Betrayed the grief they felt. The flowers fair
In well-kept beds, the burden seemed to share
Of nation’s woe; all drooped their dainty heads,
Entreating those sweet tears that heaven sheds.
With Priestess Nicté, Móo was near the pyre,
To light the cedar logs with sacred fire.
Piled high were these, with odorous plants between;
And many lovely garlands too were seen.
The priests in flowing robes were stationed round:
By solemn rite the rank of each was bound.