The death of the plaintive shepherd was not unavenged; but valiant Eros caught up his bow and drew a shaft of desire, arming unseen himself against Dionysos as he sat by the bank of the pebbly stream.
Fleet Nicaia had finished her wonted hunt for game; sweating and tired by hard work in her beloved highlands, she was bathing her bare body in a mountain cascade. Now longshot Eros made no delay. He set the endshining beard of a winged arrow to the string, and rounded his bow, and buried the whole shot in the heart of love-maddened Lyaios.
Then Dionysos saw the girl swimming in the water bareskin, and his mind was shaken with sweet madness by the fiery shaft. This way and that he went, wherever the maiden harehuntress went: now eyeing the clustering curls of her hair, shaken by the circling breezes as she hurried on her course; spying her bright neck, when the tresses moved aside and bared it till it gleamed like the moon. He cared not for

Satyrs now, he had no pleasure in Bacchants; but gazing at Olympos, he cried in a love-compelling voice: “I will be there, where the dewy chase goes on, where the quiver is, where the bolt and the precious bow, where the very groundpallet is perfumed from the unwedded maiden; I will handle her stakes, and stretch her nets with my own hands: I also will go a-hunting, and kill a fawn like her. And if she scolds me, like some heavy-tempered Amazon, disgorging womanlike her load of honeysweet threatenings, I will lay my hand on the knees of the angry girl, and touch of her lovely skin like a suppliant; but I will carry aloft no spray of olive, because that is the tree of Athena, the maiden unwedded and unsoftened; instead of that bitter oily branch, I will lift to my honeysweet nymph a suppliant cluster of grapes, which contains the purple fruit of honey-dropping vintage. If the crookbow virgin is vexed, let her not pierce my flesh with a lance, nor draw her murderous shot, let her be merciful and tap my body with the tip of her sweet bow: I do not mind a blow that soothes the heart! If it please her, let her hold the shag fast and pull my hair with her precious hands, she may tear out some of the braids and welcome! I will never fend off the maiden; but I will pretend to be cross, and squeeze with unsparing hand the right hand which holds me fast. I will hold the pink fingers imprisoned in my hooked talons, to soothe my love-longing. For the maiden has made prey of all the Olympian beauty.

Forgive me, Cerne: the Astacid has budded as a new rosyfinger Dawn, a new lightbringer has risen: Nicaia is a younger Selene, who keeps her aspect unchanged. In my desire, I should be glad to take on a world of strange aspects, if respect and veneration for my father did not hold me back. I would go through the waters of Tyre a seafaring bull, and swim along carrying my Nicaia unsprinkled by the deep, like Europa's bridegroom; and I would shake my back as if by accident, that the girl might take fright, and her allwhite right hand might pull at my horn. I would be a winged husband, to dance carrying lightly a wife on my back unshaken, as Cronides did with Aigina; that mated with her I might beget a new eagle,' another birdstar to attend on weddings for the Loves. However, I will not strike with a thunderbolt my bedfellow's begetter, and present a father's death as an impious brideprice, that I may not vex sweet Nicaia for his taking off. Would I were a bastard bird well fledged, because my virgin herself loves winged arrows! I would rather be the flowing form of Danae's loves, a golden shower to lie by her side, myself the marriage gift, myself husband, that I might circle round her and pour forth love's shower of generous dew; for it would suit well my girl Nicaia with her beautiful eyes, and her golden beauty, to have a golden bedmate.” Such were the words he rang out in love's madness with passionate voice. And one day, making his way into a fragrant meadow, he observed all the

