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[A]
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!