“See, here’s the workbox, little wife,
   That I made of polished oak.”
He was a joiner, of village life;
   She came of borough folk.

He holds the present up to her
As with a smile she nears
And answers to the profferer,
“’Twill last all my sewing years!”

“I warrant it will.  And longer too.
’Tis a scantling that I got
Off poor John Wayward’s coffin, who
Died of they knew not what.

“The shingled pattern that seems to cease
Against your box’s rim
Continues right on in the piece
That’s underground with him.

“But why do you look so white, my dear,
And turn aside your face?
You knew not that good lad, I fear,
Though he came from your native place?”

“How could I know that good young man,
Though he came from my native town,
When he must have left there earlier than
I was a woman grown?”

“Ah no.  I should have understood!
It shocked you that I gave
To you one end of a piece of wood
Whose other is in a grave?”

“Don’t, dear, despise my intellect,
Mere accidental things
Of that sort never have effect
On my imaginings.”

Yet still her lips were limp and wan,
Her face still held aside,
As if she had known not only John,
But known of what he died.

Part I

“I have a Love I love too well
Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor;
I have a Love I love too well,
   To whom, ere she was mine,
‘Such is my love for you,’ I said,
‘That you shall have to hood your head
A silken kerchief crimson-red,
   Wove finest of the fine.’

“And since this Love, for one mad moon,
On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor,
Since this my Love for one mad moon
   Did clasp me as her king,
I snatched a silk-piece red and rare
From off a stall at Priddy Fair,
For handkerchief to hood her hair
   When we went gallanting.

“And as she drowsed within my van
On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor—
And as she drowsed within my van,
   And dawning turned to day,
She heavily raised her sloe-black eyes
And murmured back in softest wise,
‘One more thing, and the charms you prize
   Are yours henceforth for aye.

“‘And swear I will I’ll never go
While Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor
To meet the Cornish Wrestler Joe
   For dance and dallyings.
If you’ll to yon cathedral shrine,
And finger from the chest divine
Treasure to buy me ear-drops fine,
   And richly jewelled rings.’

“Whereat she pouts, this Love of mine,
As Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor,
And still she pouts, this Love of mine,
   So cityward I go.
But ere I start to do the thing,
And speed my soul’s imperilling
For one who is my ravishing
   And all the joy I know,

“I come to lay this charge on thee—
On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor—
I come to lay this charge on thee
   With solemn speech and sign:
Should things go ill, and my life pay
For botchery in this rash assay,
You are to take hers likewise—yea,
   The month the law takes mine.

“For should my rival, Wrestler Joe,
Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor—
My reckless rival, Wrestler Joe,
   My Love’s possessor be,
My tortured spirit would not rest,
But wander weary and distrest
Throughout the world in wild protest:
   The thought nigh maddens me!”

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 way
To 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 sound
Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor,
I heard no sound at all around
   Whether his fay prevailed,
Or one malign the master were,
Till some afoot did tidings bear
How that, for all his practised care,
   He had been caught and jailed.

They had heard a crash when twelve had chimed
By Mendip east of Dunkery Tor,
When twelve had chimed and moonlight climbed;
   They watched, and he was tracked
By arch and aisle and saint and knight
Of sculptured stonework sheeted white
In the cathedral’s ghostly light,
   And captured in the act.

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

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

And all could see she clave to him
As 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 two
That hourly grow to love more true:
Yet she’s the wanton woman who
   Sent one to swing till dead!”

That blew to blazing all my hate,
While Dunkery frowned on Exon Moor,
And when the river swelled, her fate
   Came to her pitilessly . . .
I dogged her, crying: “Across that plank
They use as bridge to reach yon bank
A 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 behind
   And tipped the plank that bore
Her, fleetly flitting across to eye
What such might bode.  She slid awry;
And from the current came a cry,
   A gurgle; and no more.

The new-vamped Abbey shaped apace
In the fourteenth century of grace;

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

Panel and circumscribing wall
Of latest feature, trim and tall,

Rose roundabout the Norman core
In prouder pose than theretofore,

Encasing magically the old
With parpend ashlars manifold.

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

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

—Home-coming thence he tossed and turned
Throughout the night till the new sun burned.

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

“As if your tools were in your hand
You 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 care
Looms nigh, whereof I am unaware?”

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

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

—’Twas said, “The master-mason’s ill!”
And all the abbey works stood still.

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

“The upper archmould nohow serves
To meet the lower tracery curves:

“The ogees bend too far away
To give the flexures interplay.

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

“New forms be found to supersede
The 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 man
Who could not end what he began!’”

—So passed that day, the next, the next;
The abbot scanned the task, perplexed;

The townsmen mustered all their wit
To fathom how to compass it,

—One night he tossed, all open-eyed,
And early left his helpmeet’s side.

