A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone,
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead,
Under the moaning trees, the home-hoof’s tread
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell,
As chieftains pass’d; and solemnly the swell
Of the deep requiem, o’er the gleaming river
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves’ low shiver,
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,