However, Bacchus was often found to be inspired by sentiments of a
profoundly tender nature. Coressus, one of his favourite priests, {63}
having unhappily formed a violent attachment to a maiden named Callirhoe,
found his love returned with hatred, and the more he sought to impress her
with his affection, the more hateful did he become. Unable to gain her, the
priest sought the aid of his God, who, to avenge his sufferings, struck the
Calydonians with a continual drunkenness, many of them dying of it as of a
disease. In the height of their misery they sought the oracle, which
declared that their calamity would not cease, until Callirhoe was
sacrificed, unless some one could be found to pay the penalty for her.
[Illustration]
The oracle must be obeyed: but who would be the substitute? Parents wept,
and kindred mourned, but none would offer in her stead: and the hour
arrived when the unhappy maiden, guilty only of not loving, was crowned and
led to the altar, where he who had once been her lover, stood ready to be
her slayer. At sight of her, his passion, which had slumbered for a while,
burst forth anew, and in an agony of transport, rather than strike one so
loved, he {64} determined to be her substitute, and on the instant slew
himself in her stead.
"Great father Bacchus, to my song repair,
For clustering grapes are thy peculiar care;
For thee large bunches load the bending vine,
And the last blessings of the year are thine;
To thee his joys the jolly autumn owes,
While the fermenting juice the vat o'erflows,
Come steep with me, my god; come drench all o'er
Thy limbs in wine, and drink at every pore!"
* * * * * *
Thus Roman youth, derived from ruined Troy,
In rude Saturnian rhymes express their joy;
With taunts and laughter loud their audience please,
Deformed with vizards cut from bark of trees:
In jolly hymns they praise the god of wine,
Whose earthen images adorn the pine;
And there are hung on high, in honour of the vine
A madness so devout the vineyard fills,
In hollow valleys, and on rising hills,
On whate'er side he turns his honest face,
And dances in the wind, those fields are in his grace.
To Bacchus, therefore, let us tune our lays,
And in our mother tongue resound his praise."