But, four by four the mighty throng
In slow procession streams along.
Ah! Aliatar! well he knew
The soldiers of his army true,
The soldiers whose afflicted strain
Gives utterance to their bosom's pain.
Sadly we march along the crowded street,
While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat.
The phoenix that would shine in gold
On the high banner's fluttering fold,