Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray
In a chapel where the mighty lay,
On the old Provençal shore.
Many a Chatillon beneath,
Unstirr’d by the ringing trumpet’s breath,
His shroud of armour wore;
And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came
Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame,
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale
Of stern forms couch’d in their marble mail,