Х A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY. ALAS! the days of Chivalry are fled! The brilliant tournament exists no more! Our loves are cold and dull as ice or lead, And courting is a most enormous bore! In those good "olden times," a "ladye bright" Might sit within her turret or her bower, While lovers sang and played without all night, And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower. Yet, if one favoured swain would persevere, And he a thousand oaths of love would swear, All picturing her matchless beauty, which Off then, away he'd ride o'er sea and land, Meanwhile, a thousand more, as wild as he, Were all employed about the selfsame thing; And when each had rode hard for his "ladye," They all came back and met within a ring. LYRE. * B 290 A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY. Where all the men who were entitled “syr” And, in the stir up, thrust each other down. And then they galloped round with dire intent, And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die, The victim of a stout unlucky poke, Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye, Soon then the lady, whose grim stalwart swain And plighted troth before the motley whole. Then trumpets sounded, bullocks whole were dressed, Priests with shorn heads and lengthy beards were seen; 'Mid clamorous shouts the happy pair was blessed, For Chivalry won Beauty's chosen queen. And when fair daughters bloomed like beauteous flowers, To bless the gallant knight and stately dame, They shut them up within their lonely towers, That squires might fight for them and win them fame. See Lady Morgan's chivalric defiance to the knights of the inky plume. A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY. 291 But maidens now from hall and park are brought, Like Covent Garden flowers, in lots to town; No more by prowess in the lists 'tis soughtBeauty's the purchase of the wealthiest clown! Alas! the days of Chivalry are fled ! The brilliant tournament exists no more! Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead, And even courtship is a dreadful bore! SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. BY MRS. HEMANS. "A Greek islander being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beautiful scenery, replied, Yes all is fair; but the sea-where is it?" WHERE is the sea?-I languish here Where is my own blue sea? With all its barks of fleet career, And flags and breezes free! I miss that voice of waves-the first That woke my childish glee: The measured chime-the thundering burst― Oh! rich your myrtles' breath may rise, Soft, soft, your winds may be ; I hear the shepherd's mountain flute, 'SATURDAY AFTERNOON. BY N. P. WILLIS. I LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walked the world for fourscore years, And they say that I am old; And my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, And my years are well nigh told. It is very true-it is very true I'm old, and " I "bide my time❞— Play on! play on! I am with you there, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world, at best, is a weary place, But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, AUTUMNAL LEAVES. AUTUMNAL leaves, Autumnal leaves, To see you withered thus and dead, Autumnal leaves, autumnal leaves, Who feels no pang, and heaves no sigh To see you shrivelled thus, achieves No enviable victory O'er powers that ne'er should own controlThe kindliest feelings of the soul! Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves, autumnal leaves, To life's last words-Farewell!-Farewell! |