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 play'd without all night, And deem'd themselves rewarded by a flower. Yet, if one favour'd 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 employ'd about the selfsame thing; And when each had rode hard for his "ladye,' They all came back and met within a ring. Where all the men who were entitled "syr" And then they gallop'd round with dire intent, And when, perchance, some ill-starr'd 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 dress'd, Priests with shorn heads and lengthy beards were seen; 'Mid clamorous shouts the happy pair were bless'd, For Chivalry won Beauty's chosen queen. And when fair daughters bloom'd 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. 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 fied! 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- 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, 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, I have walk'd the world for fourscore years, And my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, It is very true-it is very true I'm old, and "I 'bide my time". But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 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 wither'd thus and dead, Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves, O'er powers that ne'er should own controlThe kindliest feelings of the soul ! Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves, And shall we see your like again? That thought-like Gilead's balm, relieves The anguish of the heart and brain, Giving a charm and mystic spell To life's last words-Farewell!-Farewell! |