The Frogs | Page 5

paces Mingling in our joyous dance, Pure and holy, which embraces all the charms of all the Graces When the mystic choirs advance.
XAN. Holy and sacred queen, Demeter's daughter, O, what a jolly whiff of pork breathed o'er me!
DIO. Hist! and perchance you'll get some tripe yourself.
(The welcome to Iacchus.)
CHOR. Come, arise, from sleep awaking, come the fiery torches shaking, O Iacchus! O Iacchus! Morning Star that shinest nightly. Lo, the mead is blazing brightly, Age forgets its years and sadness, Aged knees curvet for gladness, Lift thy flashing torches o'er us, Marshal all thy blameless train, Lead, O lead the way before us; lead the lovely youthful Chorus To the marshy flowery plain.
(The warning-off of the profane.)
All evil thoughts and profane be still: far hence, far hence from our choirs depart, Who knows not well what the Mystics tell, or is not holy and pure of heart; Who ne'er has the noble revelry learned, or danced the dance of the Muses high; Or shared in the Bacchic rites which old bull-eating Cratinus's words supply; Who vulgar coarse buffoonery loves, though all untimely the jests they make; Or lives not easy and kind with all, or kindling faction forbears to slake, But fans the fire, from a base desire some pitiful gain for himself to reap; Or takes, in office, his gifts and bribes, while the city is tossed on the stormy deep; Who fort or fleet to the foe betrays; or, a vile Thorycion, ships away Forbidden stores from Aegina's shores, to Epidaurus across the Bay Transmitting oarpads and sails and tar, that curst collector of five per cents; The knave who tries to procure supplies for the use of the enemy's armaments; The Cyclian singer who dares befoul the Lady Hecate's wayside shrine; The public speaker who once lampooned in our Bacchic feast, would, with heart malign, Keep nibbling away the Comedians' pay;--to these I utter my warning cry, I charge them once, I charge them twice, I charge them thrice, that they draw not nigh To the sacred dance of the Mystic choir. But YE, my comrades, awake the song, The night-long revels of joy and mirth which ever of right to our feast belong.
(The start of the procession.)
Advance, true hearts, advance! On to the gladsome bowers, On to the sward, with flowers Embosomed bright! March on with jest, and jeer, and dance, Full well ye've supped to-night.
(The processional hymn to Persephone.)
March, chanting loud your lays, Your hearts and voices raising, The Saviour goddess praising Who vows she'll still Our city save to endless days, Whate'er Thorycion's will.
Break off the measure, and change the time; and now with chanting and hymns adorn Demeter, goddess mighty and high, the harvest-queen, the giver of corn.
(The processional hymn to Demeter.)
O Lady, over our rites presiding, Preserve and succour thy choral throng, And grant us all, in thy help confiding, To dance and revel the whole day long; AND MUCH in earnest, and much in jest, Worthy thy feast, may we speak therein. And when we have bantered and laughed our best, The victor's wreath be it ours to win.
Call we now the youthful god, call him hither without delay, Him who travels amongst his chorus, dancing along on the Sacred Way.
(The processional hymn to Iacchus.)
O, come with the joy of thy festival song, O, come to the goddess, O, mix with our throng Untired, though the journey be never so long. O Lord of the frolic and dance, Iacchus, beside me advance! For fun, and for cheapness, our dress thou hast rent, Through thee we may dance to the top of our bent, Reviling, and jeering, and none will resent. O Lord of the frolic and dance, Iacchus, beside me advance! A sweet pretty girl I observed in the show, Her robe had been torn in the scuffle, and lo, There peeped through the tatters a bosom of snow. O Lord of the frolic and dance, Iacchus, beside me advance!
DIO. Wouldn't I like to follow on, and try A little sport and dancing?
XAN. Wouldn't I?
(The banter at the bridge of Cephisus.)
CHOR. Shall we all a merry joke At Archedemus poke, Who has not cut his guildsmen yet, though seven years old; Yet up among the dead He is demagogue and head, And contrives the topmost place of the rascaldom to hold? And Cleisthenes, they say, Is among the tombs all day, Bewailing for his lover with a lamentable whine. And Callias, I'm told, Has become a sailor bold, And casts a lion's hide o'er his members feminine.
DIO. Can any of you tell Where Pluto here may dwell, For we, sirs, are two strangers who were never here before?
CHOR. O, then no further stray, Nor again enquire the way, For know that ye have journeyed to his very entrance-door
DIO. Take up