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, {160} 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! FYTTE THE SECOND. Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,-- How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields! On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen. With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear, The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere. 'What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claim The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honoured name!' That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel; Then said our Queen--'Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall? His name--his race?'--'An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball. {162} 'Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known. But see, the other champion comes!'--Then rang the startled air With shouts of 'Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there.' And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, Appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse. Then shook their ears the sapient peers,--'That joust will soon be done: My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!' 'Done,' quoth the Brougham,--'And done with you!' 'Now, Minstrels, are you ready?' Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,--'You'd better both sit steady. Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!' 'Amen!' said good Sir Aubrey Vere; 'Saint Schism defend the right!'