The Laureates' Tourney

By the Hon. T- B----M'A-.

[Thisand the five following Poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by "the unsuccessful competitors for the Laureateship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they came into our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat.

Bays! which in former days have graced the brow Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died; Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough; With palpitating hand I take ye now, Since worthier minstrel there is none beside, And with a thrill of song half deified, I bind them proudly on my locks of snow. There shall they bide, till he who follows next, Of whom I cannot even guess the name, Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,-- And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]

FYTTE THE FIRST.

"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land? How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand? How does the little Prince of Wales--how looks our lady Queen?

And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?" "I bringno tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen's hall; I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trum- pet'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 Far- ringdon 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'tye 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 Hippo- crene.

'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! getye "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 Spital- fields, And he who wins shall have the hays, and he shall die who yields!'

Down went the window with a crash,--in silence and in fear Each raggèd 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 lots 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 listsof Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the lists of Mars Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the com- bat's jars!' 'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers.--'Faith, says Camp- bell, '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!

FYTTE THE SECOND.

'Oh,bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,-- How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields! On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights ap- pear, The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere. 'What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claim The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honoured name!'

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel; Then said our Queen--'Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall? His name--his race?'--'An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball.

'Oft inthe Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known. But see, the other champion comes!'--Then rang the startled air With shouts of 'Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Kydal's there.'

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse. Then shook their ears the sapient peers,--'That joust will soon be done: My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!'

'Done,' quoth the Brougham,--'And done with you!' 'Now, Minstrels, are you ready?' Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,--'You'd better both sit steady. Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to' the fight!' 'Amen!' said good Sir Aubrey Vere; 'Saint Schism defend the right!'

Assweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball; His lance he bore his breast before,--Saint George protect the just! Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shame- ful dust!

'Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!' Alas! the deed is done; Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son. 'Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!' 'It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!'

Above him stood the Rydal bard--his face was full of woe, 'Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe: A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitz- ball!'

They ledour Wordsworth to the Queen--she crowned him with the bays, And wished him many happy years, and many quarter- days; And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!"