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 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” 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, Mayhap some fair-one wiped one beauteous eye,— Soon then the lady, whose grim stalwart swain Then trumpets sounded, bullocks whole were drest, And when fair daughters bloomed like beauteous flowers, But maidens now from hall and park are brought, Alas! the days of Chivalry are fled! The brilliant tournament exists no more! And even courtship is a dreadful bore! The Literary Gazette. THE COMPLAINT. A BALLAD. REST, rest, dear babe! in balmy sleep reposing, Shall wake that smile in which alone I'm blest. Hush thee, sweet babe! let nought disturb thy slumbers, Thus frames for thee the soothing favourite numbers, Alas! my child, for thee no father's bosom No sheltering arm protects thy tender blossom, And screens its weakness from life's gathering storm. In vain with tears and suppliant accents blended, 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, Oft o'er thy lovely form while pensive musing, O may that Power, who hears my sad lamenting, To faith's firm bonds, and love's forgiving sigh! Sleep on, dear babe! no thoughts like these oppress thee, Those tranquil looks suspend thy mother's anguish, NAPOLEON AT THE KREMLIN. BY MRS. CHARLES GORE. DEEPLY shadowed by the night, On the platformed tower he stands; With the dream of conquered lands, 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 "Say! hath the licensed hour, On our name? "Or doth my warriors' mirth "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!" |