Look down the river—against the western sky—
The Ponte Santa Trinità—what throng
Slowly trails o’er with waving banners high,
With foot and horse! Surely they bear along
The spoil of one whom Florence honoureth:
And hark! the drum, the trumpeting dismay,
The wail of the triumphal march of death.
RICHARD
’Twill be the funeral of Giovánn Duprè
Wending to Santa Croce. Let us go