It was not sleep that bound my sight
Upon that well re­mem­bered night;
It was not fan­cy’s fit­ful pow­er
Beguiled me in that so­lemn hour.
But o’er the vi­sion of my soul
The mys­tic fu­ture seemed to roll;
And in the deep, pro­phet­ic trance,
Revealed its trea­sures to my glance.

Before my won­der­ing eyes there stood
A vast, a count­less mul­ti­tude;
The hoa­ry sire, the prat­tling child,
The mo­ther, and the maid­en mild,
The glad­some youth, and man of care—
All tribes, all ag­es, min­gled there;
And all, wher­e’er I turned to see,
In hum­ble si­lence bent the knee.

Still o’er the crowd­ed scene I gazed;
Against the lur­id east­ern sky
I saw the shame­ful cross up­raised,
I saw the Suf­fer­er doomed to die.
’Twas He whom late with sor­row­ing mien,
In Zi­on’s streets I oft had seen;
And now in blood and ago­ny,
He turned a dy­ing look to me.

Then soft­ly from that ga­ther­ing throng
Arose the sound of so­lemn song;
And while I caught the swell­ing lay,
The my­ri­ad voices seemed to say—
And we be­lieve in Him that died,
By Pon­ti­us Pilate cru­ci­fied—
That He shall come, when time is fled,
To judge the liv­ing and the dead.

I woke; thou wast not by my side,
I heard a loud ex­ult­ing cry;
I heard the scorn­ful priests de­ride,
The eld­ers mur­mur, Cru­ci­fy!
O Pi­late! hadst thou marked my pray­er,
That guilt­less blood to shield and spare,
That deed of hor­ror would not be
A stain to thine—a curse to thee!

Our scenes of ear­ly love are past;
Our youth­ful spring is wi­thered all;
Afar from Rome our lot is cast,
Beneath the sun­ny skies of Gaul;
The thoughts that me­mo­ry trea­sures yet
Of oth­er days, be­gin to flee;
But ne­ver shall my heart for­get
The Cru­ci­fied of Ga­li­lee!