Those with the gear enwombed in crates dark orgies ordained—Orgies that ears profane must vainly lust for o'er hearing—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-pipeShowing such varied forms, that richly-decorated couch-clothFolded in strait embrace the bedding drapery-veiled.This when the Thessalan youths had eyed with eager inspectionFulfilled, 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—Rising Aurora the while 'neath Sol the wanderer's threshold—Tardy at first they flow by the clement breathing of breezesUrged, 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,—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,