It soothes the anxious lover's care;
It weans the drunkard from excess;
It counsels warriors in their art,
When dangers threat and perils press;
And yields us, when we need them most,
Companions in our loneliness." [1]

[Footnote 1: Translated in that excellent periodical, which no lover of
chess should be without, _The Chess Monthly_, edited by Fiske and Morphy,
New York. (Vol. i. p. 92.)]

Now that the Persian poet has touched his lyre in our pages, we will not at
once pass to any cold geographical or analytical realm of our subject, but
pause awhile to cull some flowers of song which have sprung up on good
English soil, which the feet of Caissa have ever loved to press. No other
games, and few other subjects, have gathered about them so rich a
literature, or been intertwined with so much philological and historical
lore. Not the least of this is to be found in the English classics, from
which we propose to make one or two selections. We begin where English
poetry begins, with Dan Chaucer; and from many beautiful conceits turning
upon chess, we select one which must receive universal admiration. It is
from the "Booke of the Duchesse."

"My boldnesse is turned to shame,
For false Fortune hath played a game
At the Chesse with me.

"At the Chesse with me she gan to play,
With her false draughts full divers
Sho stale on me, and toke my fers:[1]