 | Sonnets Round the Coast |  |
102
XXVI. THE FORESTER'S. TOMB, SAINT BEES.
Nameless the tomb, his forest-deeds unsung,But this rude scrawl upon his monument,
Drawn as a child would draw, is eloquent;
For there he stands, his huntsman's bow well-strung,
And overhead, the quarrel-pouch up-hung
Which round his girth was worn when forth he went
To hunt for venison in the woods of Dent,
Or rob the Sanwith she-wolf of her young.
Ah, since that day of hound and hawk and hood,
Which this stout archer of the Priory knew,
A blight has fallen upon Saint Bega's land;
The rooks can scarcely find a nesting wood,
The steam-mills hoot where once the horn he blew,
And men are slaves in coaly Cumberland.
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