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With a robe of ermine for its bed, Was laid that form of clay, Where the light a stormy sunset shed, Thro' the rich tent made way: And a sad and solemn beauty On the pallid face came down, Which the Lord of nations mutely watch’d, In the dust, with his renown.

Low tones at last of wo and fear From his full bosom broke;— A mournful thing it was to hear How then the proud man spoke! The voice that thro' the combat Had shouted far and high, Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, Burden'd with agony.