He said, and busy each his care bestow’d;
Already at the gates the bullock low’d,
Already came the Ithacensian crew,
The dexterous smith the tools already drew;
His ponderous hammer and his anvil sound,
And the strong tongs to turn the metal round. 
Nor was Minerva absent from the rite,
She view’d her honours, and enjoyed the sight,
With reverend hand the king presents the gold,
Which round the intorted horns the gilder roll’d. 
So wrought as Pallas might with pride behold. 
Young Aretus from forth his bride bower
Brought the full laver, o’er their hands to pour,
And canisters of consecrated flour. 
Stratius and Echephron the victim led;
The axe was held by warlike Thrasymed,
In act to strike; before him Perseus stood,
The vase extending to receive the blood. 
The king himself initiates to the power: 
Scatters with quivering hand the sacred flour,
And the stream sprinkles; from the curling brows
The hair collected in the fire he throws. 
Soon as due vows on every part were paid,
And sacred wheat upon the victim laid,
Strong Thrasymed discharged the speeding blow
Full on his neck, and cut the nerves in two. 
Down sunk the heavy beast; the females round
Maids, wives, and matrons, mix a shrilling sound. 
Nor scorned the queen the holy choir to join
(The first born she, of old Clymenus’ line: 
In youth by Nestor loved, of spotless fame. 
And loved in age, Eurydice her name). 
From earth they rear him, struggling now with death;
And Nestor’s youngest stops the vents of breath. 
The soul for ever flies; on all sides round
Streams the black blood, and smokes upon the ground
The beast they then divide and disunite
The ribs and limbs, observant of the rite: 
On these, in double cauls involved with art,
The choicest morsels lay from every part. 
The sacred sage before his altar stands,
Turns the burnt offering with his holy hands,
And pours the wine, and bids the flames aspire;
The youth with instruments surround the fire. 
The thighs now sacrificed, and entrails dress’d,
The assistants part, transfix, and broil the rest
While these officious tend the rites divine,
The last fair branch of the Nestorean line,
Sweet Polycaste, took the pleasing toil
To bathe the prince, and pour the fragrant oil. 
O’er his fair limbs a flowery vest he throw,
And issued, like a god, to mortal view. 
His former seat beside the king he found
(His people’s father with his peers around);
All placed at ease the holy banquet join,
And in the dazzling goblet laughs the wine.