Hymn to Dionysos
Some say it was at Drakanon,
some on windy Ikaros,
some in Naxos,
divine child,
bull-god.
Others say it was beside
the deep whirling waters
of the river Alpheios
that Semele gave birth to you,
pregnant from Zeus who loves thunder.
Others, lord, say you were born at Thebes.
I say they lie.
The father of men and gods gave birth to you
far from human beings,
hiding you from white-armed Hera.
There is a certain Nysa,
a mountain peak flowering with forests,
far off in Phoenicia,
near the streams of Egypt.
No one comes there with his ship,
none of the human beings with the power of speech.
For it has no harbour,
no place to anchor for the swaying ships,
but sheer cliff circles it, very high
on every side, and it grows
many lovely, desirable things.
'And they will set up many statues in the temples.
As these things are three,
so every three years forever
shall mortals sacrifice to you
perfect hecatombs at your festivals.'
The Son of Kronos spoke
and nodded with his dark brows.
And the heavenly hair of the lord
flowed down from the immortal head
and he made great Olympos tremble.
Wise Zeus had spoken and nodded his head.
Be gracious, you
women-maddening
bull-god.
We, the poets,
beginning and ending, sing of you.
Anyone who forgets you
cannot remember sacred song.
I greet you, Dionysos,
god who appears as a bull,
you and your mother Semele,
whom they call Thyone.
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