She needs that faith, she needs that consolation,

For now the Car hath measured back its track

Of death, and hath re-entered now its station.

There, in the Temple-court, with song and dance,

A harlot-band, to meet the Maid, advance.

The drum hath ceas’d its peals; the trump and gong

Are still; the frantic crowd forbear their yells;

And sweet it was to hear the voice of song,

And the sweet music of their girdle-bells,

Armlets and anklets, that, with chearful sounds

Symphonious tinkled as they wheel’d around.