hunder 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 whit