FullReads

XVI.

A fig for earth, and all its minions!–
We are above the world’s opinions,
Graham! we’ll have our own!–
Look what a vantage height we’ve got!–
Now–do you think Sir Walter Scott
Is such a Great Unknown?

XVII.

Speak up!–or hath he hid his name
To crawl thro’ “subways” unto fame,
Like Williams of Cornhill?–
Speak up, my lad!–when men run small
We’ll show what’s little in them all,
Receive it how they will!–

XVIII.

Think now of Irving!–shall he preach
The princes down,–shall he impeach
The potent and the rich,
Merely on ethic stilts,–and I
Not moralize at two mile high
The true didactic pitch!

XIX.

Come:–what d’ye think of Jeffrey, sir?
Is Gifford such a Gulliver
In Lilliput’s Review,
That like Colossus he should stride
Certain small brazen inches wide
For poets to pass through?

XX.

Look down! the world is but a spot.
Now say–Is Blackwood’s low or not,
For all the Scottish tone?
It shall not weigh us here–not where
The sandy burden’s lost in air–
Our lading–where is’t flown?

XXI.

Now,–like you Croly’s verse indeed–
In heaven–where one cannot read
The “Warren” on a wall?
What think you here of that man’s fame?
Tho’ Jerdan magnified his name,
To me ’tis very small!

XXII.

And, truly, is there such a spell
In those three letters, L. E. L.,
To witch a world with song?
On clouds the Byron did not sit,
Yet dar’d on Shakspeare’s head to spit,
And say the world was wrong!

XXIII.

And shall not we? Let’s think aloud!
Thus being couch’d upon a cloud,
Graham, we’ll have our eyes!
We felt the great when we were less,
But we’ll retort on littleness
Now we are in the skies.

XXIV.

O Graham, Graham, how I blame
The bastard blush,–the petty shame,
That used to fret me quite,–
The little sores I cover’d then,
No sores on earth, nor sorrows when
The world is out of sight!

XXV.

My name is Tims.–I am the man
That North’s unseen diminish’d clan
So scurvily abused!
I am the very P. A. Z.
The London’s Lion’s small pin’s head
So often hath refused!

XXVI.

Campbell–(you cannot see him here)–
Hath scorn’d my lays:–do his appear
Such great eggs from the sky?–
And Longman, and his lengthy Co.
Long, only, in a little Row,
Have thrust my poems by!

XXVII.

What else?–I’m poor, and much beset
With damn’d small duns–that is–in debt
Some grains of golden dust!
But only worth, above, is worth.–
What’s all the credit of the earth?
An inch of cloth on trust?

XXVIII.

What’s Rothschild here, that wealthy man!
Nay, worlds of wealth?–Oh, if you can
Spy out,–the Golden Ball!
Sure as we rose, all money sank:
What’s gold or silver now?–the Bank
Is gone–the ‘Change and all!

XXIX.

What’s all the ground-rent of the globe?–
Oh, Graham, it would worry Job
To hear its landlords prate!
But after this survey, I think
I’ll ne’er be bullied more, nor shrink
From men of large estate!

XXX.

And less, still less, will I submit
To poor mean acres’ worth of wit–
I that have heaven’s span–
I that like Shakspeare’s self may dream
Beyond the very clouds, and seem
An Universal Man!

XXXI.

Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds!
Like Birds of Paradise the clouds
Are winging on the wind!
But what is grander than their range?
More lovely than their sunset change?–
The free creative mind!

XXXII.

Well! the Adults’ School’s in the air!
The greatest men are lesson’d there
As well as the Lessee!
Oh could Earth’s Ellistons thus small
Behold the greatest stage of all,
How humbled they would be!

XXXIII.

“Oh would some Power the giftie gie ’em,
To see themselves as others see ’em,”
‘Twould much abate their fuss!
If they could think that from the iskies
They are as little in our eyes
As they can think of us!

XXXIV.

Of us! are we gone out of sight?
Lessen’d! diminish’d! vanish’d quite!
Lost to the tiny town!
Beyond the Eagle’s ken–the grope
Of Dollond’s longest telescope!
Graham! we’re going down!

XXXV.

Ah me! I’ve touch’d a string that opes
The airy valve!–the gas elopes–
Down goes our bright Balloon!–
Farewell the skies! the clouds! I smell
The lower world! Graham, farewell,
Man of the silken moon!

XXXVI.

The earth is close! the City nears–
Like a burnt paper it appears,
Studded with tiny sparks!
Methinks I hear the distant rout
Of coaches rumbling all about–
We’re close above the Parks!

XXXVII.

I hear the watchmen on their beats,
Hawking the hour about the streets.
Lord! what a cruel jar
It is upon the earth to light!
Well–there’s the finish of our flight!
I’ve smoked my last segar!