THE LAUREATES' TOURNEY
By the Hon. T- B——M'A-.
[This and the five following Poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by "the unsuccessful competitors for the Laureateship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they came into our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat.
Bays! which in former days have graced the brow
Of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died;
Leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side
Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough;
With palpitating hand I take ye now,
Since worthier minstrel there is none beside,
And with a thrill of song half deified,
I bind them proudly on my locks of snow.
There shall they bide, till he who follows next,
Of whom I cannot even guess the name,
Shall by Court favour, or some vain pretext
Of fancied merit, desecrate the same,—
And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well
As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]
FYTTE THE FIRST.
"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news
from southern land?
How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?
How does the little Prince of Wales—how looks our lady
Queen?
And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor
seen?"
"I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen's
hall;
I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trum-
pet'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 Far-
ringdon Within,
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch
din.