flowers blooming with the colours of the girl, and cried out thus to the airy breezes: @ Here at last, Nicaia, I have caught a glimpse of your form! Have you lent your beauty to the flowers? For as I gaze on the fairgrowing rosebed, I recognize your cheeks: but your rose blooms always, for you hold implanted in you the blushing anemone also, that ceases not. When I turn my eye to the lily, I see your snowy arms, when I behold the iris, I see the rich dark colour of your hair." Receive me as comrade in your hunting: and if you wish, I will shoulder myself the sweet burden of your stakes, myself your ankleboots and bow and arrows of Desire, myself I will do it — I need no Satyrs; did not Apollo himself in the woods lift Cyrene's nets? What harm, if I also manage the meshes? I do not think it hard to lift my Nicaia on my own shoulders. I do not set up to be better than my father; for he bore up Europa in the floods unwetted, a seafaring bull.
" Rosy maiden, why do you like the forest so much? Spare your lovely limbs, nor let the rough unstrown pallet upon the rocks chafe your back. If you wish, I will be the attendant of your chamber in the house; I will lay your bed, I will spread on it the manyspeckled skins of pards, over which I throw the bristly thick-haired fell of a lion to cover it, stripping it from my own limbs: you shall enjoy sweet sleep covered with the dappled fawnskins of Dionysos. Above you I will throw a tent of the same sort, made of the skins of Mygdonian deer, stript from the Satyrs.
If you should want dogs, I will straight offer

you the whole pack of my friend Pan together; I will bring you other hounds from Sparta, which my friend Carnean Apollo keeps for the love of his gallant lads, and I will summon the hunting- dogs of Aristaios; string and stakes I will fetch you, and those most suitable gifts, the ankleboots of the Grazer and Hunter, ' who long ago knew both grazing on fine meadows and the happy work of the coursing hunt.
" And if you fear the blaze of the thirsty season of harvest, I will plant over your bed shoots of the gardenvine, and the sweet breath of the intoxicating scent shall be wafted over you, lying under the grape-clustered covering. Gadabout maiden, pity the cheeks of your own loveshot countenance beaten by the sun, lest the glare of Helios dim the radiance of your limbs, lest the breeze tumble your anointed curls; sleep among the roses and on iris-petals, rest your head on Dionysos your neighbour, to kindle one revel for immortals four, Phoibos and Zephyros and Cypris and Dionysos.
" Let me offer my spoil, the blackskin brood of India, to attend upon your bower. But why did I name the swarthy tribe to array your bridal bed? Does white Eos ever mingle with black-stoled night? You the Astacid are surely a younger Artemis; but more, I will fetch you myself sixty dancing handmaids, to complete the unnumbered dance that attends you, as many as the servants of the mountain

Archeress, as many as the daughters of Oceanos; then Artemis hunting will not rival you, even if she be the mistress of the hunt. I will present you with the Graces of divine Orchomenos for servants, my daughters, whom I will take from Aphrodite.
" Nay, charm your uncharmed heart with desire, and let my bed receive you after the labours of hunting the beasts, that you may appear Artemis among the rocks and Aphrodite in the bed-chamber. What harm that you should hunt along with hunting Lyaios? But if you have the itch for struggle, like the bowfamed Amazon, you shall come to the Indian warfare, to be Athena in the battle, and Peitho when fighting is done. Receive also, if it please you, the thyrsus of Lyaios to bring down your game, and become a slayer of fawns; and with your own hands, by your own efforts, adorn my car, by yoking pards or lions under the bridle." So speaking, he pursued the mountain girl his neighbour, crying aloud as he came near: ' Wait, maiden, for Bacchos your bedfellow!" But the maiden was angry and lifted up a strong voice, speeding wild words at Lyaios:
“Be off! make that speech to some girl who likes lovemaking! If you can draw into marriage the gray-eyed goddess, or Artemis, you shall have hard Nicaia a willing bride; for I am a comrade of both. But if you miss wedlock with Athena, — none ever heard of such a thing, no birth-pangs for her — if you could not charm the wits of the inflexible Archeress, seek not Nicaia's bed. Let me not see you touching my bow, and handling my quiver, or I may bring you also down to follow Hymnos the shepherd. I will wound Dionysos the unwounded!

