” Quickly they seized and dragged Acoetes forth, and cast him in a dungeon triple-strong. And while they fixed the instruments of death, kindled the fires, and wrought the cruel irons, the legend says, though no one aided him, the chains were loosened and slipped off his arms; the doors flew open of their own accord.
[701] But Pentheus, long-persisting in his rage, not caring to command his men to go, himself went forth to Mount Cithaeron, where resound with singing and with shrilly note the votaries of Bacchus at their rites. As when with sounding brass the trumpeter alarms of war, the mettled charger neighs and scents the battle; so the clamored skies resounding with the dreadful outcries fret the wrath of Pentheus and his rage enflame.
[708] About the middle of the mount (with groves around its margin) was a treeless plain, where nothing might conceal. Here as he stood to view the sacred rites with impious eyes, his mother saw him first. She was so wrought with frenzy that she failed to know her son, and cast her thyrsus that it wounded him; and shouted, “Hi! come hither, Ho! Come hither my two sisters! a great boar hath strayed into our fields; come! see me strike and wound him!” As he fled from them in fright the raging multitude rushed after him; and, as they gathered round; in cowardice he cried for mercy and condemned himself, confessing he had sinned against a God. And as they wounded him he called his aunt; “Autonoe have mercy! Let the shade of sad Actaeon move thee to relent!” No pity moved her when she heard that name; in a wild frenzy she forgot her son. While Pentheus was imploring her, she tore his right arm out; her sister Ino wrenched the other from his trunk. He could not stretch his arms out to his mother, but he cried, “Behold me, mother!” When Agave saw, his bleeding limbs, torn, scattered on the ground, she howled, and tossed her head, and shook her hair that streamed upon the breeze; and when his head was wrenched out from his mangled corpse, she clutched it with her blood-smeared fingers, while she shouted, “Ho! companions! victory! The victory is ours!” So when the wind strips from a lofty tree its leaves, which touched by autumn's cold are loosely held, they fall not quicker than the wretch's bleeding limbs were torn asunder by their cursed hands. Now, frightened by this terrible event, the women of Ismenus celebrate the new Bacchantian rites; and they revere the sacred altars, heaped with frankincense.
النتائج (
العربية) 1:
[نسخ]نسخ!
"بسرعة أنها ضبطت وجر أكويتيس المنصوص عليها، ويلقي به في زنزانة ثلاثية-قوية. وفي حين أنها ثابتة أدوات الموت وأوقدت النيران والمطاوع الحديد القاسية، تقول الأسطورة، على الرغم من أن لا أحد بمساعدة له، السلاسل قد خففت وانزلقت قبالة ذراعيه؛ طارت الأبواب المفتوحة من تلقاء.[701] "ولكن بينثيوس"، المستمرة منذ فترة طويلة في بلده الغضب، لا رعاية لأمر رجاله بالذهاب، نفسه خرج إلى جبل ستيرن، حيث [رسوند] مع الغناء، ومع ملاحظة شريلي الأنصار باخوس في طقوسها. كما عند مع النحاس السبر البوق إنذار من الحرب، نيس شاحن ميتليد والروائح في المعركة؛ حيث تآكل سماء كلاموريد يدوي مع الصيحات المروعة غضب بينثيوس وله الحكمة الغضب.[708] About the middle of the mount (with groves around its margin) was a treeless plain, where nothing might conceal. Here as he stood to view the sacred rites with impious eyes, his mother saw him first. She was so wrought with frenzy that she failed to know her son, and cast her thyrsus that it wounded him; and shouted, “Hi! come hither, Ho! Come hither my two sisters! a great boar hath strayed into our fields; come! see me strike and wound him!” As he fled from them in fright the raging multitude rushed after him; and, as they gathered round; in cowardice he cried for mercy and condemned himself, confessing he had sinned against a God. And as they wounded him he called his aunt; “Autonoe have mercy! Let the shade of sad Actaeon move thee to relent!” No pity moved her when she heard that name; in a wild frenzy she forgot her son. While Pentheus was imploring her, she tore his right arm out; her sister Ino wrenched the other from his trunk. He could not stretch his arms out to his mother, but he cried, “Behold me, mother!” When Agave saw, his bleeding limbs, torn, scattered on the ground, she howled, and tossed her head, and shook her hair that streamed upon the breeze; and when his head was wrenched out from his mangled corpse, she clutched it with her blood-smeared fingers, while she shouted, “Ho! companions! victory! The victory is ours!” So when the wind strips from a lofty tree its leaves, which touched by autumn's cold are loosely held, they fall not quicker than the wretch's bleeding limbs were torn asunder by their cursed hands. Now, frightened by this terrible event, the women of Ismenus celebrate the new Bacchantian rites; and they revere the sacred altars, heaped with frankincense.
يجري ترجمتها، يرجى الانتظار ..
