The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 288, Supplementary Number

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 Moslem 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 fam'd Rinaldo lies a-cold,
And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,
That scal'd the holy wall!
No Saracen meets Paladin,
We hear of no great Saladin,
But only grow the small!

Our Cressys 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The curtal-axe is out of date!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 cross-bow 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,
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 and 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 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 Casque is out!

No iron-crackling now is scor'd
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 customs soften,—
To rise would only make ye weep—
Sleep on, in rusty iron sleep,
As in a safety-coffin!

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM

Fresh clad from Heaven in robes of white
A young probationer of light.
Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright.

A spotless leaf but thought, and care—
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair,
Have "written strange defeature" there.

And Time, with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp'd sad dates—he can't recall.