Make way there, a wide space
Yield to the god;
For Dionysos has a mind to walk
Bolt upright through your midst.—J. A. St. John.

Bacchus, to thee our muse belongs,
  Of simple chant, and varied lays;
Nor fit for virgin ears our songs,
  Nor handed down from ancient days:
Fresh flows the strain we pour to thee,
Patron of joy and minstrelsy!—J. A. St. John.

Glitters with brass my mansion wide;
The roof is deck'd on every side
  In martial pride,
With helmets ranged in order bright
And plumes of horse-hair nodding white,
  A gallant sight—
—Fit ornament for warrior's brow—
And round the walk, in goodly row,
  Refulgent glow
Stout greaves of brass like burnish'd gold,
And corslets there, in many a fold
  Of linen roll'd;
And shields that in the battle fray
The routed losers of the day
  Have cast away;
Eubœan falchions too are seen,
With rich embroider'd belts between
  Of dazzing sheen:
And gaudy surcoats piled around,
The spoils of chiefs in war renown'd,
  May there be found.
These, and all else that here you see,
Are fruits of glorious victory
  Achieved by me.—Bland.