Of glory, dim-descried;
His glance would quell all passion-storm,
All doubt, and fear, and pride.

But lo! his eyes far-fixed burn
Adown the widening vale;
The looks of all obedient turn,
And soon those looks are pale.

For, through the shining multitude,
With feeble step and slow,
A weary man, in garments rude,
All falteringly did go.

His face was white, and still-composed,
Like one that had been dead;
The eyes, from eyelids half unclosed,
A faint, wan splendour shed.

And to his brow a strange wreath clung,
And drops of crimson hue;
And his rough hands, oh, sadly wrung!
Were pierced through and through.

And not a look he turned aside;
His eyes were forward bent;
And slow the eyelids opened wide,
As towards the throne he went.

At length he reached the mighty throne,