A DITHYRAMBIC.
Horace
Whither, O Bacchus, art thou hurrying me, replete with your influence?
Into what groves, into what recesses am I driven, actuated with uncommon
spirit? In what caverns, meditating the immortal honor of illustrious
Caesar, shall I be heard enrolling him among the stars and the council
of Jove? I will utter something extraordinary, new, hitherto unsung by
any other voice. Thus the sleepless Bacchanal is struck with enthusiasm,
casting her eyes upon Hebrus, and Thrace bleached with snow, and Rhodope
traversed by the feet of barbarians. How am I delighted in my rambles,
to admire the rocks and the desert grove! O lord of the Naiads and the
Bacchanalian women, who are able with their hands to overthrow lofty
ash-trees; nothing little, nothing low, nothing mortal will I sing.
Charming is the hazard, O Bacchus, to accompany the god, who binds his
temples with the verdant vine-leaf.
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