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 over-cast! 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! 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 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 The curtal-axe is out of date!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. And error gilding worst designs— Like speckled snake that strays and shines— Betrays his path by crooked lines. And vice hath left his ugly blot— And good resolves, a moment hot, Fairly began—but finish'd not. And fruitless late remorse doth trace— Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace— Her irrecoverable race. Disjointed numbers—sense unknit— Huge reams of folly—shreds of wit— Compose the mingled mass of it. My scalded eyes no longer brook, Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look, Go—shut the leaves—and clasp the book!—

THE LITERARY POCKET-BOOK

Is this year resumed, but we think it is not so successful as, were its previous fasciculi. The "literary" is a good epithet for its sale among would-be authors, like the "Gentleman's" Magazine among a certain class of worthies. But of what use are such articles as the following to literary men:—The Seasons, by a Man of Taste, (like the carte of a restaurateur;) Sayings of a Man about Town; Remonstrance with J.F. Newton; Lines on Crockford's &c.—all amusing enough in their way, but, in a literary pocket-book, out of place, and not in good taste. The "lists," too, the only useful portion of the volume, are, in many instances, very incorrect. Apropos, how long has Morris Birbeck been dead? Our Illinois friend might be alive when the editor published his last pocket-book; but if he stands still, time does not. There is, too, an affectation of fashion about the work which does not suit our sober taste; but as a seasonable Christmas extract, we are induced to quote Winter from the Seasons:—

Now is the high season of beef; beef, which Prometheus killed for us at first, ere he filched the fire from heaven, with which to constitute it a beef-steak—that foundation of the most delightful of clubs, and origin of the most delightful of all memoirs of them. Nor be the sirloin, boast of Englishmen, forgot! nor its vaunted origin; which proves that the age of chivalry, despite of Burke, is not yet gone! Stewed beef too, and ample round, and filet de boeuf saute dans sa glace, and stewed rump-steaks, and ox-tail soup.

"Spirits of beef, where are ye? are ye all fled?"

Henry the Eighth.

No—when beef flies the English shores, then you may, as the immortal bard exquisitely expresses it, "make a silken purse out of a sow's ear." But mutton, too, invites my Muse. It is calculated that fifteen hundred thousand sheep are annually sacrificed in London to the carnivorous taste of John Bull. "Of roast mutton (as Dr. Johnson says) what remains for me to say? It will be found sometimes succous, and sometimes defective of moisture; but what palate has ever failed to be pleased with a haunch which has been duly suspended? what appetite has not been awakened by the fermentation that glitters on its surface, when it has been reposing for the requisite number of hours before a fire equal in its fervency?"

We quite agree with Dr. Johnson; but a boiled leg of mutton, its whiteness transparent through the verdant capers that decorate its candour, is not to be despised; nor is a hash, whether celebrated as an Irish stew, or a hachis de mouton, most relishing of rifacciamenti! Chops and garlic à la Francaise are exquisite; and the saddle, cut learnedly, is the Elysium of a gourmand.

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

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A LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY

BY THOMAS HOOD, ESQ

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM

THE LITERARY POCKET-BOOK

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