Is a new adventurer in the “annual” field, and deserves a foremost rank as a work of art.  Thus, the Child with Flowers, by Humphreys, after Sir Thomas Laurence, is really fit company for the president’s beautiful picture; the Boy and Dog, by the same painter and engraver, is also very fine; but the selection of both of the pictures for one volume is hardly judicious.  With Haddon Hall our readers are already familiar. Sans Souci, after Stothard, is a delightful scene.  In the literature, almost the only very striking composition is Sir Walter Scott’s illustration of Wilkie’s painting of the baronet’s own family, which, having been copied into every newspaper, we do not reprint.  For our part, we do not admire the painting; there is too much rank and file for a family group.  Mr. Hood has a Lament of Chivalry, in his best style; and a few Verses for an Album, by Charles Lamb, are to our taste.

A LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.

BY THOMAS HOOD, ESQ.

  Well hast thou cried, departed Burke,
  All chivalrous romantic work,
    Is ended now and past!—­
  That iron age—­which some have thought
  Of metal rather overwrought—­
    Is now all over-cast!

  Ay,—­where are those heroic knights
  Of old—­those armadillo wights
    Who wore the plated vest,—­
  Great Charlemagne, and all his peers
  Are cold—­enjoying with their spears
    An everlasting rest!—­

  The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound,
  So sleep his knights who gave that Round
    Old Table such eclat! 
  Oh Time has pluck’d the plumy brow! 
  And none engage at turneys now
    But those who go to law!

  Grim John o’ Gaunt is quite gone by,
  And Guy is nothing but a Guy,
    Orlando lies forlorn!—­
  Bold Sidney, and his kidney—­nay,
  Those “early champions”—­what are they
    But Knights without a morn!

  No Percy branch now perseveres
  Like those of old in breaking spears—­
    The name is now a lie!—­
  Surgeons, alone, by any chance,
  Are all that ever couch a lance
    To couch a body’s eye!

  Alas! for Lion-Hearted Dick,
  That cut the Moslem to the quick,
    His weapon lies in peace,—­
  Oh, it would warm them in a trice,
  If they could only have a spice
    Of his old mace in Greece!

  The fam’d Rinaldo lies a-cold,
  And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,
    That scal’d the holy wall! 
  No Saracen meets Paladin,
  We hear of no great Saladin,
    But only grow the small!

  Our Cressys too have dwindled since
  To penny things—­at our Black Prince
    Historic pens would scoff—­
  The only one we moderns had
  Was nothing but a Sandwich lad,
    And measles took him off:—­

  Where are those old and feudal clans,
  Their pikes, and bills, and partizans! 
    Their hauberks—­jerkins—­buffs? 
  A battle was a battle then,
  A breathing piece of work—­but men
    Fight now with powder puffs!