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But now her dragon yoke hath reached the gate
Of that rock-temple, where in awful state
Sits Ida's Goddess: o'er the gloomy shrine
Depend the branches of a shadowing pine,
Mid which—tho' storms are hush'd—the trembling cones
Give forth the music of mysterious moans.
Within, fanatic dances, and the sound
Of wildest concert, pierce the halls around;
O'er Ida's heights the maddening influence swells,
And Gargar's forests shudder at the yells.
As Ceres comes, the cymbal's roar is stay'd,
No arm impels the Corybantine blade;
No restless hands the pipe or timbrel vex;
The lions gently bow their brindled necks;
And glad Cybelle from her seat springs down,
And stoops—a kiss to meet—her towery crown.
This Jove had witness'd from his lofty throne,
And thus to Venus made his counsels known.
"Cythera's Goddess, I reveal to thee
The secret of my cares, the firm decree,
That Proserpine shall wed th' infernal King:
So Fate ordain'd it—so was wont to sing
Primeval Themis; time conspires, and now,
(Her mother absent from her charge) do thou
