When such a time cometh

I do retire

Into an old room

Beside a bright fire:

O, pile a bright fire!

And there I sit

Reading old things,

Of knights and lorn damsels,

While the wind sings —

O, drearily sings!

I never look out

Nor attend to the blast;

For all to be seen

Is the leaves falling fast:

Falling, falling!

But close at the hearth,

Like a cricket, sit I,

Reading of summer

And chivalry —

Gallant chivalry!

Then with an old friend

I talk of our youth —

How ’twas gladsome, but often

Foolish, forsooth:

But gladsome, gladsome!

Or, to get merry,

We sing some old rhyme

That made the wood ring again

In summer time —

Sweet summer time!

Then go we smoking,

Silent and snug:

Naught passes between us,

Save a brown jug —

Sometimes!

And sometimes a tear

Will rise in each eye,

Seeing the two old friends

So merrily —

So merrily!

And ere to bed

Go we, go we,

Down on the ashes

We kneel on the knee,

Praying together!

Thus, then, live I

Till, ‘mid all the gloom,

By Heaven! the bold sun

Is with me in the room

Shining, shining!

Then the clouds part,

Swallows soaring between;

The spring is alive,

And the meadows are green!

I jump up like mad,

Break the old pipe in twain,

And away to the meadows,

The meadows again!

Chivalry At A Discount

Fair cousin mine! the golden days

Of old romance are over;

And minstrels now care naught for bays,

Nor damsels for a lover;

And hearts are cold, and lips are mute

That kindled once with passion,

And now we’ve neither lance nor lute,

And tilting’s out of fashion.

Yet weeping Beauty mourns the time

When Love found words in flowers;

When softest test sighs were breathed in rhyme,

And sweetest songs in bowers;

Now wedlock is a sober thing —

No more of chains or forges! —

A plain young man — a plain gold ring —

The curate — and St. George’s.

Then every cross-bow had a string,

And every heart a fetter;

And making love was quite the thing,

And making verses better;

And maiden-aunts were never seen,

And gallant beaux were plenty;

And lasses married at sixteen,

And died at one-and-twenty.

Then hawking was a noble sport,

And chess a pretty science;

And huntsmen learned to blow a morte,

And heralds a defiance;

And knights and spearmen showed their might,

And timid hinds took warning;

And hypocras was warmed at night,

And coursers in the morning.

Then plumes and pennons were prepared,

And patron-saints were lauded;

And noble deeds were bravely dared,

And noble dames applauded;

And Beauty played the leech’s part,

And wounds were healed with syrup;

And warriors sometimes lost a heart,

But never lost a stirrup.

Then there was no such thing as Fear,

And no such word as Reason;

And Faith was like a pointed spear,

And Fickleness was treason;

And hearts were soft, though blows were hard;

But when the fight was over,

A brimming goblet cheered the board,

His Lady’s smile the lover.

Ay, those were golden days! The moon

Had then her true adorers;