The Bacchae Parodos by Euripides Lyrics
CHORUS [singing and dancing]
FIRST VOICE: From Asia, from sacred Tmolus
I've come to dance,
to move swiftly in my dance—
for Bromius—
sweet and easy task,
to cry out in celebration,
hailing great god Bacchus.
SECOND VOICE: Who's in the street? Who's there? Who?
Let him stay inside
out of our way.
Let every mouth be pure, [70]
completely holy,
speak no profanities.
In my hymn I celebrate
our old eternal custom,
hailing Dionysus.
THIRD VOICE: O, blessed is the man,
the fortunate man who knows
the rituals of the gods,
who leads a pious life,
whose spirit merges
with these Bacchic celebrations,
frenzied dancing in the mountains,
our purifying rites—
one who reveres these mysteries
from Cybele, our great mother,
who, waving the thyrsus, [80]
forehead crowned with ivy,
serves Dionysus.
FOURTH VOICE: On Bacchae! Bacchae, move!
Bring home Bromius, our god,
son of god, great Dionysus,
from Phrygian mountains
to spacious roads of Greece—
Hail Bromius!
FIFTH VOICE: His mother dropped him early,
as her womb, in forceful birth pangs,
was struck by Zeus' flying lightning bolt, [90]
a blast which took her life.
Then Zeus, son of Cronos,
at once hid him away
in a secret birthing chamber,
buried in his thigh,
shut in with golden clasps,
concealed from Hera.
SIXTH VOICE: Fates made him perfect.
Then Zeus gave birth to him, [100]
the god with ox's horns,
crowned with wreaths of snakes—
that's why the Maenads
twist in their hair
wild snakes they capture.
SEVENTH VOICE: O Thebes, nursemaid of Semele,
put on your ivy crown,
flaunt your green yew,
flaunt its sweet fruit!
Consecrate yourselves to Bacchus,
with stems of oak or fir, [110]
Dress yourselves in spotted fawn skins,
trimmed with white sheep's wool.
As you wave your thyrsus,
revere the violence it contains.
All the earth will dance at once.
Whoever leads our dancing—
that one is Bromius!
To the mountain, to the mountain,
where the pack of women waits,
all stung to frenzied madness
to leave their weaving shuttles,
goaded on by Dionysus.
EIGHTH VOICE: O you dark chambers of the Curetes, [120]
you sacred caves in Crete,
birthplace of Zeus,
where the Corybantes in their caves,
men with triple helmets, made for me
this circle of stretched hide.
In their wild ecstatic dancing,
they mixed this drum beat
with the sweet seductive tones
of flutes from Phrygia,
then gave it to mother Rhea
to beat time for the Bacchae,
when they sang in ecstasy.
Nearby, orgiastic satyrs, [130]
in ritual worship of the mother goddess,
took that drum, then brought it
into their biennial dance,
bringing joy to Dionysus.
NINTH VOICE: He's welcome in the mountains,
when he sinks down to the ground,
after the running dance,
wrapped in holy deerskin,
hunting the goat's blood,
blood of the slain beast,
devouring its raw flesh with joy,
rushing off into the mountains,
in Phrygia, in Lydia, [140]
leading the dance—
Bromius—Evoë!
ALL: The land flows with milk,
the land flows with wine,
the land flows with honey from the bees.
He holds the torch high,
our leader, the Bacchic One,
blazing flame of pine,
sweet smoke like Syrian incense,
trailing from his thyrsus.
As he dances, he runs,
here and there,
rousing the stragglers,
stirring them with his cries,
thick hair rippling in the breeze. [150]
Among the Maenads' shouts
his voice reverberates:
"On Bacchants, on!
With the glitter of Tmolus,
which flows with gold,
chant songs to Dionysus,
to the loud beat of our drums.
Celebrate the god of joy
with your own joy,
with Phrygian cries and shouts!
When sweet sacred pipes [160]
play out their rhythmic holy song,
in time to the dancing wanderers,
then to the mountains,
on, on to the mountains."
Then the bacchanalian woman
is filled with total joy—
like a foal in pasture
right beside her mother—
her swift feet skip in playful dance.
