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.