A rhymer, rhyming a futile rhyme, * he had crept for convoy through Eden-ways Into the shade of the poet’s glory, * darkened under his prevalent rays, Fearfully hoping a distant welcome * as a poor kinsman of his lays. The angels laughed with a lovely scorning: *—“Who has done this sorry deed in The garden of our Father, God? * ’mid his blossoms to sow this weed in? Never our fingers knew this stuff: * not so fashion the looms of Eden!” The singer bowed his brow majestic, * searching that patchwork through and through, Feeling God’s lucent gazes traverse * his singing-stoling and spirit too: The hallowed harpers were fain to frown * on the strange thing come ’mid their sacred crew, Only the singer that was earth * his fellow-earth and his own self knew. But the poet rent off robe and wreath, * so as a sloughing serpent doth, Laid them at the rhymer’s feet, * shed down wreath and raiment both, Stood in a dim and shamèd stole, * like the tattered wing of a musty moth. “Thou gav’st the weed and wreath of song, * the weed and wreath are solely Thine, And this dishonest vesture * is the only vesture that is mine; The life _I_ textured, Thou the song *—_my_ handicraft is not divine!” He wrested o’er the rhymer’s head * that garmenting which wrought him wrong; A flickering tissue argentine * down dripped its shivering silvers long:— “Better thou wov’st thy woof of life * than thou didst weave thy woof of song!” Never a chief in Saintdom was, * but turned him from the Poet then; Never an eye looked mild on him * ’mid all the angel myriads ten, Save sinless Mary, and sinful Mary *—the Mary titled Magdalen. “Turn yon robe,” spake Magdalen, * “of torn bright song, and see and feel.” They turned the raiment, saw and felt * what their turning did reveal— All the inner surface piled * with bloodied hairs, like hairs of steel. “Take, I pray, yon chaplet up, * thrown down ruddied from his head.” They took the roseal chaplet up, * and they stood astonishèd: Every leaf between their fingers, * as they bruised it, burst and bled. “See his torn flesh through those rents; * see the punctures round his hair, As if the chaplet-flowers had driven * deep roots in to nourish there— Lord, who gav’st him robe and wreath, * _what_ was this Thou gav’st for wear?” “Fetch forth the Paradisal garb!” * spake the Father, sweet and low; Drew them both by the frightened hand * where Mary’s throne made irised bow— “Take, Princess Mary, of thy good grace, * two spirits greater than they know.” * * * * * EPILOGUE.