O sight of grief! the wives of Arvalan,

Young Azla, young Nealliny, are seen!

Their widow-robes of white,

With gold and jewels bright,

Each like an Eastern queen.

Woe! woe! around their palankeen,

As on a bridal day,

With symphony, and dance, and song,

Their kindred and their friends come on, . . .

The dance of sacrifice! the funeral song!

And next the victim slaves in long array,

Richly bedight to grace the fatal day,

Move onward to their death;

The clarions’ stirring breath

Lifts their thin robes in every flowing fold,