BY THE HON. T — - B — - M — - .

“I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen's hall;

I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call;

And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er hath seen,

Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.

‘ He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!’‘ Twas thus the cry began,

And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man;

From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,

The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: but sore afraid was he;

A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.

‘ Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear,

I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!—

‘ What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves — what make you there beneath?’

‘ The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath!

We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song;

Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight — we may not tarry long!’

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn —‘ Rare jest it were, I think,

But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink!

An’ if it flowed with wine or beer,‘ tis easy to be seen,

That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

‘ Tell me, if on Parnassus’ heights there grow a thousand sheaves:

Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?

Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain

The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

‘ No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,

And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;

To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,

And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!’

Down went the window with a crash,— in silence and in fear

Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near;

Then up and spake young Tennyson —‘ Who's here that fears for death?

‘ Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath!

‘ Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;—

For armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow;

‘ Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too,

If none of British song might dare a deed of derring-do!’

‘ The lists of Love are mine,’ said Moore,‘ and not the lists of Mars;’

Said Hunt,‘ I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!’

‘ I'm old,’ quoth Samuel Rogers.—‘ Faith,’ says Campbell,‘ so am I!’

‘ And I'm in holy orders, sir!’ quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

‘ Now out upon ye, craven loons!’ cried Moxon, good at need,—

‘ Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed.

I second Alfred's motion, boys,— let's try the chance of lot;

And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.’

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away — two hundred stayed to draw,—

Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw!

‘ Tis done!‘ tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,—

The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!