He liv'd and lov'd; he suffer'd; he was poor;
But he was gifted with the gifts of Heaven,
And those of all the week-days that are seven,
And those of all the centuries that endure.
He bow'd to none; he kept his honour sure.
He follow'd in the wake of those Eleven
Who walk'd with Christ, and lifted up his steven
To keep the bulwarks of his faith secure.
He knew the secrets of the singing-time;
He track'd the sun; he ate the luscious fruit
Of grief and joy; and with his wonder-lute
He made himself a name in every clime.
The minds of men were madly stricken mute
And all the world lay subject to his rhyme!