The Commander: Three dead Kings! Events most strange!
The laws of custom broken, human weakness surmounted, the obstacle of circumstances
Dissipated. And our effort, reaching a vain conclusion,
Undoes itself like a fold.
Place the queen on a shield, clad in her royal robes. We will bear her with us.
We must descend. The West, behind the shaggy boughs of sombre pines,
Grows pale, and Memnon cries in the mist!
Thus a hundred times before us
Hyperion will disappear in the clouds
Before our rear-most legion will see its flaming buckler sink in the blackness of the sea.