Thy first great trial in this mighty town Was, if I rightly recollect, upon That gentle hill which goeth Down from "the County" to the Palace gate, And, like a river, thanks to thee, now floweth Past the Old Horticultural Society,-- The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James, Where ladies play high shawl and satin games-- A little _Hell_ of lace! And past the Athenæum, made of late, Severs a sweet variety Of milliners and booksellers who grace Waterloo Place, Making division, the Muse fears and guesses, 'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's. Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac! and shav'd the road From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode So well, that paviours threw their rammers by, Let down their tuck'd shirt-sleeves, and with a sigh Prepar'd themselves, poor souls, to chip or die! III. Next, from the palace to the prison, thou Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat,-- Preventing though the _rattling_ in the street, Yet kicking up a row, Upon the stones--ah! truly watchman-like, Encouraging thy victims all to strike, To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily;-- Thou hast smooth'd, alas, the path to the Old Bailey! And to the stony bowers Of Newgate, to encourage the approach, By caravan or coach,-- Hast strew'd the way with flints as soft as flowers. IV. Who shall dispute thy name! Insculpt in stone in every street, We soon shall greet Thy trodden down, yet all unconquer'd fame! Where'er we take, even at this time, our way, Nought see we, but mankind in open air, Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare; And with a patient care, Chipping thy immortality all day! Demosthenes, of old,--that rare old man,-- Prophetically, _follow'd_, Mac! thy plan:-- For he, we know (History says so), Put _pebbles_ in his mouth when he would speak The _smoothest_ Greek! V. It is "impossible, and cannot be," But that thy genius hath, Beside the turnpike, many another path Trod, to arrive at popularity. O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh, Nor ridden a roadster only;--mighty Mac! And 'faith I'd swear, when on that winged hack, Thou hast observ'd the highways in the sky! Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep, And "hard to climb," as Dr. B. would say? Dost think it best for sons of song to keep The noiseless _tenor_ of their way? (see Gray). What line of road _should_ poets take to bring Themselves unto those waters, lov'd the first!-- Those waters which can wet a man to sing! Which, like thy fame, "from _granite_ basins burst, Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?" VI.