{211}
He returned to the upper world, where the only solace which he could find,
was to soothe his grief with the tones of his musical instrument, to the
sound of which, the mountains and caves of his native land bore a
melancholy echo. He secluded himself entirely from the company of mankind;
in vain was his society sought by the Thracian women; he rejected their
overtures with coldness, until enraged at his behaviour, they attacked him
while celebrating the Bacchanalian orgies.
"Here while the Thracian bard's enchanting strain,
Sooths beasts and woods, and all the listening plain:
The female Bacchanals devoutly mad,
In shaggy skins, like savage creatures clad,
Warbling in air perceived his lovely lay,
And from a rising ground beheld him play:
When one, the wildest, with dishevelled hair
That loosely streamed, and ruffled in the air:
Soon as her frantic eye the lyrist spied
'See, see, the hater of our sex,' she cried,
Then at his face her missive javelin sent,
Which whizzed along, and brushed him as it went;
But the soft wreaths of Ivy twisted round,
Prevent a deep impression of the wound,
Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail,
Nor can his song against their wrath prevail;
In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain
He tries, before his never failing strain;
And, from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound
Fierce tigers and insensate rocks could wound,
Ah Gods! how moving was the mournful sight,
To see the fleeting soul now take its flight!"