Odes and Carmen Saeculare — Book III - XXV - Quo Me, Bacche

QUO ME, BACCHE.

Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me, Fill'd with thy strength?

What dens, what forests these, Thus in wildering race I see?

What cave shall hearken to my melodies, Tuned to tell of Caesar's praise And throne him high the heavenly ranks among?

Sweet and strange shall be my lays, A tale till now by poet voice unsung.

As the Evian on the height, Roused from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad, Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white, And Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod, So my truant eyes admire The banks, the desolate forests.

O great King Who the Naiads dost inspire, And Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring!

Not a lowly strain is mine, No mere man's utterance.

O, 'tis venture sweet Thee to follow, God of wine, Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!

XXVI.