CATULLUS. ATYS. Arys o'er the distant waters, driving in his rapid bark, Soon with foot of wild impatience touch'd the Phry gian forest dark, Where amid the awful shades possessed by mighty Cybele, In his zealous frenzy blind, And wand'ring in his hapless mind, With flinty knife he gave to earth the weights that stamp virility. Then as the widowed being saw it's wretched limbs bereft of man, And the unaccustom'd blood that on the ground polluting ran, With snowy hand it snatch'd in haste the timbrel's airy round on high, That opens with the trumpet's blast, thy rites, Maternal Mystery ; And upon it's whirling fingers, while the hollow parchment rung, Thus in outcry tremulous to it's wild companions Now come along, come along with me, Worshippers of Cybele, To the lofty groves of the deity! Ye vagabond herds that bear the name Of the Dindymenian dame! Who seeking strange lands, like the banished of home, With Atys, with Atys distractedly roam; Who your limbs have unmann'd in a desperate hour With a frantic disdain of the Cyprian pow'r; Who have carried my sect through the dreadful salt sea, Rouse, rouse your wild spirits careeringly! No delay, no delay, But together away, And follow me up to the Dame all-compelling, To her high Phrygian groves and her dark Phrygian dwelling, Where the cymbals they clash, and the drums they resound, And the Phrygian's curv'd pipe pours it's moanings around, |