The child and the old man sat alone In the quiet, peaceful shade Of the old green boughs, that had richly grown In the deep, thick forest glade. It was a soft and pleasant sound, That rustling of the oak; And the gentle breeze played lightly round As thus the fair boy spoke:— "Dear father, what can honor be, Of which I hear men rave? Field, cell and cloister, land and sea, The tempest and the grave:— It lives in all, 'tis sought in each, 'Tis never heard or seen: Now tell me, father,
I beseech, What can this honor mean?" "It is a name — a name, my child — It lived in other days, When men were rude, their passions wild, Their sport, thick battle-frays. When, in armor bright, the warrior bold Knelt to his lady's eyes: Beneath the abbey pavement old That warrior's dust now lies. "The iron hearts of that old day Have mouldered in the grave; And chivalry has passed away, With knights so true and brave; The honor, which to them was life, Throbs in no bosom now; It only gilds the gambler's strife, Or decks the worthless vow."