Scattering the rushes of the floor
He wandered from the chamber door

And sought the sizing pile, whereon
Struck dimly a cadaverous dawn

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

Chalked phantasies in vain begot
To 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 lines
Innumerous of his lame designs,

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

—At once, with eyes that struck out sparks,
He adds accessory cusping-marks,

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

—Now in his joy he grew aware
Of one behind him standing there,

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

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

—Men now discerned as days revolved
The ogive riddle had been solved;

Templates were cut, fresh lines were chalked
Where 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—

“We knew,” men said, “the thing would go
After 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 eve
Homed to his wife and seemed to grieve . . .

—“The abbot spoke to me to-day:
He hangs about the works alway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—But, though his good wife argued so,
The mason let the people know

That not unaided sprang the thought
Whereby the glorious fane was wrought,

“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

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;

“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:

Not only on cathedral walls
But upon courts and castle halls,

Till every edifice in the isle
Was patterned to no other style,

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

—Well: when in Wessex on your rounds,
Take a brief step beyond its bounds,

And enter Gloucester: seek the quoin
Where choir and transept interjoin,

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

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

Petrified lacework—lightly lined
On ancient massiveness behind—

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

And many a mediaeval one
Whose symmetries salute the sun)

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

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 tires
The sower, reaper, thresher, while
As through the seasons of our sires

Each wills to work in ancient style
With 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;

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

Despite your volumes’ gentle aim
To 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 retained
For high crusades to lessen tears
Throughout the race, the world had gained! . . .
But too much, this, for fifty years.

“If ever I walk to church to wed,
   As other maidens use,
And face the gathered eyes,” she said,
   “I’ll go in satin shoes!”

She was as fair as early day
   Shining on meads unmown,
And her sweet syllables seemed to play
   Like flute-notes softly blown.

The time arrived when it was meet
   That she should be a bride;
The satin shoes were on her feet,
   Her father was at her side.

They stood within the dairy door,
   And gazed across the green;
The church loomed on the distant moor,
   But rain was thick between.

“To go forth shod in satin soft
   A coach would be required!”
For thickest boots the shoes were doffed—
   Those shoes her soul desired . . .

All day the bride, as overborne,
   Was seen to brood apart,
And that the shoes had not been worn
   Sat heavy on her heart.

From her wrecked dream, as months flew on,
   Her thought seemed not to range.
“What ails the wife?” they said anon,
   “That she should be so strange?” . . .

Ah—what coach comes with furtive glide—
   A coach of closed-up kind?
It comes to fetch the last year’s bride,
   Who wanders in her mind.

She strove with them, and fearfully ran
   Stairward with one low scream:
“Nay—coax her,” said the madhouse man,
   “With some old household theme.”

She clapped her hands, flushed joyous hues;
   “O yes—I’ll up and ride
If I am to wear my satin shoes
   And be a proper bride!”

Out then her little foot held she,
   As to depart with speed;
The madhouse man smiled pleasantly
   To see the wile succeed.

She turned to him when all was done,
   And gave him her thin hand,
Exclaiming like an enraptured one,
   “This time it will be grand!”

She mounted with a face elate,
   Shut was the carriage door;
They drove her to the madhouse gate,
   And she was seen no more . . .

Yet she was fair as early day
   Shining on meads unmown,
And her sweet syllables seemed to play
   Like flute-notes softly blown.

I

   Everybody else, then, going,
And I still left where the fair was? . . .
Much have I seen of neighbour loungers
   Making a lusty showing,
   Each now past all knowing.

II

   There is an air of blankness
In the street and the littered spaces;
Thoroughfare, steeple, bridge and highway
   Wizen themselves to lankness;
   Kennels dribble dankness.

III

   Folk all fade.  And whither,
As I wait alone where the fair was?
Into the clammy and numbing night-fog
   Whence they entered hither.
   Soon do I follow thither!

June 2, 1913.

Attentive eyes, fantastic heed,
Assessing minds, he does not need,
Nor urgent writs to sup or dine,
Nor pledges in the roseate wine.

For loud acclaim he does not care
By the august or rich or fair,
Nor for smart pilgrims from afar,
Curious on where his hauntings are.

But soon or later, when you hear
That he has doffed this wrinkled gear,
Some evening, at the first star-ray,
Come to his graveside, pause and say:

“Whatever the message his to tell,
Two bright-souled women loved him well.”
Stand and say that amid the dim:
It will be praise enough for him.

July 1914.

What of the faith and fire within us
   Men who march away
   Ere the barn-cocks say
   Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
   Men who march away?

Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
   Friend with the musing eye,
   Who watch us stepping by
   With doubt and dolorous sigh?
Can much pondering so hoodwink you!
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
   Friend with the musing eye?

In our heart of hearts believing
   Victory crowns the just,
   And that braggarts must
   Surely bite the dust,
Press we to the field ungrieving,
In our heart of hearts believing
   Victory crowns the just.

Hence the faith and fire within us
   Men who march away
   Ere the barn-cocks say
   Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us:
Hence the faith and fire within us
   Men who march away.

September 5, 1914.