I did not think to glorify gods and kings, Who scourged them ever with hate's sanguineous rods; But who with hope and faith may live at odds? And then these jingling jays with plume-plucked wings, Compete, and laureate laurels _are_ lovely things, Though crowing lyric lauders of kings and gods! Beshrew the blatant bleating of sheep-voiced mimes! True thunder shall strike dumb their chirping chimes. If there _be_ laureate laurels, or bays, or palms, In these red, Radical, revelling, riotous times, They should be the true bard's, though mid-age calms His revolutionary fierce rolling rhymes, Fulfilled with clamour and clangour and storm of--psalms That great lyre's golden echoes rolled away! Forth tripped another claimant of the bay. Trim, tittivated, tintinnabulant, His bosom aped the true Parnassian pant, As may a housemaid's leathern bellows mock The rock--whelmed Titan's breathings. He no shock Of bard-like shagginess shook to the breeze. A modern Cambrian Minstrel hopes to please By undishevelled dandy-daintiness, Whether of lays or locks, of rhymes or dress. Some bards pipe from Parnassus, some from Hermon; Room for the singer of the Sunday Sermon! His stimulant tepid tea, his theme a text, Carmarthen's cultured caroller comes next! THE WORTH OF VERSE. AIR--"_The Birth of Verse_." Wild thoughts which occupy the brain, Vague prophecies which fill the ear, Dim perturbation, precious pain, A gleam of hope, a chill of fear,-- These vex the poet's spirit. Moral:-- Have a shy at the Laureate Laurel! Some say no definite thought there is In my full flatulence of sound. Let National Observers quiz (H-NL-Y won't have it. I'll be bound!) Envy! _O trumpery, O MORRIS!_ Could JUVENAL jealous be of HORACE? I know the chambers of my soul Are filled with laudatory airs, Such as the salaried bard should troll When he the Laureate laurels wears. And I am he who opened Hades, To harmless parsons and to ladies! For I _can_ "moralise my song" More palpably than Mr. POPE; And I can touch the toiling throng: There is small doubt of _that_, I hope. I've piped for him who ploughs the furrows, And stood for the Carmarthen Boroughs. I mayn't be strong, inspired, complete, But on the Liberal goose I'm sound. And I can count my (rhythmic) feet With any Pegasus around. I witch all women, and some men, GLADSTONE I've drawn, and written "_Gwen_." If these be not sufficient claims, The worth of Verse is vastly small. I've called him various pretty names, The honoured Master of us all; "His place is with the Immortals." Yes! But I could fill it _here_, I guess! His "chaste white Muse" could not object, For mine is white, and awfully chaste. Now ALGERNON has no respect For purity and public taste. EDWIN is given to allegory. Whilst ALFRED is a wicked Tory!!!