shepherd, why mute?
Forth with thy joyous song!
Forth with thy flute!
Tempts not the revel blithe?
Lure not their cries?
Glow not their shoulders smooth?
Melt not their eyes?
Is not, on cheeks like those,
Lovely the flush?
—Ah! so the quiet was!
So was the hush!
