And gained the wood beyond the flat,
   She raised her skirts, and from beneath
   Unpinned and drew as from a sheath
      An ostrich-feathered hat.

   And where the hat had hung she now
   Concealed and pinned the dowdy hood,
   And set the hat upon her brow,
   And thus emerging from the wood
      Tripped on in jaunty mood.

   The sun was low and crimson-faced
   As two came that way from the town,
   And plunged into the wood untraced . . .
   When separately therefrom they paced
      The sun had quite gone down.

   The hat and feather disappeared,
   The dowdy hood again was donned,
   And in the gloom the fair one neared
   Her home and husband dour, who conned
      Calmly his blue-eyed blonde.

   “To-day,” he said, “you have shown good sense,
   A dress so modest and so meek
   Should always deck your goings hence
   Alone.”  And as a recompense
      He kissed her on the cheek.

THE ROMAN GRAVEMOUNDS

   BY Rome’s dim relics there walks a man,
   Eyes bent; and he carries a basket and spade;
   I guess what impels him to scrape and scan;
   Yea, his dreams of that Empire long decayed.

   “Vast was Rome,” he must muse, “in the world’s regard,
   Vast it looms there still, vast it ever will be;”
   And he stoops as to dig and unmine some shard
   Left by those who are held in such memory.

   But no; in his basket, see, he has brought
   A little white furred thing, stiff of limb,
   Whose life never won from the world a thought;
   It is this, and not Rome, that is moving him.

   And to make it a grave he has come to the spot,
   And he delves in the ancient dead’s long home;
   Their fames, their achievements, the man knows not;
   The furred thing is all to him—nothing Rome!

   “Here say you that Cæsar’s warriors lie?—
   But my little white cat was my only friend!
   Could she but live, might the record die
   Of Cæsar, his legions, his aims, his end!”

   Well, Rome’s long rule here is oft and again
   A theme for the sages of history,
   And the small furred life was worth no one’s pen;
   Yet its mourner’s mood has a charm for me.

_November_ 1910.

THE WORKBOX

   “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.

   “And while I worked it made me think
   Of timber’s varied doom;
   One inch where people eat and drink,
   The next inch in a tomb.

   “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.

THE SACRILEGE
A BALLAD-TRAGEDY
(_Circa_ 182-)

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.

   “Full soon the four weeks neared their end
   Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor;
   And when the four weeks neared their end,
      And their swift sweets outwore,
   I said, ‘What shall I do to own
   Those beauties bright as tulips blown,
   And keep you here with me alone
      As mine for evermore?’

   “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.’

   “I said: ‘I am one who has gathered gear
   From Marlbury Downs to Dunkery Tor,
   Who has gathered gear for many a year
      From mansion, mart and fair;
   But at God’s house I’ve stayed my hand,
   Hearing within me some command—
   Curbed by a law not of the land
      From doing damage there.’

   “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!”

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 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.

   Yes; for this Love he loved too well
   Where Dunkery sights the Severn shore,
   All for this Love he loved too well
      He burst the holy bars,
   Seized golden vessels from the chest
   To buy her ornaments of the best,
   At her ill-witchery’s request
      And lure of eyes like stars . . .

   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!

   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-green
   A bright brass knocker soon was seen,
   And window-curtains white and clean
      For her to sit within.

   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.

   How that befell no mortal knew
   From Marlbury Downs to Exon Moor;
   No mortal knew that deed undue
      But he who schemed the crime,
   Which night still covers . . . But in dream
   Those ropes of hair upon the stream
   He sees, and he will hear that scream
      Until his judgment-time.

THE ABBEY MASON
(_Inventor of the_ “_Perpendicular_” _Style of Gothic Architecture_)

   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.

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

   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.

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

   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,

   But no raw artistries availed
   Where practice in the craft had failed . . .

   —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

   Of arcs below, uniting them
   Each by a stalactitic stem.

   —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—

   There little mullions thinly sawn
   Where meeting circles once were drawn.

   “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;

   “‘Hence the devices deemed so great
   You 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 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,

   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
   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!

   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 done
   To unify the mortal lot
   Since your bright leaves first saw the sun,

   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.

THE SATIN SHOES

   “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.

   “The grass-path hardly can be stepped,
      The lane is like a pool!”—
   Her dream is shown to be inept,
      Her wish they overrule.

   “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.”

   “If you will go, dear, you must fain
      Put on those shoes—the pair
   Meant for your marriage, which the rain
      Forbade you then to wear.”

   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.

EXEUNT OMNES

      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.

      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.

A POET

   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.

POSTSCRIPT
“MEN WHO MARCH AWAY”
(SONG OF THE SOLDIERS)

   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?

   Nay.  We well see what we are doing,
      Though some may not see—
      Dalliers as they be—
      England’s need are we;
   Her distress would leave us rueing:
   Nay.  We well see what we are doing,
      Though some may not see!

   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.