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Those with the gear enwombed in crates dark orgies ordained—
Orgies that ears profane must vainly lust for o’er hearing—
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Others with palms on high smote hurried strokes on the cymbal,
Or from the polisht brass woke thin-toned tinkling music,
While from the many there boomed and blared hoarse blast of the horn-trump,
And with its horrid skirl loud shrilled the barbarous bag-pipe
Showing such varied forms, that richly-decorated couch-cloth
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Folded in strait embrace the bedding drapery-veiled.
This when the Thessalan youths had eyed with eager inspection
Fulfilled, place they began to provide for venerate Godheads,
Even as Zephyrus’ breath, seas couching placid at dawn-tide,
Roughens, then stings and spurs the wavelets slantingly fretted—
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Rising Aurora the while ’neath Sol the wanderer’s threshold—
Tardy at first they flow by the clement breathing of breezes
Urged, and echo the shores with soft-toned ripples of laughter,
But as the winds wax high so waves wax higher and higher,
Flashing and floating afar to outswim morn’s purpurine splendours,—
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So did the crowd fare forth, the royal vestibule leaving,
And to their house each wight with vaguing paces departed.
After their wending, the first, foremost from Pelion’s summit,