  Up with me!—up with me into the sky!— Wordsworth—on a Lark: I. Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, Their meaner flights pursue, Let us cast off the foolish ties That bind us to the earth, and rise And take a bird's-eye view! II. A few more whiffs of my cigar And then, in Fancy's airy car, Have with thee for the skies: How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd Hath borne me from this little world, And all that in it lies! III. Away!—away!—the bubble fills— Farewell to earth and all its hills!— We seem to cut the wind!— So high we mount, so swift we go, The chimney-tops are far below, The Eagle's left behind! IV. Ah me! my brain begins to swim!— The world is growing rather dim; The steeples and the trees— My wife is getting very small! I cannot see my babe at all!— The Dollond, if you please!— V. Do, Graham, let me have a quiz, Lord! what a Lilliput it is, That little world of Mogg's!— Are those the London Docks?—that channel, The mighty Thames?—a proper kennel For that small Isle of Dogs! VI. What is that seeming tea-urn there! That fairy dome, St. Paul's!—I swear, Wren must have been a wren!— And that small stripe?—it cannot be The City Road!—Good lack? to see The little ways of men! VII. Little, indeed!—my eyeballs ache To find a turnpike. I must take Their tolls upon my trust!— And where is mortal labour gone? Look, Graham, for a little stone MacAdamized to dust! VIII. Look at the horses!—less than flies!— Oh, what a waste it was of sighs To wish to be a Mayor! What is the honour?—none at all, One's honour must be very small For such a civic chair! IX. And there's Guildhall!—'tis far aloof— Methinks, I fancy thro' the roof Its little guardian Gogs, Like penny dolls—a tiny show!— Well,—I must say they're ruled below. By very little logs! X. Oh! Graham, how the upper air Alters the standards of compare; One of our silken flags Would cover London all about— Nay, then—let's even empty out Another brace of bags! XI. Now for a glass of bright champagne Above the clouds!—Come, let us drain A bumper as we go! But hold!—for God's sake do not cant The cork away—unless you want To brain your friends below. XII. Think! what a mob of little men Are crawling just within our ken, Like mites upon a cheese! Pshaw!—how the foolish sight rebukes Ambitious thoughts!—can there be Dukes Of Gloster such as these! XIII. Oh! what is glory?—what is fame? Hark to the little mob's acclaim, 'Tis nothing but a hum! A few near gnats would trump as loud As all the shouting of a crowd That has so far to come! XIV. Well—they are wise that choose the near, A few small buzzards in the ear, To organs ages hence!— Ah me, how distance touches all; It makes the true look rather small, But murders poor pretence. XV. "The world recedes!—it disappears! Heav'n open on my eyes—my ears With buzzing noises ring!" A fig for Southey's Laureate lore!— What's Rogers here?—who cares for Moore That hears the angels sing! 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" into 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 miles 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. |
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