Such was Phrygia then when the gods allowed it to be ravaged by Getic brigands. The barbarian burst in upon those cities so peaceful, so easy of capture. There was no hope of safety, no chance of escape. Long and peaceful ages had made the crumbling stones of their battlements to fall.
Meanwhile Cybele was seated amid the hallowed rocks of cold Ida, watching, as is her wont, the dance, and inciting the joyous Curetes to brandish their swords at the sound of the drum, when, lo, the golden-turreted crown, the eternal glory of her blessèd hair, fell from off her head and, rolling from her brow, the castellated diadem is profaned in the dust. The Corybantes stopped in amazement at this omen; general alarm checked their orgies and silenced their pipes. The mother of the gods wept; then spake thus in sorrow.
“Hoc mihi iam pridem Lachesis grandaeva canebat
augurium: Phrygiae casus venisse supremos
delapsus testatur apex, heu sanguine qualis 290
ibit Sangarius quantasque cadavera lenti
Maeandri passura moras! inmobilis haeret
terminus, haec dudum nato placuere Tonanti.
par et finitimis luctus, frustraque Lyaei