The poems were sent in for competition in the month of April, 1829; and on June 12, 1829, the _Cambridge Chronicle_ recorded that "On Saturday last, the Chancellor's Gold Medal for the best English poem by a resident undergraduate was adjudged to Alfred Tennyson, of Trinity College." Shortly afterwards the poem was published, and was favourably reviewed in _The Athenæum_, which speaking of Prize poems generally, stated, "These productions have often been ingenious and elegant, but we have never before seen one of them which indicated really first-rate poetical genius, and which would have done honour to any man that ever wrote. _Such, we do not hesitate to affirm, is the little work before us._" W. M. Thackeray was at Cambridge at the same time as Tennyson, and early in 1829 he commenced the publication of a small paper entitled "THE SNOB, a Literary and Scientific Journal, _not_ conducted by members of the University." This was published by W. H. Smith, of Rose Crescent, Cambridge, and ran for eleven weeks: its contents were humorous sketches in prose and verse, and the most remarkable paper amongst them is the following droll poem on _Timbuctoo_, which appeared on the 30th April, 1829, and has most unaccountably been omitted from recent editions of Thackeray's works:-- _To the Editor of the_ "SNOB." SIR,--Though your name be _Snob_, I trust you will not refuse this tiny "Poem of a Gownsman," which was unluckily not finished on the day appointed for delivery of the several copies of verses on Timbuctoo. I thought, Sir, it would be a pity that such a poem should be lost to the world; and conceiving "THE SNOB" to be the most widely circulated periodical in Europe, I have taken the liberty of submitting it for insertion or approbation.--I am, Sir, yours, &c., &c. TIMBUCTOO.--PART I. _The Situation._ In Africa (a quarter of the world), Men's skins are black, their hair is crisp and curl'd, And somewhere there, unknown to public view, A mighty city lies, called Timbuctoo. _The Natural History._ There stalks the tiger,--there the lion roars, 5 Who sometimes eats the luckless blackamoors; All that he leaves of them the monster throws To jackals, vultures, dogs, cats, kites and crows; His hunger thus the forest monster gluts, And then lies down 'neath trees called cocoa-nuts. 10 _The lion hunt._ Quick issue out, with musket, torch, and brand, The sturdy blackamoors, a dusky band! The beast is found--pop goes the musketoons-- The lion falls covered with horrid wounds. _Their lives at home._ At home their lives in pleasure always flow, 15 But many have a different lot to know! _Abroad._ They're often caught and sold as slaves, alas! _Reflections on the foregoing._