Part II

Thus did he speak—this brother of mine—On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor,Born at my birth of mother of mine,And forthwith went his wayTo dare the deed some coming night . . .I kept the watch with shaking sight,The moon at moments breaking bright,At others glooming gray.

For three full days I heard no soundWhere Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor,I heard no sound at all aroundWhether his fay prevailed,Or one malign the master were,Till some afoot did tidings bearHow that, for all his practised care,He had been caught and jailed.

They had heard a crash when twelve had chimedBy Mendip east of Dunkery Tor,When twelve had chimed and moonlight climbed;They watched, and he was trackedBy arch and aisle and saint and knightOf sculptured stonework sheeted whiteIn the cathedral’s ghostly light,And captured in the act.

Yes; for this Love he loved too wellWhere Dunkery sights the Severn shore,All for this Love he loved too wellHe burst the holy bars,Seized golden vessels from the chestTo buy her ornaments of the best,At her ill-witchery’s requestAnd lure of eyes like stars . . .

When blustering March confused the skyIn Toneborough Town by Exon Moor,When blustering March confused the skyThey stretched him; and he died.Down in the crowd where I, to seeThe end of him, stood silently,With a set face he lipped to me—“Remember.” “Ay!” I cried.

By night and day I shadowed herFrom Toneborough Deane to Dunkery Tor,I shadowed her asleep, astir,And yet I could not bear—Till Wrestler Joe anon beganTo figure as her chosen man,And took her to his shining van—To doom a form so fair!

He made it handsome for her sake—And Dunkery smiled to Exon Moor—He made it handsome for her sake,Painting it out and in;And on the door of apple-greenA bright brass knocker soon was seen,And window-curtains white and cleanFor her to sit within.

And all could see she clave to himAs cleaves a cloud to Dunkery Tor,Yea, all could see she clave to him,And every day I said,“A pity it seems to part those twoThat hourly grow to love more true:Yet she’s the wanton woman whoSent one to swing till dead!”

That blew to blazing all my hate,While Dunkery frowned on Exon Moor,And when the river swelled, her fateCame to her pitilessly . . .I dogged her, crying: “Across that plankThey use as bridge to reach yon bankA coat and hat lie limp and dank;Your goodman’s, can they be?”

She paled, and went, I close behind—And Exon frowned to Dunkery Tor,She went, and I came up behindAnd tipped the plank that boreHer, fleetly flitting across to eyeWhat such might bode. She slid awry;And from the current came a cry,A gurgle; and no more.

How that befell no mortal knewFrom Marlbury Downs to Exon Moor;No mortal knew that deed undueBut he who schemed the crime,Which night still covers . . . But in dreamThose ropes of hair upon the streamHe sees, and he will hear that screamUntil his judgment-time.

(Inventor of the “Perpendicular” Style of Gothic Architecture)

THE new-vamped Abbey shaped apaceIn the fourteenth century of grace;

(The church which, at an after date,Acquired cathedral rank and state.)

Panel and circumscribing wallOf latest feature, trim and tall,

Rose roundabout the Norman coreIn prouder pose than theretofore,

Encasing magically the oldWith parpend ashlars manifold.

The trowels rang out, and traceryAppeared where blanks had used to be.

Men toiled for pleasure more than pay,And all went smoothly day by day,

Till, in due course, the transept partEngrossed the master-mason’s art.

“What fearful visions have inspiredThese gaingivings?” his wife inquired;

“As if your tools were in your handYou have hammered, fitted, muttered, planned;

“You have thumped as you were working hard:I might have found me bruised and scarred.

“What then’s amiss. What eating careLooms nigh, whereof I am unaware?”

He answered not, but churchward went,Viewing his draughts with discontent;

And fumbled there the livelong dayTill, hollow-eyed, he came away.

Quoth Abbot Wygmore: “Why, O whyDistress yourself? You’ll surely die!”

The mason answered, trouble-torn,“This long-vogued style is quite outworn!

“The upper archmould nohow servesTo meet the lower tracery curves:

“The ogees bend too far awayTo give the flexures interplay.

“This it is causes my distress . . .So it will ever be unless

“New forms be found to supersedeThe circle when occasions need.

“To carry it out I have tried and toiled,And now perforce must own me foiled!

“Jeerers will say: ‘Here was a manWho could not end what he began!’”

The townsmen mustered all their witTo fathom how to compass it,

But no raw artistries availedWhere practice in the craft had failed . . .

Scattering the rushes of the floorHe wandered from the chamber door

And sought the sizing pile, whereonStruck dimly a cadaverous dawn

Through freezing rain, that drenched the boardOf diagram-lines he last had scored—

Chalked phantasies in vain begotTo knife the architectural knot—

In front of which he dully stood,Regarding them in hopeless mood.

He closelier looked; then looked again:The chalk-scratched draught-board faced the rain,

Whose icicled drops deformed the linesInnumerous of his lame designs,

So that they streamed in small white threadsFrom the upper segments to the heads

Of arcs below, uniting themEach by a stalactitic stem.