FIRST VOICE: From Asia, from sacred Tmolus
I've come to dance,
to move swiftly in my dance—
for Bromius—
sweet and easy task,
to cry out in celebration,
hailing great god Bacchus.
SECOND VOICE: Who's in the street? Who's there? Who?
Let him stay inside
out of our way.
Let every mouth be pure, [70]
completely holy,
speak no profanities.
In my hymn I celebrate
our old eternal custom,
hailing Dionysus.
THIRD VOICE: O, blessed is the man,
the fortunate man who knows
the rituals of the gods,
who leads a pious life,
whose spirit merges
with these Bacchic celebrations,
frenzied dancing in the mountains,
our purifying rites—
one who reveres these mysteries
from Cybele, our great mother,
who, waving the thyrsus, [80]
forehead crowned with ivy,
serves Dionysus.
FOURTH VOICE: On Bacchae! Bacchae, move!
Bring home Bromius, our god,
son of god, great Dionysus,
from Phrygian mountains
to spacious roads of Greece—
Hail Bromius!
FIFTH VOICE: His mother dropped him early,
as her womb, in forceful birth pangs,
was struck by Zeus' flying lightning bolt, [90]
a blast which took her life.
Then Zeus, son of Cronos,
at once hid him away
in a secret birthing chamber,
buried in his thigh,
shut in with golden clasps,
concealed from Hera.
SIXTH VOICE: Fates made him perfect.
Then Zeus gave birth to him, [100]
the god with ox's horns,
crowned with wreaths of snakes—
that's why the Maenads
twist in their hair
wild snakes they capture.
SEVENTH VOICE: O Thebes, nursemaid of Semele,
put on your ivy crown,
flaunt your green yew,
flaunt its sweet fruit!
Consecrate yourselves to Bacchus,
with stems of oak or fir, [110]
Dress yourselves in spotted fawn skins,
trimmed with white sheep's wool.
As you wave your thyrsus,
revere the violence it contains.
All the earth will dance at once.
Whoever leads our dancing—
that one is Bromius!
To the mountain, to the mountain,
where the pack of women waits,
all stung to frenzied madness
to leave their weaving shuttles,
goaded on by Dionysus.
EIGHTH VOICE: O you dark chambers of the Curetes, [120]
you sacred caves in Crete,
birthplace of Zeus,
where the Corybantes in their caves,
men with triple helmets, made for me
this circle of stretched hide.
In their wild ecstatic dancing,
they mixed this drum beat
with the sweet seductive tones
of flutes from Phrygia,
then gave it to mother Rhea
to beat time for the Bacchae,
when they sang in ecstasy.
Nearby, orgiastic satyrs, [130]
in ritual worship of the mother goddess,
took that drum, then brought it
into their biennial dance,
bringing joy to Dionysus.
NINTH VOICE: He's welcome in the mountains,
when he sinks down to the ground,
after the running dance,
wrapped in holy deerskin,
hunting the goat's blood,
blood of the slain beast,
devouring its raw flesh with joy,
rushing off into the mountains,
in Phrygia, in Lydia, [140]
leading the dance—
Bromius—Evoë!
ALL: The land flows with milk,
the land flows with wine,
the land flows with honey from the bees.
He holds the torch high,
our leader, the Bacchic One,
blazing flame of pine,
sweet smoke like Syrian incense,
trailing from his thyrsus.
As he dances, he runs,
here and there,
rousing the stragglers,
stirring them with his cries,
thick hair rippling in the breeze. [150]
Among the Maenads' shouts
his voice reverberates:
"On Bacchants, on!
With the glitter of Tmolus,
which flows with gold,
chant songs to Dionysus,
to the loud beat of our drums.
Celebrate the god of joy
with your own joy,
with Phrygian cries and shouts!
When sweet sacred pipes [160]
play out their rhythmic holy song,
in time to the dancing wanderers,
then to the mountains,
on, on to the mountains."
Then the bacchanalian woman
is filled with total joy—
like a foal in pasture
right beside her mother—
her swift feet skip in playful dance.