And here to hold their rustic court, Throned in the ancient chair you see Beneath our noble old yew tree. Alas! all empty stands the throne, Reserved for Mohun’s race alone, And the old folks can only tell Of the good lords who ruled so well. “Ah! I bethink me of the time, The last before those years of crime, When with his open hearty cheer, The good old squire was sitting here.” “’Twas then,” another voice replied, “That brave young Master Maurice tried To pitch the ball with Andrew Grey— We ne’er shall see so blithe a day— All the young squires have long been dead.” “No, Master Webb,” quoth Andrew Grey, “Young Master Maurice safely fled, At least so all the Greenwoods say, And Walter Greenwood with him went To share his master’s banishment; And now King Charles is ruling here, Our own good landlord may be near.” “Small hope of that,” the old man said, And sadly shook his hoary head, “Sir Maurice died beyond the sea, Last of his noble line was he.” “Look, Master Webb!” he turned, and there The stranger sat in Mohun’s chair; At ease he sat, and smiled to scan The face of each astonished man; Then on the ground he laid aside His plumed hat and mantle wide. One moment, Andrew deemed he knew Those glancing eyes of hazel hue, But the sunk cheek, the figure spare, The lines of white that streak the hair— How can this he the stripling gay, Erst, victor in the sports of May? Full twenty years of cheerful toil, And labour on his native soil, On Andrew’s head had left no trace— The summer’s sun, the winter’s storm, They had but ruddier made his face, More hard his hand, more strong his form. Forth from the wandering, whispering crowd, A farmer came, and spoke aloud, With rustic bow and welcome fair, But with a hesitating air— He told how custom well preserved The throne for Mohun’s race reserved; The stranger laughed, “What, Harrington, Hast thou forgot thy landlord’s son?” Loud was the cry, and blithe the shout, On Beechcroft hill that now rang out, And still remembered is the day, That merry twenty-ninth of May, When to his father’s home returned That knight, whose glory well was earned. In poverty and banishment, His prime of manhood had been spent, A wanderer, scorned by Charles’s court, One faithful servant his support. And now, he seeks his home forlorn, Broken in health, with sorrow worn. And two short years just passed away, Between that joyous meeting-day, And the sad eve when Beechcroft’s bell Tolled forth Sir Maurice’s funeral knell;