Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle,
A strange deep echo shudder’d through the pile,
Till crested heads at last in silence bent
Round the De Coucis’ antique monument,
When dust to dust was given:—and Aymer slept
Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broider’d folds the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft o’er fields of Palestine.
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave