hear
  This solemn oath, by Bacchus’ self, I swear,
  The mighty miracle that did ensue,
  Although it seems beyond belief, is true. 
  The vessel, fixed and rooted in the flood,
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  Unmoved by all the beating billows stood. 
  In vain the mariners would plough the main
  With sails unfurled, and strike their oars in vain;
  Around their oars a twining ivy cleaves,
  And climbs the mast and hides the cords in leaves: 
  The sails are covered with a cheerful green,
  And berries in the fruitful canvas seen. 
  Amidst the waves a sudden forest rears
  Its verdant head, and a new spring appears. 
     ’The god we now behold with open eyes;
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  A herd of spotted panthers round him lies
  In glaring forms; the grapy clusters spread
  On his fair brows, and dangle on his head. 
  And whilst he frowns, and brandishes his spear,
  My mates, surprised with madness or with fear,
  Leaped overboard; first perjured Madon found
  Rough scales and fins his stiffening sides surround;
  “Ah! what,” cries one, “has thus transformed thy look?”
  Straight his own mouth grew wider as he spoke;
  And now himself he views with like surprise.
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  Still at his oar the industrious Libys plies;
  But, as he plies, each busy arm shrinks in,
  And by degrees is fashioned to a fin. 
  Another, as he catches at a cord,
  Misses his arms, and, tumbling overboard,
  With his broad fins and forky tail he laves
  The rising surge, and flounces in the waves. 
  Thus all my crew transformed around the ship,
  Or dive below, or on the surface leap,
  And spout the waves, and wanton in the deep.
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  Full nineteen sailors did the ship convey,
  A shoal of nineteen dolphins round her play. 
  I only in my proper shape appear,
  Speechless with wonder, and half dead with fear,
  Till Bacchus kindly bid me fear no more. 
  With him I landed on the Chian shore,
  And him shall ever gratefully adore.’ 
     ‘This forging slave,’ says Pentheus, ’would prevail
  O’er our just fury by a far-fetched tale: 
  Go, let him feel the whips, the swords, the fire,
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  And in the tortures of the rack expire.’ 
  The officious servants hurry him away,
  And the poor captive in a dungeon lay. 
  But, whilst the whips and tortures are prepared. 
  The gates fly open, of themselves unbarred;
  At liberty the unfettered captive stands,
  And flings the loosened shackles from his hands.

THE DEATH OF PENTHEUS.

     But Penthcus, grown more furious than before,
  Resolved to send his messengers no more,
  But went himself to the distracted throng,
  Where high Cithaeron echoed with their song. 
  And as the fiery war-horse paws the ground,
  And snorts and trembles at the trumpet’s