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-punch up-hung
Which round his girth was worn when forth he went
To hunt for venison in the woods of Deut,
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.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 102)