The monarch found; and in his wain And still, so runs our forest creed, One horse and cart their little store, And still, in merry Lyndhurst hall, The memorable tree." The "fair stone," which was erected by Lord Delaware in 1745, is now put into an iron case, of supreme ugliness; and we are informed as follows:-" This stone having been much mutilated, and the inscriptions on each of its three sides defaced, this more durable memorial, with the original inscriptions, was erected in the year 1841, by William Sturges Bourne, Warden." Another century will see whether this boast of durability will be of any account. In the time of Leland, there was a chapel built on the spot. It would be a wise act of the Crown, to whom this land belongs, to found a school here--a better way of continuing a record than Lord Delaware's stone, or Mr. Sturges Bourne's iron. The history of their country, its constitution, it privileges-the duties and rights of Englishmen-things which are not taught to the children of our labouring millions-might worthily commence to be taught on the spot where the Norman tyrant fell, leaving successors who one by one came to the knowledge that the people were something not to be despised or neglected. The following is the inscription on the original stone: "Here stood the oak-tree on which the arrow, shot by Sir William Tyrrel, at a stag, glanced, and struck King William II., surnamed Rufus, on the breast; of which stroke he instantly died, on the second of August, 1100. "King William II., surnamed Rufus, being slain, as before related, was laid in a cart belonging to one Purkess, and drawn from hence to Winchester, and buried in the cathedral church of that city. "That the spot where an event so memorable had happened might not hereafter be unknown, this stone was set up by John Lord Delaware, who had seen the tree growing in this place, anno 1745." 47.-WALTER TYRREL AND WILLIAM RUFUS. Rufus. Tyrrel, spur onward! we must not await LANDOR. Please you, my liege, Unless they had, they must have ridden round Rufus. Why not have ridden round Eleven miles or twenty, were there need. Bishop. Well said, if toned as well and timed as well. Who art thou? citizen or hind? what wantest? Tyrrel. My lord! your presence; but before the king; Where it may grow more placid at its leisure. The morn is only streakt with red, my lord! You beat her out and out: how prettily You wear your stockings over head and ears! Keep off the gorse and broom! they soon catch fire! Tyrrel. And Sir Walter Tyrrel By the same token duly recognises The Church's well-begotten son, well-fed, Well mounted, and all well, except well-spoken, The spiritual lord of Winchester. Bishop. Ay, by God's grace! pert losel! Prick along Lord bishop! quicker! catch fresh air! we want it; Bishop. Varlet! I may chastise this insolence. Tyrrel. I like those feathers; but there crows no cock Without an answer. Though the noisest throat Sings from the belfrey of snug Winchester, Yet he from Winchester hath stouter spurs. Were cooler. Bishop. Whip that hound aside! O Christ! Tyrrel. The scent lies well; pity no more Well, prick them on. I care but little for the chase to-day, To knock down My paling is vexatious. We must see Of thy forefathers. 'Twas an odd request To leave the dovecote for the sake of those Flea-bitten blind old pigeons. There it stands ! But, in God's name! What mean these hives? the bees Driven from their hives; they like the flowers much better. In tangled knots; balm, clary, marjoram. Rufus. What lies beyond this close briar hedge, that smells Through the thick dew upon it, pleasantly? Tyrrel. A poor low cottage: the dry marl-pit shields it, And, frail and unsupported like itself, Peace-breathing honeysuckles comfort it At thy rank minstrelsy. A poor low cottage! Rufus. No; it may not be so. In thee, Sir Walter, I consign'd the care Into thy hands, of razing thy own house And those about it; since thou hast another Tyrrel. Hall, chapel, chamber, cellar, turret, grange, Are level with the grass. Rufus. What negligence Thou hast forgotten thy avowal, man! Tyrrel. My father's house is (like my father) gone: But in that house, and from that father's heart Mine grew into that likeness, and held thence Its rich possessions God forgive my boast! He bade me help the needy, raise the low—. Rufus. And stand against thy king! Tyrrel. A virtuous daughter of a virtuous mother Deserves not this, my liege! Rufus. Am I to learn What any subject at my hand deserves! Tyrrel. Happy, who dares to teach it, and who can! Tyrrel. I have done my duty, sire! Rufus. Not half: perform the rest, or bide my wrath. Tyrrel. Villain I am none. Rufus. Retort my words! By all the saints! thou diest, False traitor! Rufus. Dismountest? Tyrrel. I ask On my knees, as best beseems, The child devoted, the deserted mother! Tyrrel. Of riper age are shrivel'd, every sheaf Husky; no gleaning left. She would die here, Where from her bed she looks on his ; no more Able to rise, poor little soul! than he. Rufus. Who would disturb them, child or father? where Is the churchyard thou speakest of? Tyrrel. Among Yon nettles we have levell'd all the graves. Rufus. Right or our horses might have stumbled on them. Tyrrel. Your grace oft spares the guilty; spare the innocent! Tyrrel. Yet God hath heard it. It entreats again, Once more, once only; spare this wretched house. Rufus. No, nor thee neither. Tyrrel. O thou! between the oppressor and opprest! Speed me, God! and judge [He pierces Rufus with an arrow. |