The Bijou

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 The curtal-axe is out of date!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!

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!—