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.
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