Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY, by THOMAS HOOD


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LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Well hast thou cried, departed burke
Last Line: As in a safety coffin!
Subject(s): Chivalry


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 eclat!
O, 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 forlom! --
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:
O, 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 Salad in,
But only grow that 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 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The curtal axe is out of date;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 crossbow 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, --
O, spits now domineer!
The coat of mail is left alone, --
And where is all chain armour gone?
Go ask a Brighton Pier.

We fight in ropes, and not in lists,
Bestowing handcuffs 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 labour through his case!

Farewell, then, ancient men of might!
Crusader, errant squire, and knight!
Our coats and custom soften;
To rise would only make you weep --
Sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep,
As in a safety coffin!





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