And now toward the bank they go,

Where, winding on their way below,

Deep and strong the waters flow.

Here doth the funeral pile appear

With myrrh and ambergris bestrew’d,

And built of precious sandal wood.

They cease their music and their outcry here;

Gently they rest the bier:

They wet the face of Arvalan,

No sign of life the sprinkled drops excite.

They feel his breast, . . . no motion there;

They feel his lips, . . . no breath;

For not with feeble, nor with erring hand,

The stern avenger dealt the blow of death.

Then with a doubling peal and deeper blast,

The tambours and the trumpets sound on high,

And with a last and loudest cry

They call on Arvalan.