A Hymn to Bacchus, or the Pirates
Of Dionysus, noble Semele’s Son,
I now intend to render mention,
As on a prominent shore his person shone,
Like to a youth whose flow’r was newly blown,
Bright azure tresses play’d about his head,
And on his bright broad shoulders was dispread
A purple mantle. Strait he was descried
By certain manly pirates, that applied
Their utmost speed to prise him, being aboard
A well-built bark, about whose broad sides roar’d
The wine-black Tyrrhene billows; death as black
Brought them upon him in their future wrack.
For, soon as they had purchas’d but his view,
Mutual signs past them, and ashore they flew,
Took him, and brought him instantly aboard,
Soothing their hopes to have obtain’d a hoard
Of riches with him; and a Jove-kept king
To such a flow’r must needs be natural spring.
And therefore straight strong fetters they must fetch,
To make him sure. But no such strength would stretch
To his constrain’d pow’rs. Far flew all their bands
From any least force done his feet or hands.
But he sat casting smiles from his black eyes
At all their worst. At which discoveries
Made by the master, he did thus dehort
All his associates: “Wretches! Of what sort
Hold ye the person ye assay to bind?
Nay, which of all the Pow’r fully-divin’d
Esteem ye him, whose worth yields so much weight
That not our well-built bark will bear his freight?
Or Jove himself he is, or He that bears
The silver bow, or Neptune. Nor appears
In him the least resemblance of a man,
But of a strain at least Olympian.
Come! Make we quick dismission of his state,
And on the black-soil’d earth exonerate
Our sinking vessel of his deified load,
Nor dare the touch of an intangible God,
Lest winds outrageous, and of wrackful scathe,
And smoking tempests, blow his fiery wrath.”
This well-spoke master the tall captain gave
Hateful and horrible language; call’d him slave,
And bade him mark the prosp’rous gale that blew,
And how their vessel with her mainsail flew;
Bade all take arms, and said, their works requir’d
The cares of men, and not of an inspir’d
Pure zealous master; his firm hopes being fir’d
With this opinion, that they should arrive
In Ægypt straight, or Cyprus, or where live
Men whose brave breaths above the north wind blow;
Yea, and perhaps beyond their region too.
And that he made no doubt but in the end
To make his prisoner tell him every friend
Of all his offspring, brothers, wealth, and all;
Since that prise, certain, must some God let fall.
This said, the mast and mainsail up he drew,
And in the mainsail’s midst a frank gale blew;
When all his ship took arms to brave their prise.
But straight strange works appear’d to all their eyes:
First, sweet wine through their swift-black bark did flow,
Of which the odours did a little blow
Their fiery spirits, making th’ air so fine
That they in flood were there as well as wine.
A mere immortal-making savour rose,
Which on the air the Deity did impose.
The seamen see’ng all, admiration seiz’d;
Yet instantly their wonders were increas’d,
For on the topsail there ran, here and there,
A vine that grapes did in abundance bear,
And in an instant was the ship’s mainmast
With an obscure-green ivy’s arms embrac’d,
That flourish’d straight, and were with berries grac’d;
Of which did garlands circle every brow
Of all the pirates, and no one knew how.
Which when they saw, they made the master steer
Out to the shore; whom Bacchus made forbear,
With showing more wonders. On the hatches He
Appear’d a terrible lion, horribly
Roaring; and in the mid-deck a male bear,
Made with a huge mane; making all, for fear,
Crowd to the stern, about the master there,
Whose mind he still kept dauntless and sincere,
But on the captain rush’d and ramp’d, with force
So rude and sudden, that his main recourse
Was to the main-sea straight: and after him
Leapt all his mates, as trusting to their swim
To fly foul death; but so found what they fled,
Being all to dolphins metamorphosed.
The master he took ruth of, sav’d, and made
The blessed’st man that ever tried his trade,
These few words giving him: “Be confident,
Thou God-inspired pilot, in the bent
Of my affection, ready to requite
Thy late-to-me-intended benefit.
I am the roaring God of spritely wine,
Whom Semele (that did even Jove incline
To amorous mixture, and was Cadmus’ care)
Made issue to the mighty Thunderer.”
And thus, all excellence of grace to thee,
Son of sweet-count’nance-carry’ng Semele.
I must not thee forget in least degree,
But pray thy spirit to render so my song
Sweet, and all ways in order’d fury strong.