Cybele pursues across the plain
Attys, beautiful as Apollo.
Eros has smitten her to the heart, and for him,
O Totoi! but not him for her,
Instead of love, cruel god, wicked Eros,
Thou counsellest but hatred . . .
Across the meads, the vast distant plains,
Cybele chases Attys;
And because she adores the scorned,
She infuses into his veins
The great cold breath, the breath of death.
O dolorous, sweet Desire!
“Eros!
Eros!”
Shrill wailings poured from the flutes.
III
The Goat-foot pursues to the river
Syrinx, the daughter of the fountain;
Pale Eros, that loves the taste of tears,
Kissed her as she ran, cheek to cheek;
And the frail shadow of the drowned maiden
Shivers, reeds, upon the waters.
But Eros kings it over the world and the gods.
He kings it over death itself.
On the watery tomb he gathered for us
All the reeds, and with them made the flute,
’Tis a dead soul that weeps here, women,
Dolorous, sweet Desire.
Whilst the flute prolonged the slow chant of the last line, the singer held out her hand to the passers-by standing around her in a circle, and collected four obols, which she slipped into her shoe.
Groups formed in places, and women wandered amongst them