Classic Poem

In days of yore, when knight or squire
By Fate were summon'd to retire,
Some menial poet still was near,
To bear them to the hemisphere,
And there among the stars to leave 'em,
Until the gods sent to relieve 'em:
And sure our Knight, whose very sight wou'd
Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood,
Should he neglected lie, and rot,
Stink in his grave, and be forgot,
Would have just reason to complain,
If he should chance to rise again;
And therefore to prevent his dudgeon,
In mournful doggrel thus we trudge on.
Oh me! what tongue, what pen, can tell
How this renowned champion fell?
But must reflect, alas! alas!
All human glory fades like grass,
And that the strongest martial feats
Of errant knights are all but cheats:
Witness our Knight, who sure has done
More valiant actions, ten to one,
Than of More-Hall, the mighty More,
Or him that made the Dragon roar;
Has knock'd more men and women down
Than Bevis of Southampton town,
Or than our modern heroes can,
To take them singly, man by man.
No, sure, the grisly King of terror
Has been to blame, and in an error,
To issue his dead-warrant forth
To seize a knight of so much worth,
Just in the nick of all his glory;
I tremble when I tell the story.
Oh! help me, help me, some kind Muse,
This surly tyrant to abuse,
Who, in his rage, has been so cruel
To rob the world of such a jewel;
A knight more learned, stout, and good,
Sure ne'er was made of flesh and blood:
All his perfections were so rare,
The wit of man could not declare
Which single virtue, or which grace,
Above the rest had any place,
Or which he was most famous for,
The camp, the pulpit, or the bar;
Of each he had an equal spice,
And was in all so very nice,
That, to speak truth, the' account is lost,
In which he did excel the most.
When he forsook the peaceful dwelling,
And out he went a colonelling,
Strange hopes and fears possest the nation,
How he could manage that vocation,
Until he show'd it, to a wonder,
How nobly he could fight and plunder.
At preaching, too, he was a dab,
More exquisite by far than Squab;
He could fetch uses, and infer,
Without the help of metaphor,
From any Scripture text, howe'er
Remote it from the purpose were;
And with his fist, instead of a stick,
Beat pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
Till he made all the audience weep,
Excepting those that fell asleep.
Then at the bar he was right able,
And could bind o'er as well as swaddle;
And famous, too, at petty sessions,
'Gainst thieves and whores for long digressions
He could most learnedly determine
To Bridewell, or the stocks, the vermin.
For his address and way of living,
All his behaviour was so moving,
That let the dame be ne'er so chaste,
As people say, below the waist,
If Hudibras but once come at her,
He'd quickly make her chaps to water:
Then for his equipage and shape,
On vestals they'd commit a rape,
Which often, as the story says,
Have made the ladies weep both ways.
Ill has he read that never heard,
How he with Widow Tomson far'd,
And what hard conflict was between
Our Knight and that insulting queen.
Sure captive knight ne'er took more pains,
For rhymes for his melodious strains,
Nor beat his brains, or made more faces,
To get into a jilt's good graces,
Than did Sir Hudibras to get
Into this subtile gipsy's net,
Who, after all her high pretence
To modesty and innocence,
Was thought by most to be a woman,
That to all other knights was common:
Hard was his fate in this I own,
Nor will I for the trapes atone;
Indeed to guess I am not able,
What made her thus inexorable,
Unless she did not like his wit,
Or, what is worse, his perquisite.
Howe'er it was, the wound she gave
The Knight, he carried to his grave:
Vile harlot, to destroy a knight
That could both plead, and pray, and fight.
Oh! cruel, base, inhuman drab,
To give him such a mortal stab,
That made him pine away and moulder,
As though that he had been no soldier:
Could'st thou find no one else to kill,
Thou instrument of death and hell;
But Hudibras, who stood the Bears
So oft against the Cavaliers,
And in the very heat of war
Took stout Crowdero prisoner;
And did such wonders all along,
That far exceed both pen and tongue?
If he had been in battle slain,
We 'ad had less reason to complain;
But to be murder'd by a whore,
Was ever knight so serv'd before?
But since he's gone, all we can say,
He chanc'd to die a lingering way;
If he had liv'd a longer date,
He might, perhaps, have met a fate
More violent, and fitting for
A knight so fam'd in Civil war.
To sum up all, from love and danger
He's now (O! happy Knight) a stranger;
And if a Muse can ought foretell,
His fame shall fill a chronicle,
And he in after-ages be,
Of errant knights the' epitome.