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 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, (Like him who crystallized on this spot His visionings, but lies forgot, And many a mediaeval one Whose symmetries salute the sun) While others boom a baseless claim, And upon nothing rear a name. THE JUBILEE OF A MAGAZINE (_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 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!