John Kenyon

Rufus’s Tree

O’ER the New Forest’s heath-hills bare,
  Down steep ravine, by shaggy wood,
A pilgrim wandered; questing where
  The relic-tree of Rufus stood.

Whence in our England’s day of old,
  Rushing on retribution’s wing,
The arrow—so tradition told—
  Glanced to the heart of tyrant-king.

Some monument he found, which spoke
  What erst had happened on the spot;
But for that old avenging oak,
  Decayed long since, he found it not.

Yet aye, where tyrants grind a land,
  Let trees like this be found to grow;
And never may a Tyrrel’s hand
  Be lacking there to twang the bow!