Poems (David)/The Fall of Chivalry
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THE FALL OF CHIVALRY.
AH! They are gone, and never more
Can the brave knight go forth to war—
No more shall Love and Beauty's smile,
The wand'ring troubadour beguile!
The helmet hangs upon the wall—
The lance is rusted in the hall;
All, save the glory and the name,
Have perished like a dying flame!
They sleep like those brave ones of old,
Who lie 'neath tombs so hard and cold,—
Their bones have mouldered into dust,
Their souls have met the Lord, I trust.
The arms that fought in many a fray,
And noble forms that led the way,
Are sleeping in some ancient aisle,
Or 'neath some old and ruined pile
Now mingling with the weeds and grass,
'Midst tombs defaced, are seen, alas!
The hands which point the lonely grave,
Scarce cares the monuments to save.
The feudal baron's haughty crest
Is vanquished by the conqueror's rest—
How fallen are the noble halls,
With ivy clinging round their walls!—
The fern and harebell growing there
'Midst sweet wall-flowers that scent the air,
Standing so lone on a gentle slope,
With shattered tower and empty moat,—
And all laid bare to midnight sky,
The ruined walls now silent lie;
Nor pike, nor spear, can there be seen
Glist'ning in the moon's pale beam!
The mouldering escutcheon o'er its gate,
Mocking the castle's now fallen state.
The minstrel's song is heard no more,
That strain hath died for evermore;
The songs alike of peace and war
Bear not the spirit, as of yore
Stirred up within the warrior's breast,
Undying deeds, which clust'ring rest
Around the proudest names we prize.
The glory now which o'er them lies
Has often roused the rhymers' art,
And bound it to the nation's heart.
Oh! Chivalry! thy power no more
Is seen in wild and border war,
When in a feat of reckless fight,
Brought sorrow on some fearless knight!
Yes, thou art fled,—thy dreams are past,
And like a broken bowl, alas,
Fragments which show, though once entire,
The pride to which thou didst aspire.
The broken pieces show the frame
That made thy pride and worked thy fame.
Yet from thine ashes, like a phnix rise!
And soar o'er fames' triumphant sky.
A purer and a far more gentle time,
A goodly gift from a kind hand Divine!
Though we may sigh o'er its ruined fame,
And a sorrowing voice aloud proclaim,
Thy death must be, alas! for ever more,
And thy reign a forgotten dream of yore!
Can the brave knight go forth to war—
No more shall Love and Beauty's smile,
The wand'ring troubadour beguile!
The helmet hangs upon the wall—
The lance is rusted in the hall;
All, save the glory and the name,
Have perished like a dying flame!
They sleep like those brave ones of old,
Who lie 'neath tombs so hard and cold,—
Their bones have mouldered into dust,
Their souls have met the Lord, I trust.
The arms that fought in many a fray,
And noble forms that led the way,
Are sleeping in some ancient aisle,
Or 'neath some old and ruined pile
Now mingling with the weeds and grass,
'Midst tombs defaced, are seen, alas!
The hands which point the lonely grave,
Scarce cares the monuments to save.
The feudal baron's haughty crest
Is vanquished by the conqueror's rest—
How fallen are the noble halls,
With ivy clinging round their walls!—
The fern and harebell growing there
'Midst sweet wall-flowers that scent the air,
Standing so lone on a gentle slope,
With shattered tower and empty moat,—
And all laid bare to midnight sky,
The ruined walls now silent lie;
Nor pike, nor spear, can there be seen
Glist'ning in the moon's pale beam!
The mouldering escutcheon o'er its gate,
Mocking the castle's now fallen state.
The minstrel's song is heard no more,
That strain hath died for evermore;
The songs alike of peace and war
Bear not the spirit, as of yore
Stirred up within the warrior's breast,
Undying deeds, which clust'ring rest
Around the proudest names we prize.
The glory now which o'er them lies
Has often roused the rhymers' art,
And bound it to the nation's heart.
Oh! Chivalry! thy power no more
Is seen in wild and border war,
When in a feat of reckless fight,
Brought sorrow on some fearless knight!
Yes, thou art fled,—thy dreams are past,
And like a broken bowl, alas,
Fragments which show, though once entire,
The pride to which thou didst aspire.
The broken pieces show the frame
That made thy pride and worked thy fame.
Yet from thine ashes, like a phnix rise!
And soar o'er fames' triumphant sky.
A purer and a far more gentle time,
A goodly gift from a kind hand Divine!
Though we may sigh o'er its ruined fame,
And a sorrowing voice aloud proclaim,
Thy death must be, alas! for ever more,
And thy reign a forgotten dream of yore!