The curtal-axe is out of date! 
  The good old cross-bow 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,
    Oh spits now domineer!—­
  The coat of mail is left alone,—­
  And where is all chain armour gone? 
    Go ask at Brighton Pier.

  We fight in ropes and not in lists,
  Bestowing hand-cuffs 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 scor’d
  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 customs soften,—­
  To rise would only make ye weep—­
  Sleep on, in rusty iron sleep,
    As in a safety-coffin!

* * * * *

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM.

  Fresh clad from Heaven in robes of white
  A young probationer of light. 
  Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright.

  A spotless leaf but thought, and care—­
  And friends, and foes, in foul or fair,
  Have “written strange defeature” there.

  And Time, with heaviest hand of all,
  Like that fierce writing on the wall,
  Hath stamp’d sad dates—­he can’t recall.

  And error gilding worst designs—­
  Like speckled snake that strays and shines—­
  Betrays his path by crooked lines.

  And vice hath left his ugly blot—­
  And good resolves, a moment hot,
  Fairly began—­but finish’d not.

  And fruitless late remorse doth trace—­
  Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace—­
  Her irrecoverable race.

  Disjointed numbers—­sense unknit—­
  Huge reams of folly—­shreds of wit—­
  Compose the mingled mass of it.

  My scalded eyes no longer brook,
  Upon this ink-blurr’d thing to look,
  Go—­shut the leaves—­and clasp the book!—­

* * * * *

THE LITERARY POCKET-BOOK.