ur would be the well of Hippocrene.

'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves:
Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?
Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain
The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

'No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,
And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;
To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,
And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!'

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 b