Richmond Enquirer

(From the Boston)

LAMENT FOR
THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.

Well hast thou cried, departed Burke,
All chivalrous feeling sunk
To trade a bow and scrape-
That iron age, mine have thou thought
Of metal rather over-wrought,
Is now all over-cast
Ay, where those heroic knights
Of old-time armadillo might
Who wore the plated vent,
Great Charlemagne and all his peers
Are cold, rusting, with their spears
An overrunning moat.
The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound.
So sleep his knights who gave that Round
Old Table such eclat;
On time has pluck'd the plumy brow,
And none engage attorneys now,
But those who go to law.
Grim John o'Gaunt is quite gone by
And Guy is nothing but a Guy
Orlando lies forlorn;
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;
Oh, 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 Saladin,
But only grow the small.
Our Cressy's foes 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 clang,
Their pikes, and bills, and partisans.
Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs?
A battle was a battle then,
A breathing piece of work -but men
Fight now -with powder puffs.
The curtelax is cut of date,
The good old cross-bow bends-to Fate,
'Tis gone --the archer's craft!
No tough arm bends the springy yew,
And jolly draymen, ride in lieu
Of death, upon the shaft.
The spear, the gallant tilter's pride,
The lusty spear is laid aside -
Oh, spits now domineer!
The coat of mail is left alone,
And where is all chain-armour gone?
Go ask at Brighton pier.
We fight in ropes, not in lists,
Bestowing hand-cuffs 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 cingling helmet, by the ears,
And scatter pies about?
Or blood -if they are in the vein?
That tap will never run again -
Alas, the casque is out!
No iron-crackling now is scored
By dint of battle-axe or sword,
To find a vital place;
Tho' certain doctors still pretend
Awhile, before they kill a friend,
To labor thro' his case.
Farewell, then, ancient men of might!
Crusader, errant squire, and knight!
Our coats and customs soften;
To see would only make ye weep-
Sleep on in rusty armor sleep,
As in a safety-coffin.
T. HOOD.