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.