"WHAT news, what news, thou pilgrim gray, what news from the 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 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 had seen,

"'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 son 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,

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 neighbor near;

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

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

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

'T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too,

If none of British song might dare a deed of derringdo!'

"'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;

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

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

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 appear,

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 honored name!"

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,

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 Rydal's there."

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,

Appeared the honored 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!"

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 shameful 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 Fitzball!"

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen—she crowned him with the bays

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!