Young Mivins turned him from the spot, Bewildered with the dreadful stroke, her Perfidy came like a shot

He was a thunderstruck stockbroker.

"A curse on steam and steamers too!

By their delays I have been undone!"

He cried, as, looking very blue,

He rode a bachelor to London.

The Laureates' Tourney.

BY THE HON. T

B

M'A

[This and 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 now wears 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 sung 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 gentle Brough* 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 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 Farring

don 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!

* For the convenience of future commentators it may be mentioned, that the "gentle Brough" was the Monthly Nurse who attended her Majesty on the occasion of the birth of the Princess Royal.

"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, 't is 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?

'T were 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 would 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, 66 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! 't is done! And who hath won? Keep silence, one and all,

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