Then suddenly up shot into the air
From out the gulf a stream of yellow flare;
And then a sulph’rous cloud involved the pit,
In which a thousand infant demons flit,
Most wretched to behold; but joy for them,
And all the spirits who were waiting him—
The dead! Now griev’d Apollo, standing near,
Waved his white rod (but waved it with a tear),
The signal to uplift the ponderous bier
Above the gulf. Below, a sound arose,