JohnstonParodos
Josh Kemp / ParodosForArticle
- Created on 2023-05-17 21:08:24
- Modified on 2023-06-20 18:30:34
- Translated by Ian Johnston
- Aligned by Josh Kemp
Ἑλληνική Transliterate
English
https://scaife.perseus.org/reader/urn:cts:greekLit:tlg0006.tlg017.perseus-grc2:64-169?right=perseus-eng2&highlight=%40%E1%BD%81%CF%83%CE%AF%CE%BF%CE%B
http://johnstoniatexts.x10host.com/euripides/bacchaehtml.html
Ἀσίας ἀπὸ γᾶς
ἱερὸν Τμῶλον ἀμείψασα θοάζω
Βρομίῳ πόνον ἡδὺν κάματόν τʼ εὐκάματον ,
Βάκχιον εὐαζομένα .
τίς ὁδῷ τίς ὁδῷ ; τίς ;
μελάθροις ἔκτοπος ἔστω , στόμα τʼ εὔφημον
ἅπας ἐξοσιούσθω ·
τὰ νομισθέντα γὰρ αἰεὶ
Διόνυσον ὑμνήσω .
ὦ
μάκαρ , ὅστις εὐδαίμων
τελετὰς θεῶν εἰδὼς
βιοτὰν ἁγιστεύει καὶ
θιασεύεται ψυχὰν
ἐν ὄρεσσι βακχεύων
ὁσίοις καθαρμοῖσιν ,
τά τε ματρὸς μεγάλας ὄργια
Κυβέλας θεμιτεύων ,
ἀνὰ θύρσον τε τινάσσων ,
κισσῷ τε στεφανωθεὶς
Διόνυσον θεραπεύει .
ἴτε βάκχαι , ἴτε βάκχαι ,
Βρόμιον παῖδα θεὸν θεοῦ
Διόνυσον κατάγουσαι
Φρυγίων ἐξ ὀρέων Ἑλλάδος εἰς
εὐρυχόρους ἀγυιάς , τὸν Βρόμιον ·
ὅν
ποτʼ ἔχουσʼ ἐν ὠδίνων
λοχίαις ἀνάγκαισι
πταμένας Διὸς βροντᾶς νηδύος
ἔκβολον μάτηρ
ἔτεκεν , λιποῦσʼ αἰῶνα
κεραυνίῳ πληγᾷ ·
λοχίοις δʼ αὐτίκα νιν δέξατο
θαλάμαις Κρονίδας Ζεύς ,
κατὰ μηρῷ δὲ καλύψας
χρυσέαισιν συνερείδει
περόναις κρυπτὸν ἀφʼ Ἥρας .
ἔτεκεν δʼ , ἁνίκα Μοῖραι
τέλεσαν , ταυρόκερων θεὸν
στεφάνωσέν τε δρακόντων
στεφάνοις , ἔνθεν ἄγραν θηροτρόφον
μαινάδες ἀμφιβάλλονται
πλοκάμοις .
ὦ Σεμέλας τροφοὶ Θῆβαι ,
στεφανοῦσθε κισσῷ ·
βρύετε βρύετε χλοήρει
μίλακι καλλικάρπῳ
καὶ καταβακχιοῦσθε δρυὸς
ἢ ἐλάτας κλάδοισι ,
στικτῶν τʼ ἐνδυτὰ νεβρίδων
στέφετε λευκοτρίχων πλοκάμων
μαλλοῖς · ἀμφὶ δὲ νάρθηκας ὑβριστὰς
ὁσιοῦσθʼ · αὐτίκα γᾶ πᾶσα χορεύσει —
Βρόμιος ὅστις ἄγῃ θιάσουσ —
εἰς ὄρος εἰς ὄρος , ἔνθα μένει
θηλυγενὴς ὄχλος
ἀφʼ ἱστῶν παρὰ κερκίδων τʼ
οἰστρηθεὶς Διονύσῳ .
ὦ θαλάμευμα Κουρήτων
ζάθεοί τε Κρήτας
Διογενέτορες ἔναυλοι ,
ἔνθα τρικόρυθες ἄντροις
βυρσότονον κύκλωμα τόδε
μοι Κορύβαντες ηὗρον ·
βακχείᾳ δʼ ἀνὰ συντόνῳ
κέρασαν ἁδυβόᾳ Φρυγίων
αὐλῶν πνεύματι ματρός τε Ῥέας ἐς
χέρα θῆκαν , κτύπον εὐάσμασι Βακχᾶν ·
παρὰ δὲ μαινόμενοι Σάτυροι
ματέρος ἐξανύσαντο θεᾶς ,
ἐς δὲ χορεύματα
συνῆψαν τριετηρίδων ,
αἷς χαίρει Διόνυσος .
ἡδὺς ἐν ὄρεσιν , ὅταν ἐκ θιάσων δρομαίων
πέσῃ πεδόσε , νεβρίδος
ἔχων ἱερὸν ἐνδυτόν , ἀγρεύων
αἷμα τραγοκτόνον , ὠμοφάγον χάριν , ἱέμενος
ἐς ὄρεα Φρύγια , Λύδιʼ , ὁ δʼ ἔξαρχος Βρόμιος ,
εὐοἷ .