If steel will not cut your limbs, if the lance will not pierce them, I will do as the highcrested sons of Iphimedeia; I will bind you with galling iron chains, wholly like your brother, and I will keep you too like Ares hidden in a brazen pot, until you fulfil twelve circuits of Selene, and throw away your passion for me to the winds of the air. Touch not my quiver with womanlickerish hands: I keep the bow, you the thyrsus. On the Astacian crags I send my shot here against boars or lions, and share the toils of Artemis; over the rocks of Libanos go yourself and pursue the fawns, on the hunt with Aphrodite. I refuse your bed, even if you have the blood of Zeus in you. If I had a mind to a god for my lord, I would not have Dionysos for bedfellow, softhaired, weaponless, spiritless, shaped like a woman; the bridegroom kept for my bower would be my Lord Strongbow or brazen Ares, the one with his bow, the other with sword as a love-gift. But since I will not accept one of the Blessed, since I have no itch to call even your Cronion ' goodfather, seek another, Bacchos, some new bride not unwilling. Why all this haste? This race is not for you to win; so Latoides once pursued Daphne, so Hephaistos Athena.
Why this haste? this race is vain; for among the rocks, buskins are far better than slippers.”
She finished, and left Bacchos behind. But he ever searched for the mountainranging maid through

the nourishing woods; and coursing beside him in that rapid chase went the dog with sagacious mind, the dog which highhorned Pan, breeder of hounds, offered as a gift to Dionysos, once on a time when he was hunting in the highlands which he loved. To him, the comrade of his ways and his labours, Bacchos lovemaddened spoke gently with kind words, as if he thought the creature had sense and voice:
“Why do you run with Lyaios, wandering hound, when Pan always misses you, and you are worthy of Pan? Why do you alone track the maiden along with tracking Dionysos? Did your trainer teach you to pity love? Still seek our maiden, and let not Bacchos go wandering alone over the mountains, among the rocks. You alone pity me, and like one human, you follow in the hilly spaces on the ridge where the girl wanders. Work hard for your king! I will repay you well for your labours: I will take you into the upper air, and make you a star like Seirios, the star of Maira, near the earlier Dog,” that you also may ripen the clusters, shooting your light to be the grape's Eileithyia. What harm that a third Dog should arise? You also show your light, running a course with the starry Hare as he scampers on. If it is lawful, cast your eyes aside to the ridge of Cybele's forest, and in pity for me reproach the modesthearted girl, that she still flies from my

pursuit, a woman from a god! Reproach both Adonis and Cythereia, and pursue Echo, flitting inconstant over the mountains, that she may not make my nymph yet more a hater of wedlock; do not leave your rough wooer Pan near the girl, or he may catch her and yoke her under an enforced bridal. If you should see the maiden, quickly come, and with knowing silence or meaning barks give the news to Dionysos; you be love's messenger, and let another dog travel in pursuit of boars or lions from the rocks. Friend Pan, I call you most blessed, because even your dogs have become trackers of the loves. And you. Luck, how many shapes you take, how you make playthings of the children of men! Be gracious, all-subduer! First the human race, and now perhaps you possess the canine race also, when this ill-fated wanderer is a servant for Dionysos in love next after Pan. Reproach the maiden, dear trees, and say, ye rocks, Even the dogs have compassion, and there is no pity in the Amazon! ' So there are dogs too with sense, to whom Cronion has given the thoughts of a man, and yet not a human voice."
A tree was near him while he spoke; and through her clustering leaves an ancient Ashtree heard the cry of womanmad Dionysos, and she uttered a mocking voice: “Other masters of hounds, Dionysos, hunt here for the Archeress; but you are huntsman for Aphrodite! Here's a nice fellow to be in fear of a soft-skinned maiden girl! Bacchos the bold, bowing and scraping like a lackey to the loves! lifts in prayer to a weakling girl the hands that butchered the

