Hood, Thomas, "A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry." in The Bijou; (London: William Pickering , 1828)
   
      
         
            
               The Bijou; 
               or Annual of Literature and the Arts
            
            compiled by William Fraser
            
            
               
                  William Pickering
               
               London
            
            1828
            
               
                  pp. 76-79
               
            
         
      
      
         
            
               A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry
            
            
               By Thomas Hood, Esq.
            
            
               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 armadillos 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
                76 
               Old Table such eclat!
               Oh Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!
               And none engage at turneys now
               But those who go to law!
            
            
            
               No Percy branch now perserveres
               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,
                77 
               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 — 
               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,
                78 
               Oh spits now domineer! — 
               The coar of mail is left alone, — 
               And where is 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 man is overthrown — 
               A tilt! — It is a thing unknown — 
               Except upon a cart.
            
            
            
               The spear — the gallant tilter's pride
               The rusty spear is laid aside,
               Oh spits now domineer! — 
               The coar of mail is left alone, — 
               And where is chain- armour gone?
               Go ask at Brighton Pier.
            
            
            
               Mehtinks 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,
                79 
               To find a vital place — 
               Though certain Doctors still pretend
               Awhile, before they kill a friend,
               To labout through his case.
            
            
            
               Farewell, then, ancient men of might!
               Crusader! errant squire, and knoght!
               Our coats and customs soften, — 
               To rise would only make ye weep — 
               Sleep on, in rusty iron sleep.
               As in a safety- coffin!