when thrown on shore,
is changed into a stone, and the Bacchanals who have killed him are
transformed into trees.

While with songs such as these, the Thracian poet is leading the woods
and the natures of savage beasts, and the following rocks, lo! the
matrons of the Ciconians, having their raving breasts covered with the
skins of wild beasts, from the summit of a hill, espy Orpheus adapting
his voice to the sounded strings {of his harp}. One of these, tossing
her hair along the light breeze, says, "See! see! here is our
contemner!" and hurls her spear at the melodious mouth of the bard of
Apollo: {but}, being wreathed at the end with leaves, it makes a mark
without any wound. The weapon of another is a stone, which, when thrown,
is overpowered in the very air by the harmony of his voice and his lyre,
and lies before his feet, a suppliant, as it were, for an attempt so
daring.

But still this rash warfare increases, and {all} moderation departs, and
direful fury reigns {triumphant}. And {yet} all their weapons would have
been conquered by his music; but the vast clamour, and the Berecynthian
pipe[1] with the blown horns, and the tambourines, and the clapping of
hands, and Bacchanalian yells, prevented the sound of the lyre from
being heard. Then, at last, the stones became red with the blood of the
bard, {now} no longer heard. But first the Maenades lay hands on
innumerable birds, even yet charmed with his voice as he sang, and
serpents, and a throng of wild beasts, the glory of {this} audience of
Orpheus; and after that, they turn upon Orpheus with blood-stained right
hands; and they flock together, as the birds, if at any time they see
the bird of night strolling about by day; {and} as when the stag that is
doomed to die[2] in the morning sand in the raised amphitheatre is a
prey to the dogs; they both attack the bard, and hurl the thyrsi,
covered with green leaves, not made for such purposes as these. Some
throw clods, some branches torn from trees, others flint stones. And
that weapons may not be wanting for their fury, by chance some oxen are
turning up the earth with the depressed ploughshare; and not far from
thence, some strong-armed peasants, providing the harvest with plenteous
sweat, are digging the hard fields; they, seeing this {frantic} troop,
run away, and leave the implements of their labour; and there lie,
dispersed throughout the deserted fields, harrows and heavy rakes, and
long spades.

After