At the Session of Poets held lately in London,

⁠The Bard of Freshwater was voted the chair:
With his tresses unbrushed, and his shirt-collar undone,
⁠He lolled at his ease like a good-humoured Bear:
"Come, boys!" he exclaimed, "we'll be merry together!"
⁠And lit up his pipe with a smile on his cheek;—
While with eye, like a skipper's, cocked up at the weather,
⁠Sat the Vice-Chairman Browning, thinking in Greek.

The company gathered embraced great and small bards,

⁠Both strong bards and weak bards, funny and grave,
Fat bards and lean bards, little and tall bards,
⁠Bards who wear whiskers, and others who shave.

Of books, men, and things was the bards' conversation,—
⁠Some praised Ecce Homo, some deemed it so-so,—
And then there was talk of the state of the nation,
⁠And when the Unwashed would devour Mister Lowe.

Right stately sat Arnold,—his black gown adjusted

⁠Genteelly, his Rhine wine deliciously iced,—
With puddingish England serenely disgusted,
⁠And looking in vain (in the mirror) for "Geist";
He hearked to the Chairman, with "Surely!" and "Really?"
⁠Aghast at both collar and cutty of clay,—
Then felt in his pocket, and breathed again freely,
⁠On touching the leaves of his own classic play.

Close at hand, lingered Lytton, whose Icarus-winglets

⁠Had often betrayed him in regions of rhyme,—
How glittered the eye underneath his gray ringlets,
⁠A hunger within it unlessened by time!
Remoter sat Bailey,—satirical, surly,—
⁠Who studied the language of Goethe too soon.
And sang himself hoarse to the stars very early,
⁠And cracked a weak voice with too lofty a tune.

How name all that wonderful company over?—

⁠Prim Patmore, mild Alford,—and Kingsley alsoe?
Among the small sparks, who was realler than Lover?
⁠Among Misses, who sweeter than Miss Ingelow?
There sat, looking moony, conceited, and narrow,
⁠Buchanan,—who, finding, when foolish and young,
Apollo asleep on a coster-girl's barrow,
⁠Straight dragged him away to see somebody hung.

What was said? what was done? was there prosing or rhyming?

⁠Was nothing noteworthy in deed or in word?—
Why, just as the hour of the supper was chiming,
⁠The only event of the evening occurred.
Up jumped, with his neck stretching out like a gander,
⁠Master Swinburne, and squealed, glaring out thro' his hair,
"All Virtue is bosh! Hallelujah for Landor!
⁠I disbelieve wholly in everything!—There!"

With language so awful he dared them to treat 'em,—

⁠Miss Ingelow fainted in Tennyson's arms.
Poor Arnold rushed out, crying "Sœcl' inficetum!"
⁠And great bards and small bards were full of alarms;
Till Tennyson, flying and red as a gypsy,
⁠Struck his fist on the table and uttered a shout:
"To the door with the boy! Call a cab! He is tipsy!"
⁠And they carried the naughty young gentleman out.

After that, all the pleasanter talking was done there,—

⁠Who ever had known such an insult before?
The Chairman tried hard to rekindle the fun there,
⁠But the Muses were shocked and the pleasure was o'er.
Then "Ah!" cried the Chairman, "this teaches me knowledge,—
⁠The future shall find me more wise, by the powers!
This comes of assigning to younkers from college
⁠Too early a place in such meetings as ours!"