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 overcast!

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 éclat!

oh, time has pluck’d the plumy brow!

and none engage at tourneys now

but those that 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 famed rinaldo lies a-cold,

and tancred too, and godfrey bold,

that scaled 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 partisans,

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the curtal-axe is out of date;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 crossbow bends — to fate;

’tis gone, the archer’s craft!

no tough arm bends the spinning 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 armor 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 scored

by dint of battle-axe or sword,

to find a vital place —

though certain doctors still pretend,

awhile, before they kill a friend,

to labor through his case.

farewell, then, ancient men of might!

crusader, errant squire, and knight!

our coats and customs soften;

to rise would only make you weep —

sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep,

as in a safety coffin!