

The old tree, the old tree, 



Has fallen long ago ; 

 But I shall tell of thee, old tree, 



As if thou wert standing now. 



How thy ample branches spread, 



In the days of ruthless John ; 

 How they waved o'er the silent dead, 



When the last dread deed was done. M. R. 



DANCING lights and shadows are playing on the tomb of 

 Lady Marian.* They are cast by the old tree whose 

 waving branches, seen through the lofty window, with its 

 tracery and mullions, grey and time-worn, recall to my 

 mind the day in which it stood with its brotherhood 

 beside the little church of Dunmow, when bold Robin- 

 hood, the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon, passed and 

 repassed with his lady and their archers through the 

 green recesses of Sherwood forest. The contiguous 

 priory was standing then, but this memorial of the olden 

 time, the present church of Dunmow, fonned merely the 

 south aisle of a magnificent collegiate church, and of a 

 * Marian is the legendary name of the Countess of Huntingdon. 



