Trampling the slant winds on high
  With golden-sandalled feet, that glow
  Under plumes of purple dye,
  Like rose-ensanguined ivory,
  A Shape comes now,
  Stretching on high from his right hand
  A serpent-cinctured wand.

PANTHEA
  'T is Jove's world-wandering herald, Mercury.

IONE
  And who are those with hydra tresses
  And iron wings, that climb the wind,
  Whom the frowning God represses,--
  Like vapors steaming up behind,
  Clanging loud, an endless crowd?

PANTHEA
  These are Jove's tempest-walking hounds,
  Whom he gluts with groans and blood,
  When charioted on sulphurous cloud
  He bursts Heaven's bounds.