Then laughs aloud. The thing was doneSo long assayed from sun to sun . . .

And, turning, saw the abbot, whoThe weather’s whim was watching too.

Onward to Prime the abbot went,Tacit upon the incident.

Templates were cut, fresh lines were chalkedWhere lines had been defaced and balked,

And the work swelled and mounted higher,Achievement distancing desire;

Here jambs with transoms fixed between,Where never the like before had been—

There little mullions thinly sawnWhere meeting circles once were drawn.

“We knew,” men said, “the thing would goAfter his craft-wit got aglow,

“And, once fulfilled what he has designed,We’ll honour him and his great mind!”

When matters stood thus poised awhile,And all surroundings shed a smile,

The master-mason on an eveHomed to his wife and seemed to grieve . . .

“He knows the source as well as IOf the new style men magnify.

“He said: ‘You pride yourself too muchOn your creation. Is it such?

“‘Surely the hand of God it isThat conjured so, and only His!—

“‘Disclosing by the frost and rainForms your invention chased in vain;

“‘Hence the devices deemed so greatYou copied, and did not create.’

“I feel the abbot’s words are just,And that all thanks renounce I must.

“Can a man welcome praise and pelfFor hatching art that hatched itself? . . .

“So, I shall own the deft designIs Heaven’s outshaping, and not mine.”

“What!” said she. “Praise your works ensureTo throw away, and quite obscure

“Your beaming and beneficent star?Better you leave things as they are!

“Why, think awhile. Had not your zestIn your loved craft curtailed your rest—

“Had you not gone there ere the dayThe sun had melted all away!”

That not unaided sprang the thoughtWhereby the glorious fane was wrought,

But that by frost when dawn was dimThe method was disclosed to him.

“Yet,” said the townspeople thereat,“’Tis your own doing, even with that!”

But he—chafed, childlike, in extremes—The temperament of men of dreams—

Aloofly scrupled to admitThat he did aught but borrow it,

And diffidently made requestThat with the abbot all should rest.

The mason was at length believedOf no more count than he conceived,

And soon began to lose the fameThat late had gathered round his name . . .

And workmen died, and young ones grew,And the old mason sank from view

And Abbots Wygmore and Staunton wentAnd Horton sped the embellishment.

But not till years had far progressedChanced it that, one day, much impressed,

Standing within the well-graced aisle,He asked who first conceived the style;

And some decrepit sage detailedHow, when invention nought availed,

The cloud-cast waters in their whimCame down, and gave the hint to him

Who struck each arc, and made each mould;And how the abbot would not hold

As sole begetter him who appliedForms the Almighty sent as guide;

And how the master lost renown,And wore in death no artist’s crown.

Replied: “Nay; art can but transmute;Invention is not absolute;

“Things fail to spring from nought at call,And art-beginnings most of all.

“He did but what all artists do,Wait upon Nature for his cue.”

“The mason, now long underground,Doubtless a different fate had found.

“He passed into oblivion dim,And none knew what became of him!

“His name? ’Twas of some common kindAnd now has faded out of mind.”

The Abbot: “It shall not be hid!I’ll trace it.” . . . But he never did.

From Gloucester church it flew afar—The style called Perpendicular.—

To Winton and to WestminsterIt ranged, and grew still beautifuller:

From Solway Frith to Dover StrandIts fascinations starred the land,

Not only on cathedral wallsBut upon courts and castle halls,

Till every edifice in the isleWas patterned to no other style,

And till, long having played its part,The curtain fell on Gothic art.

And enter Gloucester: seek the quoinWhere choir and transept interjoin,

And, gazing at the forms there flungAgainst the sky by one unsung—

The ogee arches transom-topped,The tracery-stalks by spandrels stopped,

Petrified lacework—lightly linedOn ancient massiveness behind—

Muse that some minds so modest beAs to renounce fame’s fairest fee,

(Like him who crystallized on this spotHis visionings, but lies forgot,

And many a mediaeval oneWhose symmetries salute the sun)

While others boom a baseless claim,And upon nothing rear a name.

(To the Editor)

YES; your up-dated modern page—All flower-fresh, as it appears—Can claim a time-tried lineage,

That reaches backward fifty years(Which, if but short for sleepy squires,Is much in magazines’ careers).

—Here, on your cover, never tiresThe sower, reaper, thresher, whileAs through the seasons of our sires

Each wills to work in ancient styleWith seedlip, sickle, share and flail,Though modes have since moved many a mile!

The steel-roped plough now rips the vale,With cog and tooth the sheaves are won,Wired wheels drum out the wheat like hail;

But if we ask, what has been doneTo unify the mortal lotSince your bright leaves first saw the sun,

Beyond mechanic furtherance—whatAdvance can rightness, candour, claim?Truth bends abashed, and answers not.

Despite your volumes’ gentle aimTo straighten visions wry and wrong,Events jar onward much the same!

—Had custom tended to prolong,As on your golden page engrained,Old processes of blade and prong,

And best invention been retainedFor high crusades to lessen tearsThroughout the race, the world had gained! . . .But too much, this, for fifty years.