Volume 103 — THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS; OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.

Tan-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra! The trumpets blare! The rival Bards, wild-eyed, with windblown hair, And close-hugged harps, advance with fire-winged feet For the green Laureate Laurels to compete; The laurels vacant from the brows of him In whose fine light all lesser lustres dim. Tourney of Troubadours! The laurels lie On crimson velvet cushion couched on high, Whilst Punch, Lord-Warden of his country's fame, Attends the strains to hear, the victor-bard to name. And first advances, as by right supreme, With frosted locks adrift, and eyes a-dream, With quick short footfalls, and an arm a-swing, As to some cosmic rhythm heard to ring From Putney to Parnassus, a brief bard. (In stature, not in song!) Though passion-scarred, Porphyrogenitus at least he looks; Haughty as one who rivalry scarce brooks; Unreminiscent now of youthful rage, Almost "respectable," and well-nigh sage, Dame GRUNDY owns her once redoubted foe, Whose polished paganry's erotic flow, And red anarchic wrath 'gainst priests, and kings, The virtues, and most other "proper" things, Once drew her frown where now her smile's bestowed. Such is the power of timely palinode! Soft twanged his lyre and loud his voice outrang, As the first Bard this moving measure sang:—

Beyond the bellowing onset of base war, Their latest wearer wendeth! With wild zest. Fulfilled of windy resonance, the rest Of the bard-mob must hotly joust and jar To win the wreath that he beyond the bar Bare not away athwart the bland sea's breast.

And sooth the soft sheen of that deathless bay Gleams glamorous! Amorous was I in my day, Clamorous were Gath's goose-critics. But my fire, Chastened from To-phet-fumes, burns purer, higher; My thoughts on courtier-wings might make their way Did my brow bear the laurels all these desire.

For I, to the proprieties reconciled. Who hymned Dolores, sing the "weanling child." At "home-made treacle" I made mocking mirth; That was before my better self had birth. At virtue's lilies and languors then I smiled, But Hertha's not thine only goddess, O Earth!

For surely brother, and master, and lord, and king, Though vice's roses and raptures did not spring In thy poetic garden's trim parterre; Though thou wert fond of sunshine and sweet air, More than of kisses, that burn, and bite, and sting; Some living love our England for thee bare.

Thou, too, couldst sing about her sweet salt sea, And trumpet pæans loud to Liberty, With clamour of all applausive throats. Thy feet, Not wine-press red, yet left the flowers more sweet, From the pure passage of the god to be; And then couldst thunder praises of England's Fleet.

I did not think to glorify gods and kings, Who scourged them ever with hate's sanguineous rods; But who with hope and faith may live at odds? And then these jingling jays with plume-plucked wings, Compete, and laureate laurels are lovely things, Though crowing lyric lauders of kings and gods! Beshrew the blatant bleating of sheep-voiced mimes! True thunder 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!

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 white, and awfully chaste. Now ALGERNON has no respect For purity and public taste. EDWIN is given to allegory. Whilst ALFRED is a wicked Tory!!! He ceased. Great PUNCHIUS rubbed his eagle beak. And said, "I think we'll take the rest next week!"