The People

thirteenth-fourteenth centuries We, too, the people of England, Have built this Cathedral—men and women Who know little of the making of beauty But who, when beauty comes, can feel Its presence—can find in their troubled lives An anchorage, a haven, a calm assurance Of something greater and beyond themselves Which, though they die, survives. ^*The Peasant toiling on his fifteen acres, Ploughing, sowing, harrowing, reaping; Labouring three days for the manor-lord With boon-work at harvest. ^* His Wife, Who rears in the same hovel his hens and his children, Cards and spins for the lord’s steward And sells her eggs at the Thursday market. ^* Fishermen from villages of the South West, Smoothing into port after the churning and blustering Sea, dragging their catch up the beach And spreading nets on the dry rocks. ^* Manor Lady, discussing with her sempstress The fashionable gown-length, and whether One shield or two should be embroidered on the shoulder. ^* ’Yes, to compass men’s praise You spend much labour on your apparel, Your veils and your kirtles. Indeed, the making Is more costly than the cloth itself, With your tucks and .flouncings around the hem. Not only do you take pride in your buttonholes: You plague your feet with exquisite torments, Trotting this way and that with your fine stitching. You busy yourself with unnecessary veils— You twitch them here and twitch them there, And even as you pretend to listen to my sermon Your thoughts are on the new hairstyle.’ ^* The Baker, who bakes his customers’ flour And removes two ounces in every twelve Under their very nose . ^* ‘Here he comes now, Dragged through the streets on a bouncing hurdle As a remembrancer to the trade!’ ^* Fairweather sailor, Horse dealer, horse-stealer, Roaring like a sea-lion at Dorbury Fair, Jostling and badgering with his pedigree words. He steers through the crowd his nags and colts, Packhorses and carthorses, keeping to windward The blind eye and the spavined flank. ^* City Merchant, displaying in his shop Fruits from the Levant, silks from Damascus, Drugs and spices from Alexandria, Brought by armed galley through Genoa And the ports of Venice. ^* Schoolboys Loosed like arrows on holy-days, Giving to football, wrestling, cock-throwing A devotion seldom accorded to their Latin.— ^* ‘Now if you please, lads—outside, No games allowed in the Cathedral Close, Plenty of fields beyond.’ ^* —homing Like cattle at feeding-time, falling to bed With full bellies and a sleep without conscience. ^* Merchant’s Wife, bustling about her kitchen Preparing conserves and sweetmeats, tending Her herb-garden, and making sweet concoctions Of scented flower-water. ^* Wise-Woman Who lives at the last cottage on the Plain. She, also, has an interest in herbs. She brews them into the most potent remedies Against scurvy, empetigo and love-sickness, Or with equal ease and efficiency Creates these disorders where they do not exist, For a hard word spoken or a contemptuous glance, And helps your cattle to wither in their stalls. ^* Archers practising for the Welsh campaign Under the yew-trees in Dorbury Close. ‘Draw to ear!—mark!—release!’— The target pierced at two hundred paces. ^* The Chapman, trudging country lanes, With an old horse that halts before each village To pluck at the thick, lush grasses While his master eases and evens the pack-weight And blows dust from shoulder-trays. ^* ‘Come! buy! Ribbons and purses, Keen knives, scarves and kerchiefs, Buckles and trink:ets-O! Come buy!’ ^* Masters, journeymen and seven-year ’prentices, Following their crafts in gold and silver, Steel-work, leather-work—maintaining the honour Of their guilds.—Some rising to Aldermen, Strutting majestically in scarlet processions, Stretching majestically on tombs. All these, thronging the W estem shires, Have built the Cathedral—from guild-merchant In eager counting-house to the widow Clutching her lonely penny. These, Working and giving, though giving reluctantly Or with the wrong motive, have built this Cathedral. Their thoughts and hopes have fed its walls, Impregnated the stone, are part Of its atmosphere. Though dead, long Dead, we still survive, one With its continuity, the common heritage.