Have mercy, Mother! Let it not befall Through sin of mine, that thou shouldst slay thy son!" But she, with lips a-foam and eyes that run Like leaping fire, with thoughts that ne'er should be On earth, possessed by Bacchios utterly, Stays not nor hears. Round his left arm she put Both hands, set hard against his side her foot, Drew ... and the shoulder severed!--not by might Of arm, but easily, as the God made light Her hand's essay. And at the other side Was Ino rending; and the torn flesh cried, And on Autonoë pressed, and all the crowd Of ravening arms. 'Yea, all the air was loud With groans that faded into sobbing breath, Dim shrieks, and joy, and triumph-cries of death. And here was borne a severed arm, and there A hunter's booted foot; white bones lay bare With rending; and swift hands ensanguinèd Tossed as in sport the flesh of Pentheus dead. His body lies afar. The precipice Hath part, and parts in many an interstice Lurk of the tangled woodland--no light quest To find. And, ah, the head! Of all the rest, His mother hath it, pierced upon a wand, As one might pierce a lion's, and through the land, Leaving her sisters in their dancing place, Bears it on high! Yea, to these walls her face Was set, exulting in her deed of blood, Calling upon her Bromios, her God, Her Comrade, Fellow-Render of the Prey, Her All-Victorious, to whom this day She bears in triumph ... her own broken heart. For me, after that sight, I will depart Before Agave comes.--Oh, to fulfil God's laws, and have no thought beyond His will, Is man's best treasure. Aye, and wisdom true, Methinks, for things of dust to cleave unto! [_The_ MESSENGER _departs into the Castle_.] CHORUS _Some Maidens_ Weave ye the dance, and call Praise to God! Bless ye the Tyrant's fall! Down is trod Pentheus, the Dragon's Seed! Wore he the woman's weed? Clasped he his death indeed, Clasped the rod? _A Bacchanal_ Yea, the wild ivy lapt him, and the doomed Wild Bull of Sacrifice before him loomed! _Others_ Ye who did Bromios scorn, Praise Him the more, Bacchanals, Cadmus-born; Praise with sore Agony, yea, with tears! Great are the gifts he bears! Hands that a mother rears Red with gore! LEADER But stay, Agâvê cometh! And her eyes Make fire around her, reeling! Ho, the prize Cometh! All hail, O Rout of Dionyse! [_Enter from the Mountain_ AGAVE, _mad, and to all seeming wondrously happy, bearing the head of_ PENTHEUS _in her hand. The_ CHORUS MAIDENS _stand horror-struck at the sight; the_ LEADER, _also horror-struck, strives to accept it and rejoice in it as the God's deed_.] AGAVE Ye from the lands of Morn! LEADER Call me not; I give praise!