WELL hast thou cried, departed Burke, All chivalrous romantic work Is ended now and past! -- That iron age -- which some have thought Of metal rather overwrought -- Is now all overcast! Ay! where are those heroic knights Of old -- those armadillo wights Who wore the plated vest? -- Great Charlemagne and all his peers Are cold -- enjoying with their spears An everlasting rest! The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound; So sleep his knights who gave that Round Old Table such eclat! O, Time has pluck'd the plumy brow! And none engage at tourneys now But those that go to law! Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by, And Guy is nothing but a Guy, Orlando lies forlom! -- Bold Sidney, and his kidney -- nay, Those "early champions" -- what are they But knights without a morn? No Percy branch now perseveres, Like those of old, in breaking spears -- The name is now a lie! -- Surgeons, alone, by any chance, Are all that ever couch a lance To couch a body's eye! Alas for Lion-Hearted Dick, That cut the Moslems to the quick, His weapon lies in peace: O, it would warm them in a trice, If they could only have a spice Of his old mace in Greece! The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold, And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold, That scaled the holy wall! No Saracen meets Paladin, We hear of no great @3Salad@1 in, But only grow that small! Our @3Cressys,@1 too, have dwindled since To penny things -- at our Black Prince Historic pens would scoff: The only one we moderns had Was nothing but a Sandwich lad, And measles took him off! Where are those old and feudal clans, Their pikes, and bills, and partizans, Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs? A battle was a battle then, A breathing piece of work; but men Fight now -- with powder puffs. The curtal axe is out of date; The good old crossbow bends -- to Fate; 'Tis gone, the archer's craft! No tough arm bends the springing yew, And jolly draymen ride, in lieu Of Death, upon the shaft! The spear, the gallant tilter's pride, The rusty spear, is laid aside, -- O, spits now domineer! The coat of mail is left alone, -- And where is all chain armour gone? Go ask a Brighton Pier. We fight in ropes, and not in lists, Bestowing handcuffs with our fists, A low and vulgar art! No mounted man is overthrown: A tilt! it is a thing unknown -- Except upon a cart! Methinks I see the bounding barb, Clad like his chief in steely garb, For warding steel's appliance! Methinks I hear the trumpet stir, 'Tis but the guard to Exeter, That bugles the "Defiance." In cavils when will cavaliers Set ringing helmets by the ears, And scatter plumes about? Or blood -- if they are in the vein? That tap will never run again -- Alas! the @3Casque@1 is out! No iron-crackling now is scored By dint of battle-axe or sword, To find a vital place -- Though certain doctors still pretend, Awhile, before they kill a friend, To labour through his case! Farewell, then, ancient men of might! Crusader, errant squire, and knight! Our coats and custom soften; To rise would only make you weep -- Sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep, As in a safety coffin! |