The Patriot

AN OLD STORY. I.     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. II.     The air broke into a mist with bells,     The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.     Had I said, Good folk, mere noise repels     But give me your sun from yonder skies!     They had answered, And afterward, what else? III.     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. IV.     Theres 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 scaffolds foot, I trow. V.     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 years misdeeds. VI.     Thus I entered Brescia, and thus I go!     In such triumphs, people have dropped down dead.     Paid by the World, what dost thou owe     Me? God might question: but now instead,     Tis God shall requite! I am safer so.