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Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces
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That not unaided sprang the thought
Whereby the glorious fane was wrought,
But that by frost when dawn was dim
The 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 admit
That he did aught but borrow it,
And diffidently made request
That with the abbot all should rest.
– As none could doubt the abbot’s word,
Or question what the church averred,
The mason was at length believed
Of no more count than he conceived,
And soon began to lose the fame
That late had gathered round his name.
– Time passed, and like a living thing
The pile went on embodying,
And workmen died, and young ones grew,
And the old mason sank from view
And Abbots Wygmore and Staunton went
And Horton sped the embellishment.
But not till years had far progressed
Chanced it that, one day, much impressed,
Standing within the well-graced aisle,
He asked who first conceived the style;
And some decrepit sage detailed
How, when invention nought availed,
The cloud-cast waters in their whim
Came 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 applied
Forms the Almighty sent as guide;
And how the master lost renown,
And wore in death no artist’s crown.
– Then Horton, who in inner thought
Had more perceptions than he taught,
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.”
– “Had you been here to tell them so
Lord Abbot, sixty years ago,
“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 kind
And now has faded out of mind.”
The Abbot: “It shall not be hid!
I’ll trace it.”.. But he never did.
– When longer yet dank death had wormed
The brain wherein the style had germed
From Gloucester church it flew afar —
The style called Perpendicular. —
To Winton and to Westminster
It ranged, and grew still beautifuller:
From Solway Frith to Dover Strand
Its fascinations starred the land,
Not only on cathedral walls
But upon courts and castle halls,
Till every edifice in the isle
Whereby the glorious fane was wrought,
But that by frost when dawn was dim
The 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 admit
That he did aught but borrow it,
And diffidently made request
That with the abbot all should rest.
– As none could doubt the abbot’s word,
Or question what the church averred,
The mason was at length believed
Of no more count than he conceived,
And soon began to lose the fame
That late had gathered round his name.
– Time passed, and like a living thing
The pile went on embodying,
And workmen died, and young ones grew,
And the old mason sank from view
And Abbots Wygmore and Staunton went
And Horton sped the embellishment.
But not till years had far progressed
Chanced it that, one day, much impressed,
Standing within the well-graced aisle,
He asked who first conceived the style;
And some decrepit sage detailed
How, when invention nought availed,
The cloud-cast waters in their whim
Came 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 applied
Forms the Almighty sent as guide;
And how the master lost renown,
And wore in death no artist’s crown.
– Then Horton, who in inner thought
Had more perceptions than he taught,
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.”
– “Had you been here to tell them so
Lord Abbot, sixty years ago,
“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 kind
And now has faded out of mind.”
The Abbot: “It shall not be hid!
I’ll trace it.”.. But he never did.
– When longer yet dank death had wormed
The brain wherein the style had germed
From Gloucester church it flew afar —
The style called Perpendicular. —
To Winton and to Westminster
It ranged, and grew still beautifuller:
From Solway Frith to Dover Strand
Its fascinations starred the land,
Not only on cathedral walls
But upon courts and castle halls,
Till every edifice in the isle
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