By priestly hand were lavishly out-poured
Upon the shroud of him whom all deplored.
Around the pyre, with measured step and slow,
His comrades, arms reversed, must three times go
Unto the left, anear the funeral bed,
That evil spirits might not reach the dead.
Thrice round they went, their object to attain,
All chanting as they marched, a solemn strain.
At signal given by trumpets’ ringing sound,
Hushed was the wailing of the crowd around.