Burnet.
By C. G. Eastman.
"'So,' muttered the dark and musing prince, unconscious of the throng, 'so perishes the Race of Iron. Low lies the last Baron that could control and command the people. The Age of Force expires with knighthood and deeds of arms. And over this dead great man I see the new cycle dawns. Happy, henceforth, he who can plot, and scheme, and fawn, and smile.'"
And so the Race of Iron passed— So Burnet's bloody fieldSaw, cold and still, its lion heart Lie crushed with Warwick's shield;And when the victor's trumpet rang Above his fallen head,The age of knightly deeds had passed— The Baron-power was dead.
Lord of a hundred baronies, Chief of a mighty race,His lightest word the people's law, The throne his knotted mace;Girt by his more than royal host, He heard his war-trump ring,And towered among his barons bold, Too proud to be a king.
But Time was working wondrous change, And from his native realmWere passing fast the Barons' rule, The haubert and the helm.
