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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,
In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh,
Perchance she threw him, with the closing year,
An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf.

And he a thousand oaths of love would swear,
As, in an ecstasy, he caught the prize;
Then would he gallop off, the lord knows were,
Telling another thousand monstrous lies;

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All picturing her matchless beauty, which
He might discern, I ween, not much about,
Seeing he could but see her 'cross the ditch,

As she between the lattice bars peeped out.

Off then, away he 'd ride o'er sea and land,

And dragons fell and mighty giants smite, With the tough spear he carried in his hand :

And all to prove himself her own true knight.

Meanwhile, a thousand more, as wild as he, Were all employed about the self-same thing; And having ridden hard for each "ladye,"

They all came back, and met within a ring:

Where all the men who were entitled “Syr”
Appeared with martial air and haughty frown,
Bearing "long poles, each other up to stir,"

And, in the stir up, thrust each other down.

And then they galloped round with dire intent,
Each knight resolved another's pride to humble;
And laughter rang around the tournament,
As oft as any of them had a tumble.

And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die,
The victim of a stout unlucky poke,

Mayhap some fair-one wiped one beauteous eye,—
The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke.

Soon then the lady, whose grim stalwart swain
Had got the strongest horse and toughest pole,
Bedecked him kneeling with a golden chain,
And plighted troth before the motley whole.

Then trumpets sounded, bullocks whole were drest,
Priests with shorn heads and lengthy beards were seen;
'Mid clamorous shouts the happy pair were blest,
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.

But maidens now from hall and park are brought,
Like Covent-Garden flowers, in lots, to Town:
No more by prowess in the lists 't is sought-
Beauty'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!

The Literary Gazette.

THE COMPLAINT.

A BALLAD.

REST, rest, dear babe! in balmy sleep reposing,
No care, no sorrow moves thy tranquil breast ;
Rest, till the dawn thy gentle eyes unclosing,

Shall wake that smile in which alone I'm blest.

Hush thee, sweet babe! let nought disturb thy slumbers,
Thy mother fondly o'er thy cradle hung,

Thus frames for thee the soothing favourite numbers,
For thee her vigils thus beguiles with song.

Alas! my child, for thee no father's bosom
Throbs to soft sympathy and fond alarm;

No sheltering arm protects thy tender blossom,

And screens its weakness from life's gathering storm.

In vain with tears and suppliant accents blended,
His infant seeks its sacred rights to claim;
Though truth and honour for those claims contended,
Honour and truth-to him—are but a name.

Vainly to him this faithful heart appealing,

Which passion's tenderest, truest flame still warms, Urges those oft-pledged vows, each generous feeling, Though now forgot—which gave me to his arms.

How can he thus forego the soft relations,
That bind with mutual ties his soul to me?
How can he lose those ever-dear sensations,
Which swell to rapture as I gaze on thee?

Oft o'er thy lovely form while pensive musing,
His smile, his features, with delight I trace,
Each painful thought in melting fondness losing,
I clasp his image in my child's embrace.

O may that Power, who hears my sad lamenting,
And guards my nursling with a parent's eye,
Restore his heart, at nature's voice relenting,

To faith's firm bonds, and love's forgiving sigh!

Sleep on, dear babe! no thoughts like these oppress thee,
Mild innocence thy peaceful temples crowns;
No anxious doubts, no keen regrets distress thee,
No brooding care around thy cradle frowns.

Those tranquil looks suspend thy mother's anguish,
Those artless smiles her drooping heart sustain;
Victim of broken vows, though doomed to languish,
She lives in THEE to peace and hope again!

NAPOLEON AT THE KREMLIN.

BY MRS. CHARLES GORE.

DEEPLY shadowed by the night,

On the platformed tower he stands;
And his lonely hour is bright

With the dream of conquered lands,
Where the chosen of his legions have striven!
Where his plumed host appears,

And its soaring eagle bears

Its boast of blood and tears

Unto heaven!

Hushed in silent midnight sleep

The city lies below;

And the watch-call hoarse and deep,

As he paceth to and fro,

Breaks sternly its mighty repose

Lo! kindling one by one,

A thousand lights are shewn,

Each meteor-like and lone
Brightly glows!

"Say! hath the licensed hour,
With years of danger bought,—
Hath the wine-cup's wanton power
To my hardy veterans taught
The excesses of corruption and shame?
Have they bade yon flames arise
To tell the crimson skies
That the stain of outrage lies

On our name?

"Or doth my warriors' mirth
Yon fires in triumph raise,
To scare the shuddering earth
With the terrors of their blaze?
Like a flag of defiance unfurled,
Doth yon flood of radiance flow
From our camp?"

"Invader,-no!

'Tis a beacon-fire, whose glow Cheers the world!"

"Lo! its fury rageth higher, Columned upward to the sky, Like that pyramid of fire

Which shone, of old, on high, To pilot the loved of the Lord! Soldiers of Fame! come forth,— Let the Empress of the North Note your valour's daring worth At my word!

"Tear down each smoking wall

Of her city doomed to death, Ere her towers unaided fall,

Lie bravely earthed beneath,

Where the bulwarks of her strength darkly nod!"

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