Bacchus punishes the cruelty of the Thracian women by transforming them into trees.
Bacchus, resolving to revenge the wrong,
Of Orpheus murder’d, on the madding throng,
Decreed that each accomplice dame should stand,
Fix’d by the roots, along the conscious land.
Their wicked feet, that late so nimbly ran
To wreak their malice on the guiltless man,
Sudden with twisted ligatures were bound,
Like trees, deep planted in the turfy ground:
And as the fowler, with his subtle gins,
His feather’d captives by the feet entwines,
That fluttering pant, and struggle to get loose,
Yet only closer draw the fatal noose;
So these were caught; and, as they strove in vain
To quit the place, they but increased their pain.
They flounce and toil, yet find themselves controll’d;
The root, though pliant, toughly keeps its hold.
In vain their toes and feet they look to find,
For even their shapely legs are clothed with rind.
One smites her thighs with a lamenting stroke,
And finds the flesh transform’d to solid oak;
Another, with surprise and grief distress’d,
Lays on above, but beats a wooden breast.
A rugged bark their softer neck invades;
Their branching arms shoot up delightful shades:
At once they seem and are a real grove,
With mossy trunks below, and verdant leaves above.
Fable of Midas
The hospitality of Midas towards Silenus, the tutor of Bacchus, is rewarded by the grateful deity with a permission to choose whatever recompense he pleases—Midas imprudently demands that whatever he touches may be turned into gold—His prayers are granted; and he is in danger of perishing by hunger, when the indulgent god supplies a remedy—Some time after this adventure Midas has the folly to maintain the superiority of Pan to Apollo in musical skill; for which rash opinion his ears are changed into those of an ass, to denote his ignorance and stupidity.
Nor this sufficed; the god’s disgust remains,
And he resolves to quit their hated plains:
The vineyards of Tymole engross his care,
And with a better choir he fixes there;
Where the smooth streams of clear Pactolus roll’d,
Then undistinguish’d for its sands of gold.
The satyrs with the nymphs, his usual throng,
Come to salute their god, and jovial dance along:
Silenus only miss’d; for while he reel’d,
Feeble with age and wine, about the field,
The hoary drunkard had forgot his way,
And to the Phrygian clowns became a prey;
Who to King Midas drag the captive god,
While on his totty pate the wreaths of ivy nod.
Midas from Orpheus had been taught his lore,
And knew the rites of Bacchus long before:
He, when he saw his venerable guest,
In honour of the god ordain’d a feast.
Ten days in course, with each continued night,
Were spent in genial mirth and brisk delight;
Then on the eleventh, when, with brighter ray,
Phosphor had chased the fading stars away,
The king through Lydia’s fields young Bacchus sought,
And to the god his foster-father brought.
Pleased with the welcome sight, he bids him soon
But name his wish, and swears to grant the boon.
A glorious offer! yet but ill bestow’d
On him whose choice so little judgment show’d.
“Give me,” says he, (nor thought he ask’d too much,)
“That with my body whatsoe’er I touch,
Changed from the nature which it held of old,
May be converted into yellow gold.”
He had his wish: but yet the god repined,
To think the fool no better wish could find.
But the brave king departed from the place
With smiles of gladness sparkling in his face;
Nor could contain, but, as he took his way,
Impatient longs to make the first essay.
Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew,
The twig straight glitter’d with a golden hue.
He takes a stone, the stone was turn’d to gold:
A clod he touches, and the crumbling mould
Acknowledged soon the great transforming power,
In weight and substance like a mass of ore:
He pluck’d the corn, and straight his grasp appears
Fill’d with a bending tuft of golden ears.
An apple next he takes, and seems to hold
The bright Hesperian vegetable gold:
His hand he careless on a pillar lays,
With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze;
And, while he washes, as the servants pour,
His touch converts the stream to Dane’s shower.
To see these miracles so finely wrought
Fires with transporting joy his giddy thought.
The ready slaves prepare a sumptuous board,
Spread with rich dainties for their happy lord;
Whose powerful hands the bread no sooner hold,
But its whole substance is transform’d to gold:
Up to his mouth he lifts the savoury meat,
Which turns to gold as he attempts to eat:
His patron’s noble juice of purple hue,
Touch’d by his lips, a gilded cordial grew,
Unfit for drink; and, wondrous to behold,
It trickles from his jaws a fluid gold.
The rich poor fool, confounded with surprise,
Starving in all his various plenty lies;
Sick of his wish, he now detests the power,
For which he ask’d so earnestly before;
Amid his gold with pinching famine cursed,
And justly tortured with an equal thirst:
At last, his shining arms to heaven he rears,
And, in distress, for refuge flies to prayers.
“Oh, Father Bacchus, I have sinn’d,” he cried,
“And foolishly thy gracious gift applied;
Thy pity now, repenting, I implore,
Oh may I feel the golden plague no more!”
The hungry wretch, his folly thus confess’d,
Touch’d the kind deity’s good-natured breast;
The gentle god annull’d his first decree,
And from the cruel compact set him free.
But then, to cleanse him quite from further harm,
And to dilute the relics of the charm,
He bids him seek the stream, that cuts the land
Nigh where the towers of Lydias Sardis stand;
Then trace the river to the fountain head
And meet it rising from its rocky bed;
There, as the bubbling tide pours forth amain,
To plunge his body in, and wash away the stain.
The king, instructed, to the fount retires,
But with the golden charm the stream inspires;
For, while this quality the man forsakes,
An equal power the limpid water takes;
Informs with veins of gold the neighbouring land,
And glides along a bed of golden sand.
Now loathing wealth, the occasion of his woes,
Far in the woods, he sought a calm repose
In caves and grottoes, where the nymphs resort,
And keep with mountain Pan their sylvan court.
Ah! had he left his stupid soul behind;
But his condition alter’d not his mind.
For where high Tmolus rears his shady brow,
And from his cliffs surveys the seas below
In his descent, by Sardis bounded
