6. 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, {6} And swells the woven gold, That on the agitated air Trembles, and glitters to the torches' glare. 7. A man and maid of aspect wan and wild, Then, side by side, by bowmen guarded, came. O wretched father! O unhappy child! Them were all eyes of all the throng exploring; . . . Is this the daring man Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan? Is this the wretch condemned to feel Kehama's dreadful wrath? Them were all hearts of all the throng deploring, For not in that innumerable throng Was one who lov'd the dead; for who could know What aggravated wrong Provok'd the desperate blow! Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight, In ordered files the torches flow along, One ever-lengthening line of gliding light: Far . . . far behind, Rolls on the undistinguishable clamour, Of horn, and trump, and tambour; {7} Incessant at the roar Of streams which down the wintry mountain pour, And louder than the dread commotion Of stormy billows on a rocky shore, When the winds rage over the wares, And Ocean to the Tempest raves. 8. 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, {8} And with a last and loudest cry They call on Arvalan.