ῥεῖ δὲ γάλακτι πέδον , ῥεῖ δʼ οἴνῳ , ῥεῖ δὲ μελισσᾶν
νέκταρι .
Συρίας δʼ ὡς λιβάνου καπνὸν
ὁ Βακχεὺς ἀνέχων
πυρσώδη φλόγα πεύκας
ἐκ νάρθηκος ἀίσσει
δρόμῳ καὶ χοροῖσιν
πλανάτας ἐρεθίζων
ἰαχαῖς τʼ ἀναπάλλων ,
τρυφερόν τε πλόκαμον εἰς αἰθέρα ῥίπτων .
ἅμα δʼ εὐάσμασι τοιάδʼ ἐπιβρέμει ·
Ὦ ἴτε βάκχαι ,
ὦ ἴτε βάκχαι ,
Τμώλου χρυσορόου χλιδᾷ
μέλπετε τὸν Διόνυσον
βαρυβρόμων ὑπὸ τυμπάνων ,
εὔια τὸν εὔιον ἀγαλλόμεναι θεὸν
ἐν Φρυγίαισι βοαῖς ἐνοπαῖσί τε ,
λωτὸς ὅταν εὐκέλαδος
ἱερὸς ἱερὰ παίγματα βρέμῃ , σύνοχα
φοιτάσιν εἰς ὄρος εἰς ὄρος · ἡδομένα
δʼ ἄρα , πῶλος ὅπως ἅμα ματέρι
φορβάδι , κῶλον ἄγει ταχύπουν σκιρτήμασι βάκχα .
ἱερὸν Τμῶλον ἀμείψασα θοάζω
Βρομίῳ πόνον ἡδὺν κάματόν τʼ εὐκάματον ,
Βάκχιον εὐαζομένα .
τίς ὁδῷ τίς ὁδῷ ; τίς ;
μελάθροις ἔκτοπος ἔστω , στόμα τʼ εὔφημον
ἅπας ἐξοσιούσθω ·
τὰ νομισθέντα γὰρ αἰεὶ
Διόνυσον ὑμνήσω .
ὦ
μάκαρ , ὅστις εὐδαίμων
τελετὰς θεῶν εἰδὼς
βιοτὰν ἁγιστεύει καὶ
θιασεύεται ψυχὰν
ἐν ὄρεσσι βακχεύων
ὁσίοις καθαρμοῖσιν ,
τά τε ματρὸς μεγάλας ὄργια
Κυβέλας θεμιτεύων ,
ἀνὰ θύρσον τε τινάσσων ,
κισσῷ τε στεφανωθεὶς
Διόνυσον θεραπεύει .
ἴτε βάκχαι , ἴτε βάκχαι ,
Βρόμιον παῖδα θεὸν θεοῦ
Διόνυσον κατάγουσαι
Φρυγίων ἐξ ὀρέων Ἑλλάδος εἰς
εὐρυχόρους ἀγυιάς , τὸν Βρόμιον ·
ὅν
ποτʼ ἔχουσʼ ἐν ὠδίνων
λοχίαις ἀνάγκαισι
πταμένας Διὸς βροντᾶς νηδύος
ἔκβολον μάτηρ
ἔτεκεν , λιποῦσʼ αἰῶνα
κεραυνίῳ πληγᾷ ·
λοχίοις δʼ αὐτίκα νιν δέξατο
θαλάμαις Κρονίδας Ζεύς ,
κατὰ μηρῷ δὲ καλύψας
χρυσέαισιν συνερείδει
περόναις κρυπτὸν ἀφʼ Ἥρας .
ἔτεκεν δʼ , ἁνίκα Μοῖραι
τέλεσαν , ταυρόκερων θεὸν
στεφάνωσέν τε δρακόντων
στεφάνοις , ἔνθεν ἄγραν θηροτρόφον
μαινάδες ἀμφιβάλλονται
πλοκάμοις .
ὦ Σεμέλας τροφοὶ Θῆβαι ,
στεφανοῦσθε κισσῷ ·
βρύετε βρύετε χλοήρει
μίλακι καλλικάρπῳ
καὶ καταβακχιοῦσθε δρυὸς
ἢ ἐλάτας κλάδοισι ,
στικτῶν τʼ ἐνδυτὰ νεβρίδων
στέφετε λευκοτρίχων πλοκάμων
μαλλοῖς · ἀμφὶ δὲ νάρθηκας ὑβριστὰς
ὁσιοῦσθʼ · αὐτίκα γᾶ πᾶσα χορεύσει —
Βρόμιος ὅστις ἄγῃ θιάσουσ —
εἰς ὄρος εἰς ὄρος , ἔνθα μένει
θηλυγενὴς ὄχλος
ἀφʼ ἱστῶν παρὰ κερκίδων τʼ
οἰστρηθεὶς Διονύσῳ .
