That cut the Moslem to the quick,
His weapon lies in peace,--
Oh, it would warm them in a trice,
If they could only have a spice
Of his old mace in Greece!

The fam'd Rinaldo lies a-cold,
And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,
That scal'd the holy wall!
No Saracen meets Paladin,
We hear of no great _Saladin_,
But only grow the 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The curtal-axe is out of date!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 cross-bow bends to Fate,
'Tis gone--the archer's craft!