But fearing lest the village interpose,
They hide the truth of their commander's death;
And, building a high fence around a booth,
Bury the body's inner parts beneath
A shadowy tree, with solemn funeral rites;
Carving thereover name and date of death.
All that remains they reverently prepare
During twelve mournful days beneath the sun,
Embalming it with salt that purifies.
Last in rude bark of a great tree they bear him
Toward the isle of clove and cinnamon,23
Bulbul and orange, and pomegranate flower;
Carrying their dead Leader to the sea,
Who in glad triumph should have brought them there!
The Caravan.
A solemn, strange, a holy Caravan!
When was the like thereof beheld by man?
Slow journeying from unconjectured lands.
Behold! they bear him in their gentle hands;
His dark youths bear him in the rude grey bark,