ὦ θαλάμευμα Κουρήτων
ζάθεοί τε Κρήτας
Διογενέτορες ἔναυλοι ,
ἔνθα τρικόρυθες ἄντροις
βυρσότονον κύκλωμα τόδε
μοι Κορύβαντες ηὗρον ·
βακχείᾳ δʼ ἀνὰ συντόνῳ
κέρασαν ἁδυβόᾳ Φρυγίων
αὐλῶν πνεύματι ματρός τε Ῥέας ἐς
χέρα θῆκαν , κτύπον εὐάσμασι Βακχᾶν ·
παρὰ δὲ μαινόμενοι Σάτυροι
ματέρος ἐξανύσαντο θεᾶς ,
ἐς δὲ χορεύματα
συνῆψαν τριετηρίδων ,
αἷς χαίρει Διόνυσος .
ἡδὺς ἐν ὄρεσιν , ὅταν ἐκ θιάσων δρομαίων
πέσῃ πεδόσε , νεβρίδος
ἔχων ἱερὸν ἐνδυτόν , ἀγρεύων
αἷμα τραγοκτόνον , ὠμοφάγον χάριν , ἱέμενος
ἐς ὄρεα Φρύγια , Λύδιʼ , ὁ δʼ ἔξαρχος Βρόμιος ,
εὐοἷ .
ῥεῖ δὲ γάλακτι πέδον , ῥεῖ δʼ οἴνῳ , ῥεῖ δὲ μελισσᾶν
νέκταρι .
Συρίας δʼ ὡς λιβάνου καπνὸν
ὁ Βακχεὺς ἀνέχων
πυρσώδη φλόγα πεύκας
ἐκ νάρθηκος ἀίσσει
δρόμῳ καὶ χοροῖσιν
πλανάτας ἐρεθίζων
ἰαχαῖς τʼ ἀναπάλλων ,
τρυφερόν τε πλόκαμον εἰς αἰθέρα ῥίπτων .
ἅμα δʼ εὐάσμασι τοιάδʼ ἐπιβρέμει ·
Ὦ ἴτε βάκχαι ,
ὦ ἴτε βάκχαι ,
Τμώλου χρυσορόου χλιδᾷ
μέλπετε τὸν Διόνυσον
βαρυβρόμων ὑπὸ τυμπάνων ,
εὔια τὸν εὔιον ἀγαλλόμεναι θεὸν
ἐν Φρυγίαισι βοαῖς ἐνοπαῖσί τε ,
λωτὸς ὅταν εὐκέλαδος
ἱερὸς ἱερὰ παίγματα βρέμῃ , σύνοχα
φοιτάσιν εἰς ὄρος εἰς ὄρος · ἡδομένα
δʼ ἄρα , πῶλος ὅπως ἅμα ματέρι
φορβάδι , κῶλον ἄγει ταχύπουν σκιρτήμασι βάκχα .
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 .
Who’s in the street ? Who’s there ? Who ?
Let him stay inside
out of our way .
Let every mouth be pure ,
completely holy ,
speak no profanities .
In my hymn I celebrate
our old eternal custom ,
hailing Dionysus .
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 ,
forehead crowned with ivy ,
serves Dionysus .
On Bacchae ! Bacchae , move !
Bring home Bromius , our god ,
son of god , great Dionysus ,
from Phrygian mountains
to spacious roads of Greece —
Hail Bromius !
His mother dropped him early ,
as her womb , in forceful birth pangs ,
was struck by Zeus’s flying lightning bolt ,
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 .
Fates made him perfect .
Then Zeus gave birth to him ,
the god with ox’s horns ,
crowned with wreaths of snakes —
that’s why the Maenads
twist in their hair
wild snakes they capture .
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 ,
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 .
O you dark chambers of the Curetes ,
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 ,
in ritual worship of the mother goddess ,
took that drum , then brought it
into their biennial dance ,
bringing joy to Dionysus .
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 ,
leading the dance —
Bromius — Evoë !
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 .
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
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 .
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 .
Who’s in the street ? Who’s there ? Who ?
Let him stay inside
out of our way .
Let every mouth be pure ,
completely holy ,
speak no profanities .
In my hymn I celebrate
our old eternal custom ,
hailing Dionysus .
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 ,
forehead crowned with ivy ,
serves Dionysus .
On Bacchae ! Bacchae , move !
Bring home Bromius , our god ,
son of god , great Dionysus ,
from Phrygian mountains
to spacious roads of Greece —
Hail Bromius !
His mother dropped him early ,
as her womb , in forceful birth pangs ,
was struck by Zeus’s flying lightning bolt ,
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 .
Fates made him perfect .
Then Zeus gave birth to him ,
the god with ox’s horns ,
crowned with wreaths of snakes —
that’s why the Maenads
twist in their hair
wild snakes they capture .
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 ,
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 .
O you dark chambers of the Curetes ,
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 ,
in ritual worship of the mother goddess ,
took that drum , then brought it
into their biennial dance ,
bringing joy to Dionysus .
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 ,
leading the dance —
Bromius — Evoë !
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 .
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
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 .