Oh, how I struggled to be brave when the Pope's legate, grey and grim,
Said simply this beside the grave: "Christ died for you. You died for Him."
Only his jester seemed to care, and ceased awhile to swear and daff.
"Who," he repeated in despair, "will pay me for his epitaph?"
Poor friend, this alien hungry land
Has closed her lips upon her prey.
The tree is spoiled into her hand;
She sucks the brook's thin veins away.
A sterner voice than bade you come
To reap the tears that exiles sow