At the couch of Ivanhoe in the castle of Front de Bœuf.
by N.L.T.
Originally published in Hood's Magazine (Henry Hurst) vol.6 #3 (Sep 1846).
Boast not each deed of high emprize,
Of chivalry's fantastic flame;
'Tis Cruelty's accurst disguise,
'Tis empty Honour's borrow'd name:
For this, affections pure and high,
Domestic love, and peaceful bliss,
The generous thought, the social tie,
Are wildly barter'd—all for this!
His course through seas of blood pursued,
While widows' tears its track proclaim,
'Mid churlish broil, 'mid battle feud,
The wand'ring Knight aspires to fame:
But where, alas! when death shall seize
The shiver'd spear of knighthood's trust,
Where is the fame that death decrees
To knighthood's vainly honour'd dust?
The rusted mail, the mould'ring tomb,
Some future pilgrim's search shall share,
Who strives to learn the deeds, and doom,
Of him whose bones lie buried there:
But, in the rhyme once rudely trac'd,
Vainly he seeks his worth, or name,
And, pond'ring o'er the tale defac'd,
Smiles at the boast of knighthood's fame.
Yet think not, Christian! think not thou,
Tho' deeds of war my thoughts detest,
That fear hath power to blanch my brow,
Or e'er hath been my bosom's guest;
My heart the God of Abraham knows,
He knows that I my blood would shed,
Drop after drop, to heal the woes
Oppression pours on Israel's head.
Heaven sees my thoughts, and reads my heart—
A dungeon's gloom my Sire contains;
With life itself I'd freely part,
That Sire to save from death, or chains,
The child of Judah's captive race,
With Christian maids would proudly vie;—
To learn of me were no disgrace,
When duty summons, how to die.