'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 in the 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!'

As sweeps 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 led our 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!"