“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,
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 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,
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 neighbor near;
Then up and spake young Tennyson—‘Who’s here that fears for death?
’Twere better one of us shall die, than England lose the wreath!
“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;
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!”