To be uplifted, and then gently swung
O’er the abyss! Hark to the obit’s song!
As on the sad procession wend their way,
In funeral paces, at the wane of day:
The sound increases as they, slower still—
Far on the plain, come o’er a gradual hill,
On which an arch built up with lovely pines—
Entwined with olives and selected vines—
Bore on its top a crimson flame, which ’rose
To light the cortége as it onward goes;