Indians! Your father does not know how to go awooing with heartbewitching words of love to bring the girl willing to her bridal; he made no prayer to Semele until he won her love; he did not cajole Danae until he stole her maidenhood. You know how he caught Ixion's wife, the bridegroom's whinney and the equine mating. You have heard of love's game of trickery for Antiope, the laughing Satyr, the sham deceitful mate.”
So she mocked the timid mind of Bacchos, and vanished into her coeval tree. But on the hills, Dionysos impatient followed the wild girl with love-mad feet; and the swift-shod Amazon, ever on the move, scoured the topmost heads of difficult mountain-paths, hiding her track from the searcher Lyaios.
But the dry lips of the thirsty girl were parched as Phaethon scourged her skin with his blazing fire, and knowing not the trick of woman-mad Dionysos, she noticed the brown water of the tipplers' river, and drank the sweet liquid, whence the skin-scorched Indians had drunk. With her brain on fire, the girl revelled in her intoxication, and tossed her head to match her double motions; when she turned her eyes to the wide yawning lake, she thought to see two lakes; then as her head grew heavy, she beheld the ridges of the beastfeeding hill double themselves; and with trembling feet, slipping in the dust, she was drawn unconsciously under the wing of Sleep who was not far away. So the bride heavy at knee, was spellbound by her wedding slumber.

Eros espied her sleeping, and pointed her out to Bacchos, pitying Hymnos; Nemesis laughed at the sight. And sly Dionysos with shoes that made no noise crept soundless to his bridal, placing his footsteps with care. He came near the girl: and softly with gentle hand undid the end of the knot which guarded the girdle of innocence, that sleep might not let the maiden go.
" Earth unfolded her teeming fragrance, and brought forth a plot of plants, to do pleasure to Dionysos. Tangled poles of spreading vine lifted a wide covering laden with clusters of grapes, and shaded the bed with its leaves; a selfgrown arbour of vinery embowered the couch with its rich growth, and many a bunch of purple fruit swayed to and fro above it, under the Cyprian's breezes. It screened them both, while in crinkling clumps a lovely sapling of the wine-plant entangled intoxicated the wreaths of ivy which climbed over the growing fruit.
It was a stolen bridal, like bed in a dream with Sleep for helper. The maiden lost her maidenhood, slumbering still; she saw Sleep as marshal of the loves, and as servant of winedeceived nuptials. The breeze, unresting, self-sounding, interwove the hymn of love with caperings, high among the branches of the jubilant forest: and the melody of the mountain bridal, passing on the winds, was answered in modest tones by maiden Echo, Pan's following voice; dancing over the ground the pipes tootled out loudly “ Hymen Hymenaios”; the forest fir resounded, “A blessing on this bridal!”
Then the soul of the herdsman, passing on the winds, started up and taunted the sleeping maiden in dreams of the night:
“A lover also has his avenging spirits, happy bride! If you refused Hymnos as a bridegroom,

Dionysos has made you a bride! You are a crooked judge, you matchmaking maiden bride! you kill the lover, you pursue him that weds not! Maiden, a brazen sleep you gave to your impassioned Hymnos: maiden, a honeyed sleep lost you your maidenhood! The dead herdsman's piteous blood you saw with a laugh; there was worse piteous groaning when you saw the blood of your maidenhood.”
So speaking, away like misty smoke went the soul of the lovesmitten herdsman weeping, and passed beyond pursuit into the courtyard of Tartaros, allcomers' hostel, full of envy for Bacchos and his drinkdeceiving espousals.
Pan also piped a bridal tune on the shrill reeds, hiding secret envy deep in his heart. Pan the master of music; and made a defaming lay for the unnatural union. And one of the lovemad Satyrs in a thicket hard by, staring insatiate upon the wedding, a forbidden sight, declaimed thus, when he saw the bed of Bacchos with his fair maiden:
Horned Pan, still running alone after Aphrodite? When will you too be a bridegroom, for Echo whom you chase? Will you ever bring off a trick like this, to aid and abet you in your nuptials never consummated? Become a gardener too instead of herdsman, my dear Pan; forswear your shepherd's cudgel, leave oxen and sheep among the rocks — what will herdsmen do for you? Wake up! and plant another vine, which provides love's wedding."
Not yet had his words ended, when goatherd Pan cried out:
" I wish my father had taught me the trick of that matchmaking wine! I wish I could be lord of

