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

My name is Tims.—I am the man
That North's unseen, diminished clan
So scurvily abused!

The London Lion's small pin's head
So often hath refused!

Campbell (you cannot see him here)—
Hath scorned 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!

What else?-I'm poor, and much beset With damned 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!

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!

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!

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!

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 sun-set change?-
The free creative mind!

Well! the Adults' School's in the air!
The greatest men are lessoned there

As well as the Lessee!

Oh could Earth's Ellistons thus small
Behold the greatest stage of all,

How humbled they would be!

"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 skies
They are as little in our eyes

As they can think of us!

Of us? are we gone out of sight?
Lessened! diminished! vanished quite !
Lost to the tiny town!

Beyond the Eagle's ken-the grope
Of Dolland's longest telescope!
Graham! we're going down!

Ah me! I've touched 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!

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!

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!

ODE

TO MR. M'ADAM.'

"Let us take to the road !”—Beggar's Opera.

M'ADAM, hail!

Hail, Roadian! hail, Colossus! who dost stand Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land! Oh universal Leveler! all hail!

To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man,

The kindest one, and yet the flintiest goingTo thee-how much for thy commodious plan, Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing! The Bristol mail

Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deemed invincible, When carrying Patriots now shall never fail Those of the most "unshaken public principle." Hail to thee, Scot of Scots!

Thou northern light, amid those heavy men! Foe to Stonehenge, yet friend to all beside, Thou scatterest flints and favors far and wide, From palaces to cots;

Dispenser of coagulated good!

Distributor of granite and of food!
Long may thy fame its even path march on

E'en when thy sons are dead!

Best benefactor! though thou giv'st a stone
To those who ask for bread!

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 shaved the road
From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode
So well, that paviors threw their rammers by,
Let down their tucked shirt-sleeves, and with a sigh
Prepared themselves, poor souls, to chip or die!

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 smoothed, alas, the path to the Old Bailey!
And to the stony bowers

Of Newgate, to encourage the approach,

By caravan or coach

Hast strewed the way with flints as soft as flowers.