p. 86Ready at need he comes with speed, William of Deloraine, And Hereward the Wake himself is pricking o’er the plain. The good knight of La Mancha’s here, here is Sir Amyas Leigh, And Eric of the gold hair, pride of Northern chivalry. There shines the steel of Alan Breck, the sword of Athos shines, Dalgetty on Gustavus rides along the marshalled lines, With many a knight of sunny France the Cid has marched from Spain, And Götz the Iron-handed leads the lances of Almain. p. 86 But who upon the Modern side are champions? With the sleeve Adorned of his false lady-love, rides glorious David Grieve, p. 87A bookseller sometime was he, in a provincial town, But now before his iron mace go horse and rider down. Ho, Robert Elsmere! count thy beads; lo, champion of the fray, With brandished colt, comes Felix Holt, all of the Modern day. And Silas Lapham’s six-shooter is cocked: the Colonel’s spry! There spurs the wary Egoist, defiance in his eye; There Zola’s ragged regiment comes, with dynamite in hand, And Flaubert’s crew of country doctors devastate the land. On Robert Elsmere Friar Tuck falls with his quarter-staff, Nom Dé! to see the clerics fight might make the sourest laugh! They meet, they shock, full many a knight is smitten on the crown, p. 88So keep us good St. Geneviève, Umslopogaas is down! About the mace of David Grieve his blood is flowing red, Alas for ancient chivalry, le brave Bussy is sped! Yet where the sombre Templar rides the Modern caitiffs fly, The Mummer (of The Mummer’s Wife) has got it in the eye, From Felix Holt his patent Colt hath not averted fate, And Silas Lapham’s smitten fair, right through his gallant pate. There Dan Deronda reels and falls, a hero sore surprised; Ha, Beauséant! still may such fate befall the Circumcised! The Egoist is flying fast from him of Ivanhoe: Beneath the axe of Skalagrim fall prigs at every blow: The ragged Zolaists have fled, screaming ‘We are betrayed,’ p. 89But loyal Alan Breck is shent, stabbed through the Stuart plaid; In sooth it is a grimly sight, so fast the heroes fall, Three volumes fell could scarcely tell the fortunes of them all. At length but two are left on ground, and David Grieve is one. Ma foy, what deeds of derring-do that bookseller hath done! The other, mark the giant frame, the great portentous fist! ’Tis Porthos! David Grieve may call on Kuenen an he list. The swords are crossed; Doublez, dégagez, vite! great Porthos calls, And David drops, that secret botte hath pierced his overalls! And goodly Porthos, as of old the famed Orthryades, Raises the trophy of the fight, then falling on his knees, p. 90He writes in gore upon his shield, ‘Romance, Romance, has won!’ And blood-red
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