And, ungirding all his garment fair,
Flinging by the jewelled clasp that bound it,
With his feet made bare,
Down the myrtled stairway of the palace,
Ashes on his head,
Came he, through the rose and citron alleys,
In the rough sark of sackcloth habited,
And in a hempen halter—oh! we jested,
Lightly, and we laughed as he was led
To the torture, while the bloom we breasted