SONG.

By T. K. Hervey, Esq.

COME, touch the harp, my gentle one!

And let the notes be sad and low,
Such as may breathe, in every tone,
The soul of long ago!

That smile of thine is all too bright
For aching hearts, and lovely years,
And, dearly as I love its light,
To-day I would have tears!

Yet weep not thus, my gentle girl!
No smile of thine has lost its spells;
By heaven! I love thy lightest curl,
Oh! more than fondly well!

Then touch the lyre, and let it wile
All thought of grief and gloom away,
While thou art by, with harp and smile,
I will not weep, to-day!

Well hast thou cried, departed Burke,
All chivalrous romantic work,

Is ended now and past!

That iron age-which some have thought
Of mettle rather overwrought-

Is now all over-cast!

Aye,-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

F

.76 A LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.

Old Table such eclát!

Oh Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!

And none engage at turneys 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 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 Cressy's too have dwindled since To penny things-at our Black Prince Historic pens would scoff

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The curtal-axe is out of date!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,

.78 A LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.

Oh spits now domineer !-
The coat of mail is left alone,-

And where is all chain-armour gone?

Go ask at Brighton Pier.

1

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,