There 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 hand