The Knickerbocker Gallery/Burnet
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Charles G. Eastman
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. The land was dealt to nobles new, And men of foreign birth,And London loons were swarming round The broad old Norman hearth.
His Age had perished, and the Race That gave the Age renownFell with it, and the Castle bowed In silence to the Town.Low lay its great and mighty Chief, Its last and noblest man,And dawning o'er his broken brand The Age of Trade began:
The Age when Barter sneered at Birth, And parchment pedigreesOutweighed the names the Normans bore Across the stormy seas;When shone no more the honest brow Beneath the burgonot,And men began to fawn, and smile, And cheat, and lie, and plot:
When knaves trod on the knightly heel, And Avarice, like a rust,Eat out the brave old chivalry, And swords grew thick with dust;When churls and serfs grew fat with gain, And villains bought the land,And scorned the iron men of yore, The battle-axe and brand.
The pen usurped the sword; the loom, The mace; the plough, the spear;And Agriculture cut the grain Where rang the battle cheer;And men began to feel the rule Of Trade, more potent grownThan baron grim, or iron earl, Or monarch on his throne.
'T was best, perhaps: yet from the Age When trick and traffic came;When knights turned knaves, and ladies fair Grew false to woman's fame;The Age in mincing merchant-kings And London tailors great;When craft and cunning, fawn and fraud, Began to rule the state:
We turn, great Baron! to the men That crowned thy regal times,Admire their rude, gigantic strength, And half forget their crimes.The castle nursed a mighty race— A race of Nature's mould;And worth meant something more than wealth, And grandeur, more than gold.
Those monarch earls and lion lords, And barons stout and brave,Despised the crawling sycophant, The sleek and cringing knave;Their grim baronial banners told Of battles they had fought;Of honors passed from sire to son, And not of titles bought.
But trade and traffic, stock and steam, The platter and the plough,The mallet and the milliner Are lord and lady now.The Castle crowns the mousing mart, The Palace sails the deep,Ambition mounts to bantam hens. And chivalry to sheep.
The Earl discusses curly blues, The Baron runs to seed,And Fame combines a purgative. And Skill invents a mead; Nobility is stock and starch, And greatness fat sirloin;And worth and quality are found In calico and coin.