O'er high deep seas in speedy ship his voyage Atys spedUntil he trod the Phrygian grove with hurried eager treadAnd as the gloomy tree-shorn stead, the she-god's home, he soughtThere sorely stung with fiery ire and madman's vaguing thought,Share he with sharpened flint the freight wherewith his form was fraught.Then as the she-he sensed limbs were void of manly strainAnd sighted freshly shed a-ground spot of ensanguined stain,Snatched she the timbrel's legier load with hands as snowdrops white,Thy timbrel, Mother Cybele, the firstings of thy rite,And as her tender finger-tips on bull-back hollow rangShe rose a-grieving and her song to listening comrades sang."Up Gallae, hie together, haste for Cybele's deep grove,Hie to the Dindymnean dame, ye flocks that love to rove;The which affecting stranger steads as bound in exile's bruntMy sect pursuing led by me have nerved you to confrontThe raging surge of salty sea and ocean's tyrant handAs your hate of Venus' hest your manly forms unmann'd,Gladden your souls, ye mistresses, with sense of error bann'd.Drive from your spirits dull delay, together follow yeTo hold of Phrygian goddess, home of Phrygian Cybebe,