Part 12 (2/2)

CHORUS.

_Some Maidens._

Weave ye the dance, and call Praise to G.o.d!

Bless ye the Tyrant's fall!

Down is trod Pentheus, the Dragon's Seed!

Wore he the woman's weed?

Clasped he his death indeed, Clasped the rod?

_A Baccha.n.a.l._

Yea, the wild ivy lapt him, and the doomed Wild Bull of Sacrifice before him loomed!

_Others._

Ye who did Bromios scorn, Praise Him the more, Baccha.n.a.ls, Cadmus-born; Praise with sore Agony, yea, with tears!

Great are the gifts he bears!

Hands that a mother rears Red with gore!

LEADER.

But stay, Agave cometh! And her eyes Make fire around her, reeling! Ho, the prize Cometh! All hail, O Rout of Dionyse!

[_Enter from the Mountain_ AGAVE, _mad, and to all seeming wondrously happy, bearing the head of_ PENTHEUS _in her hand. The_ CHORUS MAIDENS _stand horror-struck at the sight; the_ LEADER, _also horror-struck, strives to accept it and rejoice in it as the G.o.d's deed_.

AGAVE.

Ye from the lands of Morn!

LEADER.

Call me not; I give praise!

AGAVE.

Lo, from the trunk new-shorn Hither a Mountain Thorn Bear we! O Asia-born Baccha.n.a.ls, bless this chase!

LEADER.

I see. Yea; I see.

Have I not welcomed thee?

AGAVE (_very calmly and peacefully_).

He was young in the wildwood: Without nets I caught him!

Nay; look without fear on The Lion; I have ta'en him!

LEADER.

Where in the wildwood?

Whence have ye brought him?

<script>