As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball; His lance he bore his breast before,--Saint George protect the just! Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust! 'Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!' Alas! the deed is done; Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son. 'Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!' 'It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!' Above him stood the Rydal bard--his face was full of woe. 'Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe: A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!' They led our Wordsworth to the Queen--she crowned him with the bays, And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days; And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!" The Royal Banquet. BY THE HON. G--- B--- S---. The Queen she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly hall, And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all; There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel, And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal. "What, pantler, ho! remove the cloth! Ho! cellarer, the wine, And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's line!" Then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of British peers, "God bless her sacred Majesty! Let's see the little dears!" Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 'twas a touching sight to see That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee; To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape! They passed the wine, the sparkling wine--they filled the goblets up; Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup; And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease, Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees. "What want we here, my gracious liege," cried gay Lord Aberdeen, "Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between? I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's warbling lay, {168} But where's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-day?" Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried, "Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside? Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's vacant crown, And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through London town!" "Now glory to our gracious Queen!" a voice was heard to cry, And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye; "Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race, A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate's place!