It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad. The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day!
The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowds and cries. Had I said, "Good folks, mere noise repels— But give me your sun from yonder skies!" They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"
Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun, To give it my loving friends to keep. Nought man could do have I left undone, And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run.
There's nobody on the house-tops now— Just a palsied few at the windows set— For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles' Gate—or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.
I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind, And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.
Thus I entered Brescia, and thus I go! In such triumphs, people have dropped down dead. "Thou, paid by the World,—what dost thou owe Me?" God might have questioned; but now instead 'Tis God shall requite! I am safer so.