So he spoke, and the youth was delighted with his words, and proud that he surpassed the beauty of his young agemates by a more brilliant display. And in the mountain coppice if the boy made melody Bacchos listened with pleasure ; no smile was on his face if the boy stayed away. If at his […] board a Satyr beat the drums with his hands and struck out his rattling tune, while the boy was away on stag-hunting quest, Bacchos refused the doubled sound so long as he was not there. If ever he lingered by the flowery stream of Pactolos, that he might bring himself sweeter water for the supper of his king, Bacchos was lashed with trouble so long as the boy stayed away.
If he took up the bold hoboy, the instrument of Libyan Echo, and blew a light breath with swollen cheek, Bacchos thought he heard the Mygdonian flautist whom divine Hyagnis begat, who to his cost challenged Phoibos as he pressed the finger-holes on Athena’s double pipe. He sat with the young man at one table, when the boy spoke he lent delighted ear, when he ceased, melancholy spread over his cheeks. If Ampelos, carried away by wild passion for high capers, twirled with dancing paces and joined hands with a sporting Satyr in the round, stepping across foot over foot, Bacchos looked on shaken with envious feeling. If he ever conversed with the Satyrs, if he joined with a yearsmate hunter to follow chase, Dionysos jealous held him back, lest another be struck like himself with a heart-bewitching shaft, and now enslaved by love should seduce the fickle boy’s fancy and estrange the lovely youth from Lyaios, as a fresh-blooming boy might well charm a comrade of his own age.
When Bacchos lifted his thyrsus against a maddened bear, or cast his stout fennel javelin-like at a lioness, he looked aside watchfully towards the west ; for fear the deathbringing breath of Zephyros might blow again, as it did once before when the bitter blast killed a young man while it turned the hurtling quoit against Hyacinthos. He feared Cronides might suddenly appear over Tmolos as a love-bird on amorous wing unapproachable, carrying off the boy with harmless talons into the air, as once he did the Trojan boy to serve his cups. He feared also the lovestricken ruler of the sea, that as once he took up Tantalides in his golden car, so now he might drive a winged wagon coursing through the air and ravish Ampelos—the Earthshaker mad with love !
He had a sweet dream on his dream-breeding bed, beheld the shadowy phantom of a counterfeit shape and whispered loving words to the mocking vision of the boy. If his passionate gaze saw any blemish this appeared lovely to lovesick Dionysos, even more dear than the whole young body if the end of the tail which grew on him hung slack by his loins, this was sweeter than honey to Bacchos. Matted hair on an unkempt head even so gave more pleasure to his impassioned gaze. By day he was charmed to be with him; when night came he was troubled to part from him, when he no longer heard the familiar voice enchanting his ears, as he slept in the grotto of Rheia mother of mighty sons,
A Satyr saw the boy, and enchanted with his divine beauty he whispered, concealing his words— Hyacinthos on the head (either accident or because the east-wind blew it awry) and,
Allfriendly Persuasion, manager of the human heart! Grant only that this lovely boy be gracious to me. If I can have him to play with me like Bacchos, I wish not to be translated into the sky, I would not be a god—not Phaethon the light of mankind, covet not the nectar, I want no ambrosia! I care nothing, if Ampelos loves me, even if Cronion hates me
So much he said to himself in envious tone, hugging the […] in his heart, […] with the magic potion […] adoration. But Euios himself, pierced by the sting of the young man’s sweetness, smiled as he cried out to Cronides his father, another unhappy lover:
Grant one grace to me the lover, O Phrygian Zeus ! When I was a little one, Rheia who still my nurse told me that you gave lightning to Zagreus, the first Dionysos, before he could speak plain—gave him your fiery lance and rattling thunder and showers of rain out of the sky, and he was another Rainy Zeus while yet a babbling baby ! But I do not ask the heavenly fire of your lightning, nor the cloud, nor the thunderclap. If it please you, give fiery Hephaistos the spark of your thunderbolt ; let Ares have a […] of your clouds to cover his chest with: give the pouring rain-shower of Zeus as largess to Hermaon ; let Apollo, if you will, wield his father’s lightning. My ambition is not so high, dear father! I am spring-heel Dionysos! A fine thing it would be for me to wield Semele’s minikin lightning! The sparks of thunderbolt that killed my mother are no pleasure to me. Maionia is dwelling-place ; what is the sky to Dionysos ? My Satyr’s beauty is dearer to me than Olympos. Tell me, father, do not hide it, swear by your own young friend —when you were an Eagle, when you picked up the boy on the slopes of Teucrian with greedy gentle claw, and brought him to heaven, had the clown such beauty as this, when you made him one of the heavenly table still smelling of the byre ? Forgive me, Father Longwing! Don’t talk to me of your Trojan winepourer, the servant of your lovely Ampelos outshines Ganymedes, he has a […] in his countenance more radiant—the Tmolian beats the Idaian! There are plenty more beautiful lads in troops—court them all if you like, and leave one to Lyaios !
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