For him the bursting clusters sweet
Were in the wine-press trod;
Song followed soon, a prompting of the god,
And rhythmic dance of lightly leaping feet.
Of Bacchus the o'er-wearied swain receives
Deliverance from all his pains;
Bacchus gives comfort when a mortal grieves,
And mirth to men in chains.
Not to Osiris toils and tears belong,
But revels and delightful song;
Lightly beckoning loves are thine!
Garlands deck thee, god of wine!
We hear thee coming, with the flute's refrain,
With fruit of ivy on thy forehead bound,
Thy saffron vesture streaming to the ground.
And thou hast garments, too, of Tyrian stain,
When thine ecstatic train
Bear forth thy magic ark to mysteries divine.
Immortal guest, our games and pageant share!
Smile on the flowing cup, and hail
With us the _Genius_ of this natal day!
From whose anointed, rose-entwisted hair,
Arabian odors waft away.
If thou the festal bless, I will not fail
To burn sweet incense unto him and thee,
And offerings of Arcadian honey bear.
So grant Messala fortunes ever fair!
Of such a sire the children worthy be!
Till generations two and three
Surround his venerated chair!
See, winding upward through the Latin land,
Yon highway past, the Alban citadel,
At great Messala's mandate made,
In fitted stones and firm-set gravel laid,
Thy monument forever more to stand!
The mountain-villager thy fame will tell,
When through the darkness wending late from Rome,
He foots it smoothly home.
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