“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 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 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 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? ‘ Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath!
‘ Let's cast the lot 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 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!
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