And now at once they shout

Arvalan! Arvalan!

With quick rebound of sound,

All in accordant cry,

Arvalan! Arvalan!

The universal multitude reply.

In vain ye thunder on his ear the name!

Would ye awake the dead?

Borne upright in his palankeen,

There Arvalan is seen!

A glow is on his face, . . . a lively red;

’Tis but the crimson canopy

Which o’er his cheek the reddening shade hath shed.

He moves, . . . he nods his head; . . .

But the motion comes from the bearers’ tread,

As the body, borne aloft in state,

Sways with the impulse of its own dead weight.