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Hood, Thomas, "A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry." in The Bijou; (London: from The Bijou Literary Annual, 1828 A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry By Thomas Hood, Esq. Fraser, William (1796-1854), compiler The Poetess Archive General Editor, and P5 encoding by Laura Mandell Transcribing and proofreading by Zach Weir 1828 TEI formatted filesize uncompressed: approx. 684 kbytes Laura Mandell, Texas A&M University College Station, TX 20170606 Freely available via a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License bijou1828.poemP16 The Bijou Literary Annual Edited by Laura Mandell bijou1828-p5.xml Thomas Hood, 1799-1845 A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry The Bijou; or Annual of Literature and the Arts William Fraser London William Pickering 1828 76-79 This copy is transcribed from the volume held by Miami University Special Collections Department. 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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 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, 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, 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, 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! , 1828)View: HTML | XML