the mindtripping grape, like Bacchos! Then I should have seen that cruel maiden Echo, asleep and well drunken! then I should have achieved my love, which like a gadfly sends me gadding afar! Farewell to this pasturage! for while I water my sheep here by a neighbouring spring, Dionysos draws intractable nymphs to marriage by means of his tipplers' river! He has invented a medicine for Eros — his plant: away with the goat's milk, away with the milk of my ewes! for that cannot bring sleep to desire, nor a maiden to marriage. I alone, Cythereia, must suffer. Alas for love! Syrinx escaped from Pan's marriage and left him without a bride, and now she cries Euoi to the newly-made marriage of Dionysos with melodies unasked: while Syrinx gives voice, and to crown all. Echo chimes in with her familiar note. O Dionysos, charmer of mortals, shepherd of the bridal intoxication! you alone are happy, because when the nymph denied, you found out wine, love's helper to deck out the marriage!" Such were the words of Pan, in sorrow for his thwarted desire, and in envy and love of Lyaios, the achiever of marriage.
And Dionysos, having achieved his love, and the desires of that wayside bed, rose up with unnoted boot. But the nymph awaking reproached the river spring, indignant against Hypnos and Cypris and Dionysos, bathed in a flood of tears; in her pain, she heard still the remnants of the Naiads' nuptial song; and she saw that bed, herald of the couch of lovesick Lyaios, shadowed over with garden vine-leaves, and piled thick with the bridal fawnskins of Dionysos, which gives its own message of Lyaios's

lovestricken passion, which told the tale of the furtive bed; she saw her own maiden zone wet with the wedding dew. Then she tore her rosy cheeks, and slapt both thighs, and moaned with piercing voice:
" Alas for maidenhead, stolen by the Euian water! alas for maidenhead, stolen by the sleep of love! Alas for maidenhead, stolen by that vagabond Bacchos! A curse on that deceitful water of the Hydriads, a curse on that bed! Hamadryad nymphs, whom shall I blame? for Sleep, Eros, trickery and wine, are the robbers of my maiden state! Artemis has deserted her own maidens. But Echo herself the enemy of the bed — why did not Echo tell me the whole scheme? Why did not Pine whisper in my ear, too low for Bacchos to hear? why did not Daphne the Laurel speak out — Maiden, beware, drink not the deceiving water!
She spoke, and flooded her face with a shower of tears. And now she thought to set a sword in her throat, again she would have cast herself rolling off a cliff, to fall headlong in the dust at last; she thought to destroy the nuptial fountain of which she had drunk, but already the stream had got rid of its Bacchic juice, and bubbled out clear water, no longer the liquid of Lyaios. Then she besought Cronides and Artemis to fill the Naiads' grottoes with dust and thirsty soil. Often she strained her eye over the mountains, if anywhere she might find an unsteady footstep of unseen Dionysos, that she might shoot him with her arrows, a woman shoot a god! that she might vanquish the deity of the grapes; yet more she desired to destroy with blazing fire all that marriage-vine. Often, when she saw tracks of

Bacchos over the mountains, she let off storms of arrows into the air; often she lifted her lance, and cast at a mark, hoping to strike the body of unwounded Dionysos: but in vain she cast, and hit no Lyaios. And she was angry with the river, and swore never to drink the deceitful water of the fountain with thirsty lips; swore to keep her eyes awake through the night, swore not to enjoy sweet sleep again on the mountains. She blamed also the watchdogs, because not even they then attacked the womanmad Lyaios. She sought a remedy in death by the hanging noose, and encircled her neck with a choking throttling loop, to avert the malice of her mocking yearsmates. Unwilling she left the ancient beastbreeding forest, being ashamed after that bed to show herself to the Archeress.
Now lined with the divine dew, the seed of Lyaios, she carried a burden in her womb; and when the time came for her delivery, the lifewarming Horae (seasons) played the midwives to a female child, and confirmed the nine-circled course of Selene. From the marriage of Bromios a god-sent girl grew to flower, whom she named Telete, one ever rejoicing in festivals, a night-dancing girl, who followed Dionysos, taking pleasure in clappers and the bang of the double oxhide. And the god built a city of fine stone beside the tipplers' lake, Nicaia, City of Victory, which he named after the nymph Astacia and for the victory which brought the Indians low.