 | Sicut Patribus and other verse |  |
25
THE FRONT OF PETERBOROUGH CATHEDRAL
He reared the minster portal long ago,
The “Golden Borough's” chiefest architect,
Scooped in its rocky face three caverns deep,
Piled 'gainst their sides aspiring carven reeds,
Banded as those that stand in neighbour fens,
Raised o'er this work of his a soaring mass
Of pediment, and pinnacle, and tower,
And spire—then passed into the darkness whence
He sprang, and no man knoweth of his name.
The “Golden Borough's” chiefest architect,
Scooped in its rocky face three caverns deep,
Piled 'gainst their sides aspiring carven reeds,
Banded as those that stand in neighbour fens,
Raised o'er this work of his a soaring mass
Of pediment, and pinnacle, and tower,
And spire—then passed into the darkness whence
He sprang, and no man knoweth of his name.
Within the minster aisles lie abbots old,
Frowning in marble as they frowned in flesh,
And all who will may know them as they were;
But he that wrought the centuries' delight,
The glorious minster's crowning grace, lives not
In stiffly sculptured effigy like these,
Nor on cathedral fabric-rolls are writ
The letters of his name. What matters it?
He breathed one song, this singer of the past,
And all the air yet trembles to his tones;
He wrote his verse across the minster front
Where all the world might see, and not one line
The world has lost through centuries' sun and storm.
What matters that he left his verse unsigned?
What boots it how he looked to those who saw?
Frowning in marble as they frowned in flesh,
And all who will may know them as they were;
But he that wrought the centuries' delight,
The glorious minster's crowning grace, lives not
In stiffly sculptured effigy like these,
Nor on cathedral fabric-rolls are writ
The letters of his name. What matters it?
26
And all the air yet trembles to his tones;
He wrote his verse across the minster front
Where all the world might see, and not one line
The world has lost through centuries' sun and storm.
What matters that he left his verse unsigned?
What boots it how he looked to those who saw?
Ah! Peterborough's poet questionless
Knew well how scant the worth of name beside
Achievement's crowning skill. The little deed
May fitly claim the signature's reward
Scrawled underneath, but not the master's work
Needs blurring with the master's name, and thus
The triple gate of Peterborough gleams
Through all the ages from its maker's times
To these, as fair as only that is fair
Which has no need that men should ask “Who wrought?”
Knew well how scant the worth of name beside
Achievement's crowning skill. The little deed
May fitly claim the signature's reward
Scrawled underneath, but not the master's work
Needs blurring with the master's name, and thus
The triple gate of Peterborough gleams
Through all the ages from its maker's times
To these, as fair as only that is fair
Which has no need that men should ask “Who wrought?”
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