On his path the flowers bloomed and the birds sang, to show their joy at his coming. […] “Patriots who perished for their country’s rights Or nobly triumphed in the fields of fight: There holy priest and sacred poets stood, Who sang with all the raptures of a god: Worthies whose lives by useful arts refined; With those who leave a deathless name behind, Friends of the world, and fathers of mankind.” […] Bacchus’ train was very large indeed, and composed of men and women, nymphs, fauns, and satyrs, all crowned with ivy leaves, who drank wine, — a drink compounded for their express use out of water and sunshine, — ate grapes, danced and sang, and loudly proclaimed him their chosen leader. […] The maidens sang merry lays as they wound their long garlands; and the joyous song of Proserpina, mingled with ripples of silvery laughter, attracted the attention of Pluto, who happened to be driving past in his dark chariot drawn by four fiery coal-black steeds. […] Long ere this he had tried to persuade one after another of the goddesses to share his gloomy throne; but one and all had refused the honour, and declined to accompany him to a land where the sun never shone, the birds never sang, and the flowers never bloomed.