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 happen'd 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!