Then thrice around the kindled piles they go;
(For ancient custom had ordained it so;)
Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led;
And thrice, with loud laments, they hail the dead.
Tears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground,
And drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound.
Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw
The spoils, in battle taken from the foe—
Helms, bitts embossed, and swords of shining steel;
One casts a target, one a chariot-wheel;