Metamorphoses (Books I-XIV)
The Death of Pentheus
3:844 But Pentheus, grown more furious than before,
3:845 Resolv'd to send his messengers
no more,
3:846 But went himself to the distracted
throng,
3:847 Where high Cithaeron echo'd with
their song.
3:848 And as the fiery war-horse paws
the ground,
3:849 And snorts and trembles at the
trumpet's sound;
3:850 Transported thus he heard the
frantick rout,
3:851 And rav'd and madden'd at the
distant shout.
3:852 A spacious circuit on the hill there stood.
3:853 Level and wide, and skirted round
with wood;
3:854 Here the rash Pentheus, with
unhallow'd eyes,
3:855 The howling dames and mystick
Orgies spies.
3:856 His mother sternly view'd him
where he stood,
3:857 And kindled into madness as she
view'd:
3:858 Her leafy jav'lin at her son
she cast,
3:859 And cries, "The boar that
lays our country waste!
3:860 The boar, my sisters! Aim the
fatal dart,
3:861 And strike the brindled monster
to the heart."
3:862 Pentheus astonish'd heard the dismal sound,
3:863 And sees the yelling matrons
gath'ring round;
3:864 He sees, and weeps at his approaching
fate,
3:865 And begs for mercy, and repents
too late.
3:866 "Help, help! my aunt Autonoe,"
he cry'd;
3:867 "Remember, how your own
Actaeon dy'd."
3:868 Deaf to his cries, the frantick
matron crops
3:869 One stretch'd-out arm, the other
Ino lops.
3:870 In vain does Pentheus to his
mother sue,
3:871 And the raw bleeding stumps presents
to view:
3:872 His mother howl'd; and, heedless
of his pray'r,
3:873 Her trembling hand she twisted
in his hair,
3:874 "And this," she cry'd,
"shall be Agave's share,"
3:875 When from the neck his struggling
head she tore,
3:876 And in her hands the ghastly
visage bore.
3:877 With pleasure all the hideous
trunk survey;
3:878 Then pull'd and tore the mangled
limbs away,
3:879 As starting in the pangs of death
it lay,
3:880 Soon as the wood its leafy honours
casts,
3:881 Blown off and scatter'd by autumnal
blasts,
3:882 With such a sudden death lay
Pentheus slain,
3:883 And in a thousand pieces strow'd
the plain.
3:884 By so distinguishing a judgment aw'd,
3:885 The Thebans tremble, and confess
the God.
BOOK THE FOURTH
Metamorphoses (Books I-XIV)
The Death of Pentheus
3:844 But Pentheus, grown more furious than before,
3:845 Resolv'd to send his messengers
no more,
3:846 But went himself to the distracted
throng,
3:847 Where high Cithaeron echo'd with
their song.
3:848 And as the fiery war-horse paws
the ground,
3:849 And snorts and trembles at the
trumpet's sound;
3:850 Transported thus he heard the
frantick rout,
3:851 And rav'd and madden'd at the
distant shout.
3:852 A spacious circuit on the hill there stood.
3:853 Level and wide, and skirted round
with wood;
3:854 Here the rash Pentheus, with
unhallow'd eyes,
3:855 The howling dames and mystick
Orgies spies.
3:856 His mother sternly view'd him
where he stood,
3:857 And kindled into madness as she
view'd:
3:858 Her leafy jav'lin at her son
she cast,
3:859 And cries, "The boar that
lays our country waste!
3:860 The boar, my sisters! Aim the
fatal dart,
3:861 And strike the brindled monster
to the heart."
3:862 Pentheus astonish'd heard the dismal sound,
3:863 And sees the yelling matrons
gath'ring round;
3:864 He sees, and weeps at his approaching
fate,
3:865 And begs for mercy, and repents
too late.
3:866 "Help, help! my aunt Autonoe,"
he cry'd;
3:867 "Remember, how your own
Actaeon dy'd."
3:868 Deaf to his cries, the frantick
matron crops
3:869 One stretch'd-out arm, the other
Ino lops.
3:870 In vain does Pentheus to his
mother sue,
3:871 And the raw bleeding stumps presents
to view:
3:872 His mother howl'd; and, heedless
of his pray'r,
3:873 Her trembling hand she twisted
in his hair,
3:874 "And this," she cry'd,
"shall be Agave's share,"
3:875 When from the neck his struggling
head she tore,
3:876 And in her hands the ghastly
visage bore.
3:877 With pleasure all the hideous
trunk survey;
3:878 Then pull'd and tore the mangled
limbs away,
3:879 As starting in the pangs of death
it lay,
3:880 Soon as the wood its leafy honours
casts,
3:881 Blown off and scatter'd by autumnal
blasts,
3:882 With such a sudden death lay
Pentheus slain,
3:883 And in a thousand pieces strow'd
the plain.
3:884 By so distinguishing a judgment aw'd,
3:885 The Thebans tremble, and confess
the God.
BOOK THE FOURTH